Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear Jennel approach.
Jennel sat down on the tree trunk, arms crossed over her knees. Unlike earlier, she was no longer wearing her worn military pants. That evening, she wore a short denim skirt that revealed her lean, toned legs. She crossed them, and Alan couldn't help but notice how beautiful they were.
He quickly averted his gaze, but it was too late. He had seen them. And he couldn't deny what he felt.
Jennel was beautiful. Not in an obvious way, but with a quiet, almost elusive beauty that was undeniably real. Her dark hair fell in messy strands around her face, and her deep, worried eyes always seemed to analyze the world with silent intensity.
Alan bit the inside of his cheek. He scolded himself for letting his thoughts wander in that direction. This was neither the time nor the place. How could he think about this when the world was collapsing around them?
And yet, the thought persisted.
He straightened slightly, slipping his hands into his pockets in an attempt to mask his unease. But the feeling remained, embedded deep within him. A feeling he hadn't experienced in years.
Love might be a victory over death… but he wasn't sure he was ready to accept it.
Jennel broke the silence.
"Sorry about my attitude," she said after a while. "I was thrown off by this whole 'Specter' thing, as you call it."
Alan gave a small shrug, an amused smile playing on his lips.
"No problem. I like your grumpy look."
Jennel smirked, tight but genuine.
"It's not a grumpy look."
"It is."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is."
They both burst into laughter, breaking the lingering tension.
Jennel's eyes sparkled as she tilted her head slightly.
"You got younger, didn't you?"
Alan nodded. "Started at sixty-four."
Jennel's eyes widened in playful surprise.
"A grandpa!" she teased.
"The elder of the group," she added with a grin.
Alan shrugged.
"Me, twenty-seven."
A brief silence. Alan remained expressionless, then smirked.
"You know, old men like younger women."
Jennel laughed out loud.
"Hold on, let me call the cops."
Their laughter echoed into the quiet night, dissolving the last remnants of the day's tension.
Then, without quite knowing how, laughter turned into quiet confessions.
At first, their words were hesitant. Neither dared to talk about the early days—it was still too heavy, too painful. The images of their lost loved ones, the empty streets, the oppressive silence… all of it was buried in a dark corner of their minds, a place they weren't ready to open. So they stayed on the surface, sharing only the memories they could bear.
After a long pause, Alan finally spoke.
"It was on the steps of the cathedral."
Jennel turned her head toward him, attentive, her gaze an unspoken invitation to continue.
"He was insane. Ranting about prophecies. Saying incomprehensible things about the end of the world, about divine signs… He had a rusty kitchen knife."
He paused, his eyes lost in a memory still too vivid.
"He was coming at me. I… I saw him too late. Back then, I couldn't see Specters. He threatened me. I had a weapon, a rifle, an old one… and I shot."
Alan ran a hand over his face, as if wiping away an invisible shiver.
"The gunshot echoed through the entire district. But the silence that followed… that was worse. Like the city itself was holding its breath."
Jennel said nothing, but her eyes remained locked on Alan's, offering silent comfort. Words came more easily now.
"Then there was this woman. She was completely lost. Crying, screaming… She said the dead would come back, that they shouldn't be left out in the open. So I dug. I buried the bodies. Some were already decomposing. The smell…"
He shook his head, his expression twisting slightly.
"It clung to me for days. No matter how many times I washed, I could still smell it. Like it had become a part of me."
A few moments of silence passed before Jennel took a trembling breath and began her own story.
She lowered her eyes, as if the memories were resurfacing right before her.
"It was at the very beginning…" she murmured. "I was looking for food in a supermarket. I was alone. I thought no one would come..."
She paused, her hands clenching slightly around her knees.
"Then he appeared. I didn't hear him coming. He lunged at me without a word. I fought back… I remember the sound of shelves crashing down, cans rolling across the floor. And then… the knife."
Alan stayed silent, waiting for her to continue.
"I don't even know where I found it. On the floor, probably. Everything was a blur. But I stabbed him. Once, twice… again and again. The blood… It was everywhere. On my hands, on my clothes."
Her voice broke slightly, and she rubbed her palms over her thighs, as if she could still feel the stickiness of the blood.
"I couldn't move. I just sat there, in the middle of it all. He was dead… and I didn't even know if I should cry or throw up."
Instinctively, Alan placed a hand over hers. She didn't pull away. Her gaze remained fixed on the ground, but the contact seemed to anchor her to the present.
