Apocalypse Day 16 — Night — Forest overlook above Tellico Plains, Tennessee
The engine sound didn't belong in the woods.
It drifted up from the road below—low at first, half-hidden by the trees—then grew louder, more strained, as whoever it was fought the incline. No music. No horn. Just the raw mechanical grind of a vehicle working too hard in a world that didn't have anyone left to care about maintenance.
Ethan lifted two fingers and pointed—down, quiet—and both women obeyed without being told twice.
Grace crouched behind the SUV's rear quarter panel, flannel pulled tighter around her even though the evening air was mild. Her face looked drawn in the smoky light, freckles standing out stark against pale skin. She kept swallowing like her throat was trying to reject something. Hannah hovered near her shoulder, cardigan wrapped around her torso like it could plug the holes fear was pouring through. Hannah's braid had come looser since the gas station, strands escaping around her cheeks. She kept pushing them back with trembling fingers.
Ethan moved to the edge of the overlook and lowered himself behind a boulder, peering through pine branches at the road. He didn't look heroic doing it—just an average guy pressed into stone and shadow, eyes narrowed, breathing controlled.
Headlights blinked through the trees.
Not bright. Not steady.
Someone was trying to run dark and failing.
The vehicle crawled into view: a mid-90s pickup, dark paint dulled by dust, one headlight dead and the other flickering like it couldn't decide whether it wanted to live. A small utility trailer rattled behind it, bouncing over ruts, loaded with… something. Tubs. A red gas can. A gray tote strapped down with rope.
The driver eased off the gas near a bend, as if they'd spotted the overlook and hesitated.
Ethan didn't move. He watched.
The pickup rolled forward again, climbing, engine whining, and then the tires crunched onto the gravel spur leading up toward him.
Straight toward their position.
Grace's eyes met Ethan's across the darkness. She didn't speak. Her expression asked the question anyway.
What do we do?
Ethan answered with a gesture—two fingers down, palm flat.
Stay hidden.
The pickup crested into the pull-off and stopped twenty yards away, angled slightly toward the view like the driver had parked here before when the world was normal. The engine ticked loudly as it idled, then died.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then the driver door opened.
A woman stepped out slowly, like she expected a gun barrel to meet her. She was a little older than Grace and Hannah—maybe twenty-three, twenty-four—with a sturdy, practical build that came from lifting things, fixing things, doing work that bruised your knuckles. Her hair was light brown and tied back in a low ponytail, messy from sweat and wind. She wore a faded denim jacket over a dark T-shirt and heavy work jeans tucked into scuffed boots. A headlamp strap sat around her neck like she'd been using it nonstop. Dirt streaked her cheek, and a thin line of dried blood ran from a scrape near her hairline into her eyebrow.
She held a shotgun.
Not up in a movie stance—down at her thigh, but ready. Her shoulders were tight, breathing visible in the cool night air.
Ethan's first read: not a raider. Raiders moved like they owned the world. This woman moved like the world had been taking bites out of her all day.
She took a cautious step toward the overlook, eyes scanning the gravel, the trees, the parked SUV half-hidden behind brush. When her gaze landed on Ethan's vehicle, her posture changed—relief flashed so fast she probably hated herself for it.
"Hello?" she called, voice kept low on purpose. "I'm not looking for trouble."
Ethan stayed behind the boulder. He didn't answer.
The woman swallowed and tried again, softer. "I saw a vehicle. I just… I need a place to breathe for a minute. I have fuel. Tools. Food." Her eyes darted toward the treeline like she expected something to come crashing through. "And I'm alone."
Grace's hand tightened on Hannah's shoulder behind the SUV. Hannah's eyes were wide, shining, terrified.
Ethan watched the woman's hands. Watched the shotgun. Watched her feet.
He listened too.
Down in the valley, faint as a bad memory, came a low, wandering chorus—those hungry grunts that never sounded urgent until they were right on top of you.
The pickup had announced itself.
Now the world was answering.
Ethan rose just enough for his voice to carry without revealing his exact position. "Set the shotgun on the ground. Step back."
The woman startled hard—nearly jumping out of her skin—but she didn't swing the barrel toward the sound. That mattered.
She hesitated, jaw tight, then lowered the shotgun and set it carefully on the gravel like it might explode if she offended it. She backed away two steps, palms open.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. I'm doing it."
