Chapter 6: Death in Daylight
The silence in the cabin became a tangible thing, thick and layered. It wasn’t peaceful. It was the quiet of a held breath, of predators waiting in a frozen field. Julian lay perfectly still, hyper-aware of the line of heat along his back, the weight of Alistair’s arm across his ribs. He could feel the slow, steady rhythm of the other man’s breathing, a metronome in the dark that slowly synced with his own.
He didn’t know how much time passed. The wind eventually softened from a scream to a sigh. The grainy blackness outside the windows bled into a deep, bruised gray. Dawn was coming.
Alistair’s arm withdrew. The heat disappeared. He rolled off the cot and onto his feet in one fluid motion, as if the entire night had been a brief, necessary pause in a pre-planned operation. He went to the nearest window, a sliver of his face visible as he peered past the razor wire into the weak light.
“They’re gone,” he said, his voice rough from disuse.
Julian pushed himself up on his elbows, his body protesting. The knee was a hot, stiff mass of pain. The memory of the collapse on the floor flashed, followed by the surreal clarity of being carried. He pushed it down. “Scared off by your interior decorating, I guess.”
Alistair didn’t acknowledge the joke. He was already in motion, packing his gear with a quiet efficiency that felt louder than shouting in the still cabin. “Storm’s passed. We have a window. We need to move before the light gets any better.”
“Move where?” Julian gingerly swung his legs off the cot, testing his weight. A jagged bolt of pain shot from his knee to his hip. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “The Hummer’s a paperweight. We’re in the middle of a forest.”
“There’s a town on the map. Five miles southeast.” Alistair gestured with his chin toward the door.“Shelter. Maybe transportation. Definitely supplies we don’t have.”
“Five miles.” Julian looked at his leg. “Thorne, I can’t walk five feet.”
“You’ll walk five miles.” Alistair’s tone brooked no argument. He finished cinching his pack and walked over. He didn’t ask. He just knelt, took Julian’s injured leg in both hands, and started re-wrapping the knee with a fresh, tighter bandage from his kit. His fingers were clinical, strong, and surprisingly deft. “The stabilization is torn. Not severed. You can bear weight if it’s supported.Pain is irrelevant. We cannot stay here. The fire smoke was a signal. They’ll be back, or others will come.”
The bandage was tight, a cage of compression that did, admittedly, make the joint feel less like a bag of loose screws. Julian watched the top of Alistair’s head, his dark hair perfectly shaped even now. “Since when did you get a medical degree?”
“Since I prepared for scenarios where no doctor was coming.” Alistair tied off the bandage and stood. He tossed a pair of trekking poles he’d assembled from his pack onto the cot. “Use these. They’ll take forty percent of the load off the knee. The snow will be deep.It will suck. But you will do it.”
The poles were sleek, carbon fiber. Julian took them, his pride a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d spent a decade selling illusions of perfection to the wealthy. Now he was reliant on gadget-laden trekking poles and a ruthless CEO to help him limp through an apocalypse. The irony was not lost on him.
Getting to his feet was an agony of hissed breaths and white-knuckled gripping. The poles helped, turning a catastrophic step into a manageable, swinging hobble. Alistair watched, his expression impassive, before turning to shoulder both of their primary packs. He handed Julian the lighter daypack.“Carry this. Keep your hands free for the poles. And your pistol.”
They left the cabin as the world turned monochrome. The storm had scoured the landscape, leaving a pristine, heavy blanket of snow that glowed blue in the pre-dawn. It was achingly quiet, the only sound the crunch of their steps and Julian’s labored breathing. Every footprint was a declaration of their presence. Alistair moved ahead, breaking trail, his path a brutal, straight line toward the southeast. Julian followed, a trail of cursed, lurching dots in his wake.
The five miles were a lesson in sustained, exquisite pain. It was a cold fire in his knee, stoked with every step. The poles sank deep into the powder, sometimes finding purchase, sometimes slipping. Sweat soaked his layers beneath his coat, only to freeze on his skin whenever they paused. He didn’t speak. All his energy was funneled into the next step, and the next, a grim mantra of forward motion.
Alistair never looked back, but he adjusted his pace imperceptibly, never getting so far ahead that Julian felt truly alone. It was a small, unacknowledged mercy.
The trees began to thin. The smell of pine and cold air gradually acquired a new, acrid note: wood smoke, old rot, and something else, sweet and foul. They reached the final tree line at the top of a ridge, overlooking a narrow valley.
The town below was a postcard of quiet apocalypse.
It was a ski village, or had been. Quaint, faux-Alpine buildings with steeply pitched roofs now sagged under feet of snow. Shattered windows stared like black, empty eyes. The main street was a river of white, choked with the fossilized shapes of abandoned cars, their roofs just humps in the drifts.
And it was moving.
Not the town.The things in it.