"After leaving the supermarket… I was in shock, I think. I still had the knife in my hand. The man I had… the man I had to kill didn't even know my name. He just wanted… he wanted to rob me, or worse. I found myself outside, stumbling like an idiot with that bloody knife. I had no idea where to go, what to do. Then Rose appeared. She approached me cautiously. She saw the blood, she saw the weapon. But she didn't run away."
Jennel gave a sad smile.
"Instead, she reached out her hand. 'Come with me,' she said. She took me to a fountain, where the water was still flowing. She helped me wash my hands, clean the blood away. She had fresh clothes in her bag and told me to change. I think… I think that was the first time I felt safe in a long time."
She paused, trying to steady her emotions.
"We decided to leave together. We didn't really know where to go, but we thought Paris would be a good idea. That's where Survivors would gather… at least, that was our theory. Just an idea to give purpose to our journey."
Alan nodded, encouraging her to continue.
"Along the way, we met Michel and Bob. We were approaching a village when we heard them. They were making a racket, not with a radio or anything electronic, since none of that works anymore. No, they were banging on pots, barrels, anything that made noise. It was like some absurd parade."
Jennel let out a short, almost bitter laugh.
"Rose and I thought they were crazy. Or desperately lonely. Maybe both. But they weren't dangerous. Michel, especially, seemed like a good guy. When we asked what they were doing, he told us they were looking for other Survivors. That they didn't want to be alone for too long."
She shrugged.
"But they weren't heading to Paris. Michel had another idea. He had seen the Beacon, too. Southeast. He was convinced that was where we needed to go. So they asked us to come along."
Alan watched her carefully. There was something fragile in her voice, something hesitant—an invisible barrier she wasn't ready to let down completely.
She fell silent, her eyes reflecting the distant glow of the fire. Alan hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a quiet voice.
"Talking about it helps."
Jennel nodded slowly. "Yeah… it does."
The last traces of sunlight faded, leaving only the embers of twilight.
Then, in the heavy silence, Jennel asked a question that carried far more weight than it seemed.
"Do you ever have strange dreams? Dreams that feel… too real?"
Alan raised an eyebrow, surprised by the question.
"Nightmares, often… unfortunately."
Jennel shook her head.
"No. I'm talking about dreams… very, very real ones. The kind that don't feel any different from reality."
Alan narrowed his eyes, trying to understand. But nothing she was saying resonated with him.
"I don't see what you mean," he admitted honestly.
Jennel hesitated, struggling to find the right words. It was difficult for her to confess that she had them. She lowered her gaze, fidgeting with a small twig between her fingers.
"I have them," she finally said. "Some are unclear… but others are vivid. As clear as reality."
Alan tilted his head slightly, intrigued.
"A lot?"
Jennel slowly lifted her eyes to him. It took her a few seconds to respond, as if she were fighting the urge to stay silent.
"Almost every night… for a month now."
Alan hesitated for a moment, wanting to ask more questions but holding back. Something in Jennel's tone suggested she didn't want to delve too deeply into the subject. Yet, he took the risk of asking:
"Do you know what it might mean?"
Jennel gave a slight shrug, an unreadable expression passing over her face.
"My friend Rose knows about them," she murmured. "She tells me I should be more open to others, more receptive to their feelings… But I can't. It's my way of coping with all of this."
Her face darkened gradually, sadness and pain creeping in, as if she carried the weight of memories too heavy to bear. Alan sensed she was struggling not to let them overwhelm her.
Then, abruptly, her expression changed. Her gaze hardened, her face closed off.
"Good night," she said almost coldly before getting up hastily and walking away.
Alan watched her go, unable to say anything.
The night wind blew softly, carrying away the last traces of daylight.
The next morning, as the camp slowly stirred awake, Jennel found Alan sitting near the dying fire. He saw her approaching but remained silent, letting her initiate the conversation.
Jennel sat across from him, her gaze lost in the embers.
"I wanted to apologize… for last night." She hesitated, searching for words. "I left too quickly."
She paused.
"I wonder…" She hesitated again.
"How do you manage to talk about these things?"
Alan looked up at her, surprised by the question. He gave a small shrug.
"It's not easy, as you probably noticed. But… it helps."
"I struggle with it," she admitted. "The moment I start talking about… everything, I freeze up. I don't want to go too far. Not into the details."
"I went pretty far with you."
She averted her gaze, embarrassed.
"I feel selfish talking about myself, about my experiences. As if my pain is more important than anyone else's. And then, there's the guilt… The guilt of still being here when so many others aren't."
Alan slowly nodded. He understood completely.
"Survivor's guilt," he murmured. "It's a burden many carry. But you know… talking about it doesn't erase the pain of others. It just helps you live with your own."