Ethan stepped out from behind the boulder into partial moonlight, rifle held low but ready. He looked like nobody special—just a man in worn clothes and a flannel, face plain and tired—except for the steadiness of how he moved.
The woman's eyes flicked over him, then past him, searching.
Grace stayed hidden, but Hannah couldn't help herself—she leaned out just enough that her face caught the light. The woman's gaze snapped to her, then to the SUV, and something softened in her expression.
"You've got people," she said, like that confirmed Ethan wasn't going to shoot her for sport.
Ethan didn't answer that. He walked to the shotgun, nudged it away with his boot, and kept his voice flat. "Name."
The woman licked her lips. "Riley. Riley Vaughn."
"Where'd you come from?"
"Madisonville," she said quickly. "I was heading—" She cut herself off, swallowed, then tried again. "I was heading north. I heard… things. I thought maybe—" Her eyes darted toward the dark road again. "Doesn't matter. I saw your vehicle and I thought—maybe someone wasn't dead."
Ethan studied her for a beat. In the low light, her denim jacket hung open, framing the dark shirt beneath. He registered, briefly, the shape of her—strong hips, the way the jeans fit a body used to work—then forced his attention back to her face and hands. He wasn't here to daydream.
"You armed besides that?" he asked.
Riley's throat bobbed. "Knife." She lifted her jacket slightly to show the handle at her belt, then dropped it again. "That's it."
A sound came from below—closer now. A shuffle. A faint scrape on gravel that didn't belong to a raccoon.
Riley heard it too. Her eyes snapped toward the spur road, pupils widening.
"I didn't mean to lead anything here," she whispered.
Ethan didn't comfort her. He didn't blame her either. He just moved.
"Grace," he called softly.
Grace appeared from behind the SUV, keeping low, one hand unconsciously braced at her stomach as she stepped out. Her face was tight, controlled. She didn't look at Riley's truck first—she looked at Riley's eyes, like she was measuring whether this woman was safe.
Hannah followed a half-step behind Grace, cardigan still wrapped tight, cheeks streaked from crying earlier.
Riley stared at them like she'd just remembered what "people" looked like.
Ethan spoke fast. "We're moving off this overlook. Now."
Grace's eyes widened. "Ethan—"
"Noise traveled," he said. "We're not staying where a truck just climbed up."
Riley's mouth opened. "Wait—please—my trailer—"
A low grunt floated up the spur road, clearer now. Then another. A scraping footstep, slow and wrong, like someone dragging their toes on purpose.
Hannah made a small sound and clamped a hand over her mouth.
Riley's face went pale. She grabbed for her shotgun on instinct.
Ethan snapped, "No."
His tone froze her in place. Not obedience out of admiration—obedience out of fear that he meant it.
Ethan moved to the edge of the gravel where the spur road dipped into trees. Moonlight cut between branches just enough to show shapes moving below—two, maybe three figures staggering up the incline, drawn by the engine, by voices, by the promise of warm bodies.
They weren't sprinting.
They didn't need to.
Ethan stepped backward and pointed. "Into the trees. Single file. No talking."
Grace grabbed Hannah's wrist and pulled her toward the treeline. Hannah stumbled once, caught herself, then moved, breath coming fast through her nose.
Riley hesitated, looking at her pickup like leaving it was losing the last thing she owned.
Ethan didn't coddle. "You want to live? Move."
That cut through her paralysis. Riley snatched the red gas can from her trailer—quick, desperate—and followed them into the dark.
The first infected reached the top of the spur road as they slipped between trees.
In the moonlight it looked like a man in an orange safety vest, the reflective stripes catching light with every stagger. His face was gray with dried blood, mouth open in a wet gape. He sniffed the air like an animal.
Then it turned its head toward the direction Ethan's group had gone.
Ethan's stomach tightened.
Too close.
He could shoot. One shot. Maybe two. Drop them and buy space. But the crack would roll through the valley like a dinner bell.
He chose the quieter option.
He grabbed a loose rock from the ground, hefted it, and hurled it hard into the opposite treeline.
The rock slammed into a metal signpost with a sharp clang.
All three infected turned as one, heads jerking, drawn by sound the way magnets drew iron filings. They staggered toward it, arms lifting, mouths working.
Ethan exhaled through his nose. One clean diversion.