From their vantage point, they saw them—dark, slow shapes shuffling between the buildings. Dozens.Maybe a hundred. They moved with that relentless, dragging gait Julian would recognize in his sleep. They clustered in the open square where a giant, frozen Christmas tree still stood, its ornaments glinting dully. They pawed at the boarded doors of a grocery store. They stood, swaying gently in the wind, in the middle of the street, as if waiting for a traffic light that would never change.
A low moan, carried by the valley’s acoustics, drifted up to them. It was the sound from outside the cabin, multiplied by a chorus.
Julian’s breath fogged in the air, his heart a cold, hard stone in his chest. The trekking poles felt suddenly flimsy. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Alistair said nothing. His gaze swept the scene below, analytical, assessing. He noted the patterns of movement, the density of the horde in the central square versus the thinner scatterings along the side streets. His eyes tracked to the far end of town, where a gas station and a larger, warehouse-like building sat. A sign, barely readable, hinted at ‘Snowmobile & ATV Rentals.’
“There,” Alistair said quietly, pointing to the rental building. “Our objective. Shelter and potential transport are in the same vector.”
“Vector,” Julian repeated, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. He choked it down. “Alistair. Look at that. It’s a convention down there. We can’t go through that.”
“We can’t stay here.” Alistair’s voice was low, final. “We have no food reserves. Your knee requires actual medical supplies, which we do not have. This is the only resource point within survivable distance. The temperature will drop again tonight. Without shelter, we freeze. The cabin is compromised.”
“So we go around. Find another way.”
“The valley narrows. Topography funnels everything through that town. Going around adds ten miles, minimum. Over exposed ridge lines.” Alistair finally looked at him. His icy blue eyes were devoid of panic, just a flat, frightening calculation. “You won’t make it. I won’t make it carrying you.”
The truth of it landed between them, heavier than the snow. Julian looked from the town to his own trembling hands on the poles. The pain was a constant, throbbing drumbeat. He was already at his limit.
Alistair shifted closer, his back to the horrifying vista below. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for Julian’s ear. His breath was a warm cloud in the freezing air. “They’re slow. They’re scattered. They’re attracted to sound and light.We are neither. We are quiet. We use the buildings, the cars for cover. We move fast and we don’t stop.”
He was so close Julian could see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the tiny scar near his temple. The intensity in his gaze was a physical force.
“This isn’t a boardroom,” Julian whispered, the bravado gone, leaving only raw fear. “You can’t logic your way through a hundred of those things.”
“Yes,” Alistair said, the word absolute.“You can. They are a problem with variables. We control the variables.” His hand came up, not to touch Julian, but to grip the strap of his pack, adjusting it. A gesture of preparation. Of intent. “We go through,” he murmured, the words hot and urgent against the shell of Julian’s ear. “Or we die waiting. There is no third option.”
He pulled back, his eyes locking onto Julian’s. The challenge was there, but so was something else—a recognition, a shared understanding of the terrible arithmetic of their situation. He wasn’t asking.
He was stating the only path forward.
Julian looked past him, down into the valley of the dead. The sun, hidden behind thick cloud, offered no warmth, only a flat, metallic light that made the snow glare and the shadows in the doorways seem infinitely deep. A group of four figures detached from the cluster near the Christmas tree and began a shambling, uncoordinated patrol down the center of the street.
He looked back at Alistair’s waiting, implacable face. He thought of the cold, of the creeping silence of the forest at night, of his leg finally giving out for good on some lonely trail. He thought of the hollow-eyed stag in the cabin, watching.
He adjusted his grip on the trekking poles, his fingers numb. He gave a single, sharp nod.
“Fine,” Julian said, the word tasting of blood and cold iron. “How do we start?”
“We start by not being stupid,” Alistair said, his voice barely a whisper. He pointed a gloved finger toward the eastern edge of town, where the buildings were more spread out, separated by towering pine trees heavy with snow. “We use the tree line until it runs out. Then we move from cover to cover. You watch our six. I’ll watch ahead. If I stop, you freeze. If I go low, you go lower.”
“My kneecap is currently hosting a silent rave, Alistair. ‘Lower’ is my default setting.”
“Good. Maintain it.”
The descent was a controlled slide, each step a negotiated treaty with pain and gravity. They kept to the deep shadows of the pines, the snow swallowing their clumsy progress. The moaning from below became a layered soundtrack, punctuated by the occasional crack of settling wood or the skittering fall of ice from a roof. It smelled of damp cedar and that underlying sweet-rot stench that clung to the back of the throat.
They reached the last of the trees. A twenty-yard gap of open, untrammeled snow lay between them and the back of a long, low building—a hardware store, its faded sign creaking on rusted chains. A solitary figure stood motionless in the alley beside it, its back to them, a dark parka crusted with frost.