Jennel studied him for a moment, her expression caught between mistrust and gratitude.
"Rose always tells me I need to learn to open up," she said softly. "But it's… terrifying."
Alan offered her a reassuring smile.
"We don't have to rush. One step at a time."
Jennel lowered her gaze, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.
"One step at a time," she repeated, almost to herself.
A few moments of silence passed.
Alan broke it with a quiet voice, almost too gentle for the tension lingering between them.
"And love?"
Jennel's eyes snapped up, surprised. Her expression flickered between unease and confusion.
"Love?" she echoed, as if she hadn't heard correctly.
Alan nodded slowly. "Yes… love. Is that something you can talk about?"
Jennel looked away.
"I… I don't know," she murmured. "I'm not allowed to."
Alan frowned slightly. "Not allowed? Why?"
Jennel took a long breath, choosing her words carefully.
"Because…" She hesitated, visibly uncomfortable. "Because it's selfish. This world… what it has become… I can't afford to think about that."
Alan remained silent, giving her space to continue.
"I tell myself it would be a betrayal of those who are gone," she added, her voice trembling. "To love someone, when so many have died… Do I have the right? Can I allow myself to feel that?"
She ran a hand through her hair, visibly troubled.
"But… could I?" she murmured almost to herself, her gaze drifting away again.
Alan reached out, his fingers barely grazing hers.
"It's not about having the right," he said gently. "It's about being alive."
"Love is a victory over the enemy."
Before the group's departure, Michel approached Alan, his expression grave. The dim morning light cast deep shadows on his tired face.
"Alan, can we talk before we leave?" he asked in a low voice.
Alan nodded and followed him away from the others, into a secluded area where the trees formed a protective circle.
"I need your help," Michel began bluntly. "You can perceive people's intentions, can't you? Jennel told me about this… ability you both share."
Alan furrowed his brow, glancing back at the camp.
"That's true. But why would you need mine?"
Michel crossed his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on Alan.
"We're going to encounter other Survivors. It's inevitable. And not all of them will be friendly. If you can warn us in advance, we'll have a chance to react."
Alan remained silent for a moment. The thought of being on the front lines, assessing the intentions of complete strangers, didn't sit well with him. But he understood the necessity.
"Alright," he finally said. "I'll do my best."
Michel offered a tired smile.
"Thank you. It could make all the difference."
Alan's eyes fell on the notebook resting on Michel's lap. The pages were filled with intricate sketches and handwritten notes, diagrams of molecules, equations. Michel noticed his curiosity and smiled faintly.
"You're wondering what I'm working on, aren't you?"
Alan shrugged. "I'm mostly trying to understand what's happening around us. And you seem to have some answers."
Michel closed his notebook gently.
"Answers, maybe. But mostly questions. The nanites… they're not just machines. They follow a logic we don't yet understand."
"Were you a scientist?" Alan asked.
"A bioengineering specialist. I worked on medical nanomachines before… all this." Michel made a vague gesture toward the world around them. "But the nanites we see today aren't ours. They're… far beyond what we were capable of creating."
Alan frowned. "A different technology, then?"
Michel nodded. "Most likely. These machines seem capable of evolving, adapting. Maybe even communicating with each other, like a living organism."
He paused, staring into the fire's weak embers.
"And their ability to alter the Survivors…" Michel sighed. "It's beyond anything I can comprehend. Why improve us? Why let us live?"
Alan felt a chill run down his spine. Michel's words echoed his own thoughts.
"So, you have no hypothesis?" Alan asked.
Michel lifted his gaze, his eyes filled with exhaustion.
"Only speculations. Maybe we're experiments, test subjects. Maybe we serve a purpose we can't even fathom."
Alan remained silent, mulling over his words. He looked around, observing the other Survivors in the camp. They all showed the same signs of transformation, renewed youth, enhanced abilities. But at what cost?
Michel spoke again, almost to himself.
"The real problem, Alan, is that we don't know if these nanites have a master… or if they've become their own master."
The group had set off, moving slowly along a road bordered by rolling hills.
Alan walked in silence, observing the other members of the group closely. He tried to start conversations, but the responses were short, wary. He still struggled to fit in.
It was when he spotted Jennel walking ahead of him that he noticed her slight limp. She put more weight on her right foot with each step, clearly trying to hide her discomfort.
He quickened his pace to catch up to her.
"Jennel, you're limping. What happened?"
She shot him a brief glance, visibly annoyed that he had noticed.
"It's nothing serious. Just a small injury."
Alan wasn't convinced.
"Where did you hurt yourself?"
Jennel sighed.