He moved again, following the women down a narrow deer trail that cut away from the overlook and into denser cover. The forest swallowed them quickly. The smoke haze made the moon dim, but it was still enough to see shapes—tree trunks, rocks, the pale flash of Grace's tank top under her open flannel as she ducked branches.
They put distance between themselves and the pull-off until the road sounds faded.
Only then did Ethan slow them beside a shallow dip in the land—an old drainage cut that formed a natural low point, screened by brush. Not comfortable. Not pretty. Hidden.
He crouched and listened.
No immediate pursuit. No crunch of footsteps. No wet grunts closing in.
For now, they'd slipped away.
Grace lowered herself onto a fallen log and immediately pressed her palm to her stomach again, breathing shallow. Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment like nausea had surged.
Hannah hovered near her, unsure whether to touch her, then gently placed a hand on Grace's shoulder anyway. Grace didn't pull away.
Riley stood a few feet off, clutching the gas can like it was a life vest, denim jacket dusty at the elbows, ponytail slipping loose. Her chest rose and fell too fast.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know where else to go."
Ethan studied her in the dim light. "Why'd you come up here?"
Riley's laugh came out tight and humorless. "Because I used to come here when I needed to think." She swallowed. "And because it's high. I figured high ground meant… less of them."
Ethan didn't tell her high ground also meant you were silhouetted and easy to spot. She'd learn.
Grace finally opened her eyes and looked at Riley properly. Her voice was soft but steady. "Are you hurt?"
Riley shook her head, then winced like the motion tugged the scrape near her hairline. "Just banged up. I hit a mailbox earlier. Roads are—" She stopped herself, swallowing hard. "Roads are a mess."
Hannah's voice trembled. "How long… how long has it been like this?"
Riley stared at her like the question was cruel in its innocence. "Two weeks," she said quietly. "Maybe a little more. I stopped counting when the radio went dead."
Grace's gaze flicked to Ethan. The number matched what they already knew, but hearing it from someone else made it heavier, more real.
Riley's eyes moved between them, landing on Grace's pallor. "You look like you're gonna pass out."
"I'm fine," Grace said automatically, then immediately swallowed and looked away like she was angry at herself for lying.
Ethan didn't call her on it. He just shifted his stance and kept watch on the darkness beyond their little hollow.
Riley's voice dropped. "You two… married?"
Grace's hand drifted to the ring on her finger like it was grounding. "Yeah."
Riley nodded slowly, like that fact meant something important to her—hope, maybe, or envy, or both. "Okay," she murmured. "Okay. Good."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Why 'good'?"
Riley hesitated, then exhaled like she'd been holding it for days. "Because every group I ran into was men." Her mouth tightened. "And they weren't… good."
Grace's expression hardened. Hannah flinched like the memory of the gas station had teeth.
Ethan didn't ask for details. Not yet. Not while they were exposed and running on adrenaline.
He spoke again, controlled. "You said you have food."
Riley nodded quickly. "A little. Not much. I've been… rationing." She glanced at the gas can. "And fuel. I siphoned what I could."
Ethan weighed it fast: a new person was risk. But fuel and tools were value. And Riley had come alone, which meant she either had no one… or she'd lost them.
He didn't offer warmth. He offered structure.
"You can stay with us tonight," Ethan said. "But you follow directions. No wandering. No noise."
Riley's eyes flashed with relief so sharp it almost looked like pain. "Okay. Yes. I will."
Hannah let out a shaky breath like she'd been holding it. Grace's shoulders loosened a fraction.
In the dark, somewhere far back toward the overlook, an engine coughed once—then died.
Ethan's head snapped in that direction.
Riley's eyes widened. "That's… that's my truck."
Ethan's voice went flat. "Someone found it."
Riley's face drained. "No—"
Ethan didn't move toward the sound. He didn't rush. He didn't do the brave thing.
He stayed still and listened, because you didn't help unless you could win—and right now, walking back toward that overlook in the dark was how you died.
He glanced at Grace—pale, stubborn, breathing through nausea—and at Hannah—still shaking, still standing—and at Riley—trying not to fall apart.
Then he made the next decision.
"We keep moving at first light," Ethan said. "Tonight, we disappear."
And in the forest hollow, under smoke-dimmed moonlight, no one argued with him.