Act 1: Survival
Dawn comes grey and cold.
I haven't slept. Haven't moved from the chair except to add wood to the fire. The rifle's still across my lap. My eyes burn from staring at shadows all night.
Zoe stirs. Sits up slowly. Looks at me.
"Did you sleep at all?"
"No."
She doesn't argue. Just stands, moves to the fire, holds her hands out to the warmth. The bruises on her face look worse in the daylight. Darker. The cut on her neck is crusted with dried blood.
"How do you feel?" I ask.
"Sore. Stiff." She touches her ribs gingerly. "Nothing broken, I don't think."
I should check her properly. Make sure there's no internal damage. But I don't move. Don't know how to cross the distance between us.
She breaks the silence first.
"We can't stay here."
The words hang in the air. True. Obvious. But hearing them out loud makes it real.
"I know," I say.
"They found us once. Others will come. And this place..." She gestures at the broken door, the ransacked room. "It's not safe anymore."
It was never really safe. We just pretended it was."Where do we go?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Glasgow." She says it like it's the only option. Which it is. "We need medical supplies. Proper shelter. People."
"Glasgow's dangerous. Militias. Gangs. Could be worse than what we just escaped."
"Maybe. But I need a doctor, Jamie. This cut could get infected. And you..." She looks at me. Really looks at me. "You need rest. Actual rest. We both do."
I want to argue. Want to say we can manage here, fix the door, stay isolated. But she's right. The cut needs proper cleaning. We're running low on supplies. And I can't defend this place alone. Not against a larger group.
"Gilespie's territory," I say. "He's supposed to be organized. Fair."
"That's what people say."
"You trust that?"
She's quiet for a moment. "I don't know. But what choice do we have?"
None. We have no choice.
"Alright," I say. "We go to Glasgow."
Packing doesn't take long. We don't have much worth taking.
First, I need the sled. I left it two kilometres back when I found the cabin broken into. The deer's still on it, frozen solid. Waste to leave it, we can't haul a whole carcass to Glasgow.
I make the trip alone. Tell Zoe to rest. The tracks are easy to follow, mine from days ago, still visible in the snow. Find the sled right where I left it. The deer's exactly as I remember. Good meat. Wasted now.
I carve off what I can carry. Hindquarters, backstrap. Wrap them and load them onto the sled. Leave the rest for scavengers.
Back at the cabin, I add our supplies to the sled: dried food from our hidden stash, water containers, medical supplies, spare blankets, extra clothing, the fresh meat. Everything that has weight.
I pack lighter bags for us to carry. The rifle and ammunition. My knife. Flint and steel. Just the essentials we'll need within reach.
Zoe moves slowly, favouring her ribs. She gathers her things quietly. A few books. Her mother's necklace. Small things that matter. I add them to the sled.
The piano sits in the corner. Silent. She stands in front of it for a long moment, fingers trailing across the keys without pressing down.
Eight months of music. Eight months of something that sounded like a life. Left behind."We'll come back," I say.
She doesn't respond. Doesn't believe it any more than I do. Her hand rests on the wood above the keys. The firelight catches the grain.
Then she turns away. Picks up her bag. Doesn't look at it again.
I fix the door as best I can. Wedge it shut from the outside. Won't keep anyone out who really wants in, but it's something. Some illusion of preservation.
Then we're standing outside in the snow, light packs on our backs, the loaded sled between us, looking at the cabin that's been our home for eight months.
"Ready?" I ask.
Zoe nods.
I pick up the sled rope and we start walking.
The journey takes most of the day. South through the forest, then following the old road toward the city. The sled slides easier on the packed snow of the road.
We don't talk. Not because there's nothing to say. Because everything that matters has already gone unsaid for too long. The silence between us is a different thing now. The comfortable quiet of the cabin is gone. Replaced by this. Two people walking in the same direction, carrying the weight of nine bodies between them.
Zoe walks ahead. Five paces, maybe six. Close enough that I can see her if she stumbles. Far enough that we're not walking together. I watch her back instead of her face. Easier that way. I don't have to see what her eyes are doing.
The cold is relentless. The wind cuts across the road from the west, driving snow into our faces. Zoe pulls her hood tighter. I adjust the sled rope, keep pulling. Left hand numb. Right hand on the rifle strap.
Every shadow is a threat. Every sound is danger.
The images keep coming. The clearing. The blood. Their faces. I push them down. They come back. I push them down again.
Around midday, we stop to rest. I drop the sled rope. Zoe sits on a fallen log, breathing hard. The cold's making her injuries worse, stiffening her muscles.
"How are you doing?" I ask.
"Fine."
She's not fine. She's in pain. Exhausted. The cut on her neck has seeped through the dressing. But she keeps moving. She's always kept moving. That's what she does.
"We can rest longer if you need."
"No. I want to get there before dark."
So do I. The idea of spending another night in the open, exposed, vulnerable. I can't.
We keep walking.
The forest thins as we get closer to the city. More signs of civilisation. Or what's left of it.
An abandoned car half-buried in snow. Driver's door open. No one inside. I don't check the back seats. Don't need to.
A row of houses. Windows smashed. Doors hanging open like mouths. Snow drifts inside through the gaps. Whatever happened here happened fast. People left, or people were taken. Either way, no one came back.
A petrol station. Pumps frozen solid. The shop door is gone. Inside, every shelf is empty. Stripped clean months ago. Someone survived here for a while. There's a sleeping bag in the corner, a fire ring on the floor. They moved on, or they didn't. No way to know.
We pass a school. The sign is mostly buried. Primary. A swing set in the yard, chains stiff with ice. No movement. No sound.
Zoe stops. Looks at it. Says nothing. Then keeps walking.
She's seeing the same things I am. Processing them differently.I don't ask what she's thinking. I don't want to know. Don't want to share what I'm thinking either. That's the problem with the silence between us. It used to be comfortable. Now it's a wall we're both maintaining, brick by brick, step by step.
Then, late afternoon, we crest a hill and see it.
Glasgow.
The city spreads out below us under a blanket of grey snow. Smoke rises from dozens of locations. Fires. People. Life, of some kind.
To the north, rising above the treeline, stone towers catch the fading light. One column of smoke is thicker than the others. More organised. That'll be Gilespie's headquarters. Mugdock Castle, if the rumours are true.
"There it is," Zoe says quietly.
I stare at the smoke rising from the towers. Eight months ago we fled from the city. Ran to the isolation of the cabin to escape the chaos and violence. Now we're walking back into civilisation. Walking toward smoke and strangers and walls someone else controls.
Everything's changed. We've changed."Last chance to turn back," I say.
Zoe shakes her head. "There's nothing to go back to."
She's right. The cabin's compromised. Our isolation's gone. And I can't go back to who I was before the clearing. Before the nine bodies.
"Let's go," she says.
We start down the hill toward the city. Toward whatever comes next.
The distance between us hasn't closed. She still walks a few paces ahead, never beside me. Still watching me like I'm something dangerous.
Maybe I am.
The city gets closer with every step. The smoke. The ruins. The unknown.
We'll find the settlement by nightfall. Find out what Gilespie's really running. Find out if we've walked from one kind of danger into another.
I adjust the rifle across my back and keep walking.