"I slipped on a rock while washing in the stream. It's nothing. The nanites will take care of it."
Alan frowned.
"Maybe, but if we treat it now, it'll heal even faster. Do you really want to limp all day?"
Jennel tried to brush him off.
"I told you it's nothing, Alan. It'll pass."
He placed a firm but gentle hand on her arm.
"Let me take a look. I have a small medical kit. If we clean it properly, you'll be back on your feet in a few hours."
Jennel hesitated, her lips pressed into a thin line. She hated being the center of attention, hated even more feeling vulnerable.
That's when a new voice chimed in.
"Hello, I'm Rose," said a small, slightly round woman with a warm smile.
"He's right, Jennel. Let him help. If it gets infected, you'll be in much worse shape."
Under Rose's insistent gaze, Jennel finally gave in.
"Fine. But make it quick."
Alan pulled out his medical kit and knelt before her. The injury wasn't deep, but a clean cut on her heel needed attention. He applied antiseptic ointment before carefully bandaging her foot.
"There. Now you're getting on the cart."
Jennel protested immediately.
"No way! I can walk."
Rose placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Get on. We need you strong, not exhausted."
Alan extended a hand to help her onto the cart. Jennel groaned in frustration but eventually accepted.
He watched as she settled in, a small, amused smile on his lips.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Alan simply nodded.
"It's nothing."
As Alan adjusted the cart to make Jennel more comfortable, Rose approached.
"Is she okay?" she asked, lowering her voice so Jennel wouldn't hear.
Alan nodded.
"She'll be fine. It's just a minor wound."
Rose studied him in silence for a moment before speaking again.
"You know… Jennel and I have known each other for a while."
"I know. She told me everything."
"Is she okay?" Alan asked after a pause. "I mean… not just physically."
Rose lowered her eyes.
"Jennel is strong. But she keeps everything inside. She has these… weird dreams, as she calls them. Sometimes, they really get to her."
Alan narrowed his eyes.
"She told me. Very realistic dreams."
Rose nodded.
"Yes. She tries to ignore them, but they haunt her. And that's something I can't help her with."
A silence settled, broken only by the sound of footsteps on the road.
Then Rose looked up at Alan, curiosity in her gaze.
"And you? What do you think of her?"
Alan felt his heart speed up slightly. He briefly looked away, searching for a response that wouldn't betray too much of what he felt. But he knew his eyes had already spoken for him.
Rose smiled softly.
"I see."
Alan opened his mouth to say something, but Rose raised a hand to stop him.
"No need to say anything. Good luck."
Alan gave a sheepish smile.
"Thanks. I think I'll need it."
Rose took a step back, then abruptly changed the subject.
"Want to come to the village for supplies? We need enough to last a few more days."
Alan hesitated.
"The village?"
"Yeah. It's not far. But we can't be too careful. Having a scout with us would help."
After a brief moment of thought, Alan nodded.
"Alright. I'm in."
Rose led Alan to two makeshift handcarts. They were built from old planks and wheels salvaged from bicycles. They looked sturdy, but their weight would be a challenge on rough terrain.
"No other choice," Rose explained, noticing Alan's questioning look. "Engines don't work anymore. Everything electric shut down after the Wave. And animals… well, there aren't many left."
She paused, scanning the small group gathered around the carts.
"We have to be careful with the route. The terrain makes it a nightmare to push these things. We need to avoid steep inclines."
Alan watched as she unfolded a map on a tree stump. A few buildings were circled in red.
"We're focusing on small stores and secondary warehouses. Big supermarkets are rare around here."
She traced a line between two villages.
"Here, there's a hardware store. And here, an old agricultural depot. With some luck, we'll find useful supplies."
Alan nodded, impressed by her organization.
"It must be tough, never knowing what you'll find."
Rose gave a sad smile.
"It's always tough. But we don't have a choice. Every trip is a gamble."
She looked up at him.
"Come on. The sooner we go, the sooner we're back."
Alan took a deep breath and grabbed the handles of a cart. The wood creaked slightly under the pressure. The road would be long, and the challenges many, but at least they were ready.
They were still some distance from the village when Alan felt a Specter flicker at the edge of his perception.
Shifting lights, carried by a muted intent.
It wasn't the first time he had sensed such a presence, but he tensed slightly, his instincts on high alert. Usually, he avoided them.
"Everything okay?" Rose asked, noticing his change in demeanor.
Alan nodded but remained silent. He didn't want to worry her unnecessarily, but something was off.
That presence… it was moving. Slowly. Following them.
When they finally reached the village, the Specter grew stronger.