Alistair raised a clenched fist. Julian halted, his breath fogging in short, sharp bursts. He watched Alistair’s eyes track the thing, then scan the windows, the roofs. After a full minute of absolute stillness, Alistair pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then toward the figure. You watch it. He then pointed toward the hardware store’s back door. I’m going.
Julian nodded, the motion stiff. He leaned into his trekking poles, his good hand drifting to the pistol tucked into his waistband. The metal was bitingly cold. Alistair moved, not with a run, but with a low, swift glide that seemed to barely disturb the snow. He was a shadow detaching from other shadows. Julian kept his gaze locked on the creature in the alley. It didn’t move.
Alistair reached the door, tried the handle. It was locked. He didn’t hesitate. He drove his elbow through the small pane of glass in a controlled, muffled motion, reached in, and unbolted it from the inside. The sound was a sharp, wet crunch. The figure in the alley twitched. Its head began to turn, a slow, grinding pivot over its shoulder.
Julian’s throat tightened. He didn’t dare speak. Alistair was already inside, disappearing into the gloom. The creature took a shuffling step toward the sound, then another. It was now facing the broken door, its features a pale, waxy blur under a dusting of snow. Julian lifted his pistol, the weight alien in his broken-hand’s clumsy grip. He didn’t want to fire. The noise would be a dinner bell.
From within the store, a soft thud echoed. The creature’s focus snapped toward it. It took another step, then a low, guttural rasp escaped its lips. A second figure, missing an arm, stumbled into the alley from the far end, drawn by the first one’s new interest.
“Perfect,” Julian muttered under his breath.
Alistair reappeared in the doorway, a silhouette. He saw the two converging creatures. He didn’t retreat. He stepped out, closed the door quietly behind him, and in his hand was a new weapon—a long, wicked-looking crowbar, its end stained a dark, flaking brown. He walked, not away from the creatures, but parallel to them, along the back wall of the hardware store toward the next building. He moved with an infuriating, casual speed.
He was leading them away. Julian understood the plan a second before Alistair glanced back and gave a sharp, quick nod toward the now-unguarded alley.Go.Now.
Julian went. The trekking poles were a nightmare in the deeper snow, but he lurched forward, his knee screaming a protest with every jarring step. He focused on the open maw of the alley, on the promise of concealment. He passed within fifteen feet of the second creature. It paused, its head tilting, empty sockets seeming to scan the air. Julian froze, hoping the white of his coat would blur into the background. It rasped again, then continued its shuffle after Alistair and the first creature.
He stumbled into the alley, pressing his back against the cold brick. His heart hammered against his ribs. A moment later, Alistair rounded the far corner at a jog, the two creatures now a good forty yards behind, slowly pursuing.
“A crowbar?” Julian hissed, gasping for air. “That’s your stealth upgrade?”
“Quiet and doesn’t run out of ammo.” Alistair didn’t even look winded.“Keep moving. Next block.”
They worked their way deeper into the corpse of the town. The silence was a brittle shell over a pot about to boil. They moved through a shattered cafe, its chairs overturned, frozen cappuccino foam still staining a table. They cut across a ski shop, mannequins stripped bare and toppled like casualties. Every shadow in a doorway was a potential shape. Every drift of snow from a roof made them flinch.
Julian’s world narrowed to the next placement of a pole, the next shuddering breath, the relentless, grinding ache in his leg. Alistair was a ghost, pausing, listening, pointing, moving. They were getting closer. The large, corrugated metal building of the ATV rental came into view at the end of a service road, its bay doors shut, a few abandoned machines half-buried in snow out front.
The final approach was the most exposed. It was a wide, plowed area—now refilled with snow—between two buildings. No cover. Just fifty feet of open space.
“We sprint,” Alistair said, his voice low. “You go first. I’ll cover the rear.”
“Sprint,” Julian echoed, looking at his leg. He gave a grim, humorless smile. “Right.” He sucked in a deep, burning breath of cold air, tightened his grip on the poles, and pushed off.
It wasn’t a sprint. It was a desperate, lurching shamble, a parody of motion. The poles sank and slipped. Every footfall sent a jolt of nausea through him. He focused only on the metal siding of the warehouse, a shimmering goal that seemed to move farther away with each step. He heard nothing behind him but the crunch of his own struggle.
Then he heard the moan. It came from his left, from between two dumpsters. A figure, faster than the others, clad in a torn ski patrol uniform, stumbled into the open. Its milky eyes fixed on him. It lunged, its movement a jerking, uncoordinated sprint.
Julian tried to pivot, to bring his pistol up. His bad leg buckled. The world tilted. He was going down.
A shadow blurred past him. Alistair didn’t shout. He simply intercepted, meeting the creature’s lunge with a vicious, upward sweep of the crowbar. The metal connected with the thing’s jaw with a wet, cracking sound. It stumbled, but didn’t fall. Alistair swung again, a brutal, two-handed chop to its temple. It went down in a heap.
