Day 17
The forest felt… quiet. Not peaceful. Not still. Quiet, like something was missing.
I'd begun hiding my supplies in different places now. Paranoia? Maybe. But I couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was getting closer. My food, tools, electronics, even the little stash of my mother's jewelry… I separated them and wrapped them in waterproof cloth, burying or hiding them in hollow trees, beneath moss, under rocks that I rearranged to look natural. If someone found one cache, it wouldn't ruin everything.
I didn't want to leave a trail. Every time I moved, I doubled back, covered my tracks, dragged branches behind me. I couldn't afford to be found.
I was "armed," if you could call it that. A couple of modern knives I packed back on Earth. A screwdriver. My old baseball bat—Sam insisted I bring it "just in case." I had a pocketknife and a few DIY spears made from sharpened sticks. On the tip of one, I lashed a survival knife using cord and resin I'd made after a dozen failed attempts. It was a mess, but it stuck.
After scouring the survival files, I tried making poison using bark, plants, and some fermented mushrooms I'd tested carefully. No clear effects… unless you count the nausea. I applied it to one of the spearheads anyway. Desperation makes you hope.
As for protection, I looked like a caveman. I'd tied bark to my chest with cords made from vines. Wasn't much, but it gave me a psychological edge. I didn't feel as naked when I was out there.
Then came the vehicle noises.
Not loud—not at first. A low hum, a vibration in the ground, a mechanical cough muffled by distance. I froze the moment I heard it. Crouched low, half-covered in brush, heart pounding. When I finally dared peek, I saw them—shadows moving between trees. A convoy. Mud-covered vehicles, like light tactical trucks, gliding through the terrain. Their engines had been modified, their movements disciplined. These weren't civilians.
They were armed. I caught glimpses of people holding rifles, wearing gear that was practical but unfamiliar. They moved like soldiers, but with none of the formal insignia I was used to.
I watched from afar, trailing them from a safe distance. I didn't dare get close, but I had to see. I had to understand what kind of world I was in.
Then I saw it—one of them holding a scanner. A glowing device sweeping across the forest floor.
Were they searching for something?
For someone?
I backed away immediately and didn't stop for half an hour. Once I felt far enough, I buried the shelter I'd been working on, took only what I needed, and left. Whatever they were doing here, I didn't want to be part of it.
Day 18
I waited all night and didn't sleep much. By morning, the sounds had stopped.
No more engines. No voices. Just birdsong and wind through the trees.
I debated going back to check where they'd been. Curiosity gnawed at me. But caution won.
Instead, I kept moving.
My gear was wearing thin. My clothes were filthy, stiff from sweat, caked in dried mud. They'd ripped in multiple places. I'd done what I could—stitched what I could salvage with thread pulled from the lining. But I couldn't fix everything. The boots were holding, barely.
I hadn't bathed in days.
Today, I found a narrow stream with clean water, and I scrubbed myself raw. I used what remained of my soap sparingly. The forest water was icy, but I didn't care. I used a twig toothbrush—one of those traditional ones made from a specific type of wood. The files I brought included notes on hygiene in primitive environments. God bless whoever wrote that.
I even made rudimentary toothpaste from charcoal and mint leaves I'd found nearby. It tasted awful—like ash and bitterness—but it helped. I had to stay clean. One infection here and I could be dead in days.
I rested that night beneath a rock overhang. A crude DIY shelter of bark and woven leaves. Just enough to keep the wind off. I placed thorn branches at the entrance—early warning in case something approached.
Then, just as I was dozing off, I heard it again.
Engines.
Distant, but definitely closer this time.
I didn't think—I reacted. I packed my things in under two minutes, covered the camp with leaves, and ran. Heart hammering. Muscles screaming.
I ducked into a thicket, found a rocky depression, and stayed still for what felt like hours. I didn't breathe louder than a whisper. Every crack of a twig made me flinch.
When the sounds finally faded, I waited even longer. Just in case.
Two hours later, I emerged.
Nothing.
Gone again.
I checked my watch: 8:43 PM. But the sky didn't match that time. Nights here felt darker, heavier. The air got colder faster. The forest fell silent faster.
I looked up and saw the sky.
Unreal.
So many stars. No pollution. No city lights. No noise. Just an endless tapestry of unfamiliar constellations. I didn't recognize a single pattern—but it was beautiful. A sky untouched by humanity. Raw. Pure.
It hit me hard.
For the first time in days, I let myself feel it.
I missed home. I missed lights. People. Laughter. Noise. I missed the dull ache of routine and the comfort of knowing what came next.
But I was still here. Still breathing. Still moving.
And then, I laughed. A soft, broken sound.
"Thanks, Sam," I whispered. "You madman."
He was the one who made me do the survival project. Three years of weekend camping trips, foraging trials, building shelters in the rain, testing our limits for fun. I hated it. I cursed him for it.
Now? I owed him everything.
That baseball bat leaning against the tree? He gave it to me.
"You never know," he'd said. "Might need it to beat off zombies or something."
No zombies, Sam. Just a strange world and a scared idiot trying not to die.
I leaned against the tree, clutching the bat, staring at the sky.
The world was massive. Unforgiving. Beautiful. Dangerous.
But I was still here.
Still me.
Still fighting.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I'd do it again.