The second day dawned cold and misty, the air heavy with the scent of pine needles and damp earth. We packed up quickly, our movements economical and silent. The primary goal for the day was to reach the base of Thumb Butte by nightfall, positioning ourselves for the strenuous final ascent to the fire tower on the morning of the third day. We knew we had to push the pace, but the terrain in the dense woods was making every mile a struggle. The ground was uneven, littered with loose shale and moss-covered granite that threatened an ankle injury with every misstep—a catastrophic event in our current reality.
Around mid-morning, Lexi signaled a halt, dropping low behind a thicket of manzanita bushes. I immediately crouched, my rifle raised, scanning the area ahead. Jesse, ever vigilant, pressed his back against a massive pine, his medical bag positioned to minimize noise. Lexi pointed silently toward a narrow, half-overgrown creek bed about fifty yards ahead. I followed her line of sight and saw it: a small, dark bundle lying half-submerged in the meager trickle of water. It was a backpack, its canvas ripped, clearly belonging to someone who had traveled this way before us.
"Fresh tear in the fabric," Lexi whispered, her eyes narrowed. "Looks like it snagged on something sharp recently, maybe within the last day or two." The unsettling implication hung in the air: we weren't alone. We approached cautiously, weapons ready, scanning the dense woods for any sign of movement. The sight of other people, or the evidence of them, always sent a spike of adrenaline through me. They could be a friendly group, but in this world, they were statistically much more likely to be desperate, territorial, and hostile. The empty pack was a clear warning sign.
As Jesse checked the immediate vicinity for traps, Lexi moved to the pack, using the barrel of her rifle to carefully turn it over. It was empty of supplies but contained a small, waterlogged diary tucked into a side pocket. She didn't hesitate, pulling it out and flipping through the damp pages. "A woman's hand, looks like," Lexi murmured, her voice tight. "The last entry is just a date and a single word: 'Hunger.' Nothing about an attack, no sign of struggle here." The ambiguity was worse than finding a clear threat. Had she died of starvation? Had she been captured? We couldn't know, but we couldn't linger either.
The close call and the grim find forced us to abandon the direct route we'd been following. We decided to take a dangerous, more exposed route along a high, narrow deer trail that offered better visibility but increased the risk of being spotted from below. As we climbed, the view opened up, and the scale of the destruction became visually overwhelming. I could see the skeletal remains of the valley floor, the ghost of what used to be a bustling town, now silent and decaying under the relentless sun. It was a sobering reminder of why we were making this dangerous climb: to reach out beyond this suffocating isolation.
During a steep, breathless ascent, Lexi, climbing just ahead of me, slipped on a patch of loose scree. Before she could fall, I instinctively lunged, catching her by the arm and steadying her against my chest. For a moment, we were pressed together, her body warm and solid against mine, and the intense reality of our shared danger, our shared survival, flared between us. Her long brown hair smelled faintly of woodsmoke and pine, a comforting, familiar scent in this desolate world. Our eyes locked, and I saw a flicker of vulnerability, quickly replaced by her usual determined intensity. "Thanks, James," she breathed out, her voice barely a whisper, before she pulled away and quickly resumed her climb.
We didn't speak of the moment, not in front of Jesse, who was focused on his footing just below us, nor when we finally set up a cold camp near a cluster of boulders that offered a commanding view of the valley. But that brief, potent connection lingered. Later, as I sat on watch, staring at the distant silhouette of the Butte, I realized that the risks we were taking weren't just for survival anymore. They were interwoven with the quiet, shared moments, the reliance, and the unspoken language that had developed between Lexi and me. In the emptiness of the world, she was becoming my anchor, a person whose life and safety meant more to me than my own. This journey was proving to be about more than just finding a signal; it was about acknowledging the growth of something fragile yet potent between us, a desperate form of love blossoming in the Crimson Rot's shadow.