“Get to the door!” Alistair barked, planting a boot on the thing’s chest to wrench his crowbar free.
Julian scrambled the last few feet, collapsing against the small personnel door next to the large bay doors. It was locked. Of course it was locked. He fumbled for his pistol, intending to shoot the handle, but his hands were numb, clumsy.
Alistair was beside him in seconds, shoving him aside. He jammed the forked end of the crowbar into the doorframe, near the lock, and leaned his full weight into it. The metal of the frame groaned, then screamed as it bent. With a sharp, splintering crack, the door swung inward.
The interior was a cavern of deep, frozen shadows, smelling of gasoline, rubber, and decay. Rows of four-wheeled ATVs and snowmobiles sat silently on the concrete. Emergency lights cast a dim, greenish glow from high above. Something moved in the far corner, a slow rustle near a workbench.
Alistair ignored it. His eyes were scanning the machines.“Keys. They’ll be in an office, or in them.”
They moved down the aisle, Julian’s poles clicking on the floor. The sound in the enclosed space was terrifyingly loud. The rustling in the corner grew more agitated. A shape stood up from behind a bench, a mechanic’s coveralls hanging in tatters.
“Check that one,” Alistair said, nodding to a heavy-duty ATV with a cargo rack. He turned to face the approaching mechanic, crowbar rising.
Julian hobbled to the machine. No keys. He tried the next.Nothing. His panic began to rise, a cold wave matching the one in his leg. The mechanic was closing in, its jaw working silently. Alistair stepped forward to meet it.Then Julian saw it. A small, lit key cabinet on the wall behind the cash register, its glass door smashed. He lunged for it, his fingers skittering over a dozen tagged keys. He read the tags by the faint green light: Polaris 1. Arctic Cat 3. Can-Am 2.
“Which one is that?” he yelled, holding up a fistful of keys.
Alistair’s crowbar connected with a sickening thud. The mechanic crumpled. “Try them!”
The first key didn’t fit. The second slid in. Julian turned it.The dashboard lit up. He stabbed at the start button.Nothing. Just a weak, clicking sound.
“Dead battery!” he shouted, despair clawing at him.
Alistair was there, shoving him aside. “Move!” He dropped his pack, rummaging furiously. He pulled out a compact, black device—a portable jump-starter. He clipped the leads to the ATV’s battery terminals with practiced speed. “Try it now!”
Julian hit the button.
The engine roared to life, a deafening, explosive sound that shattered the frozen silence of the warehouse. It was impossibly, beautifully loud. From outside, an answering chorus of moans erupted, muffled by the walls but growing in volume and number.
“They’re coming,” Julian said, the words swallowed by the engine’s growl.
Alistair was already throwing their packs onto the cargo rack, lashing them down with bungee cords. “Get on!”
Julian clambered onto the back seat, his legs screaming in protest. Alistair swung his leg over the front, grabbed the handlebars, and gunned the throttle. The ATV spun its tires on the slick concrete, then shot forward toward the still-open personnel door.
It was too narrow.
Alistair didn’t slow. He aimed for the large, rolling bay door beside it. “Hold on!”
He revved the engine and drove the front tire directly into the thin metal of the bay door. It buckled with a metallic shriek. He reversed, then hit it again, higher. A panel tore loose. Cold daylight and swirling snow blasted in.
Through the gap, Julian saw them.Dozens of them. Converging from every street, every alley, a shambling tide of ruined faces and clutching hands, all drawn to the thunderous noise of the engine.
Alistair revved the engine a third time, aimed for the tear, and launched the ATV through it. Metal screeched against plastic as they burst into the open, debris raining down around them. They landed hard in the snow, the impact jolting through Julian’s spine. Alistair wrenched the handlebars, spinning them toward the main road out of town.
A river, marked on the sign as ‘Silverpine Creek’, cut along the town’s southern edge, a frozen, snaking ribbon flanked by a service road. Alistair pointed the roaring ATV toward it, swerving around a stumbling pair of creatures in their path. The wind stole Julian’s breath. He wrapped his arms around Alistair’s waist, holding on for his life as they accelerated, the horde receding in the blur of snow and speed behind them.
They followed the river east, its icy course a guide through the thickening wilderness. The frantic roar of the engine slowly became the only sound in a world of white and dark green pine. The town vanished behind them, swallowed by the trees and the falling snow. Julian rested his helmeted head against Alistair’s broad back, his body trembling from pain and adrenaline.
After twenty minutes, Alistair slowed, the engine dropping to a steady purr. The river beside them began to widen, the banks growing farther apart. The land opened up ahead into a vast, white plain.A lake. And on the far shore, maybe three miles distant, the faint, geometric shadows of buildings.A town. Holding their next fragile hope.