Alan slowed his steps, glancing around cautiously. He could now pinpoint it with precision. The crumbling facades of buildings seemed to watch them in eerie silence.
Rose consulted the map, while Alan fixated on a particular direction.
"Nothing marked here," she muttered, frowning.
Alan squinted at the church. Behind the bell tower, slightly hidden, he spotted a small supermarket with a broken, swaying sign.
"Over there," he pointed.
The group moved cautiously toward the building.
The air was heavy with a putrid stench, and they quickly discovered why.
In the supermarket parking lot, dozens of corpses were piled on top of one another, twisted into grotesque positions.
Alan instinctively turned toward the church. The door was ajar. He pushed it open gently, and it creaked ominously.
"They came from the church," Alan called out.
Rose covered her nose with a cloth.
"Why move them? Why pile them up here?"
Inside, there were no bodies on the pews, no signs of struggle. But as Alan approached the altar, he froze.
Two bodies lay side by side on the cold marble.
A man and a woman.
Their faces still bore the traces of a recent, painful death.
Rose joined him, eyes wide.
"They died recently," she murmured. "They're not Wave victims."
Alan studied the scene, his brows furrowing. Something sinister was unfolding.
Since arriving in the village, he had felt the presence growing stronger.
Someone was nearby. Watching.
"We're not alone," he said loudly.
Rose lifted her head, suddenly alert.
"Who?"
Alan didn't answer right away. He focused, letting his ability pick up on the surrounding emotions.
A wave of hostility hit him, confirming his fears.
"Someone who has already killed," he finally said. "And who's ready to do it again."
Alan cast one last look at the two bodies on the altar, his jaw clenched.
What if Jennel had been among them?
A cold determination settled over him. Slowly, he drew his automatic pistol, checking the magazine with a practiced motion.
"He's coming."
He turned to the three armed members of the group, Yann, a bearded man; Marc, a tall, lean figure; and Nina, a woman with short hair.
"Yann, take cover behind the low wall near the church. Marc, hide behind the fountain. Nina, in the alley to the right. Don't move until I give the signal."
All three nodded silently, their faces grim.
Alan turned to Rose.
"You and the others, stay inside the church. Do not come out, no matter what happens."
Rose wanted to protest, but Alan locked eyes with her. She understood.
He stepped into the middle of the square, fully exposed.
The silence was heavy, disturbed only by the wind rattling loose shutters.
Time stretched.
Finally, a man appeared at the far end of the street, walking at a slow but confident pace. A shotgun rested casually on his shoulder.
When he saw Alan standing alone in the square, he smiled, a cold, mocking grin.
"Who the hell are you?" the man asked.
"Just someone looking for answers," Alan replied calmly.
The man raised an eyebrow, visibly amused.
"Answers? Here? The only thing waiting for anyone out here is death."
Alan didn't move, but his eyes focused on the man's Specter, a shifting aura of dark red, pulsing with growing aggression.
Yet, the man didn't seem in a hurry to shoot.
He kept walking slowly, studying Alan the way a predator sizes up its prey.
"If you ask me," the man continued, "you made a big mistake coming here alone. You got a gun, I assume?"
Alan gave the faintest nod.
"And you?" he asked. "Are you planning to use yours?"
The man let out a hoarse laugh.
"Maybe. But I like a little conversation first. You don't seem like an idiot, so tell me… why are you really here?"
"I heard about a gathering in this area. Survivors. I want to understand what's left of the world."
The man stopped, his smile fading.
"There's nothing to understand. The world is dead. All that's left is us, the scraps. You should go home, if you've got one."
Alan felt the tension rise.
The man's grip on his shotgun shifted slightly, the barrel angling downward, but poised to move in an instant.
"Are you going to let me leave?" Alan asked.
The man shrugged.
"Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on you."
He started to lift his gun.
But Alan was faster.
The shot rang out, striking the man in the shoulder. He staggered back with a pained grunt, dropping his shotgun.
Alan advanced carefully, his weapon still raised.
"It's over," he said.
But the man wasn't finished.
Despite his injury, he straightened, his face contorted in pain. From his sleeve, a short blade flicked out.
And he lunged.
Alan barely had time to react.
The knife grazed his arm, slicing through his sleeve. Gritting his teeth, he fired again.
This time, the bullet hit the man square in the chest.
He collapsed heavily onto the ground, his breathing ragged.
"Why…?" the man murmured, his gaze unfocused.
Alan lowered his gun, his breath coming fast and shallow.
"Because I had no choice."
The man's eyes fluttered shut.
And didn't open again.
Alan stood motionless for a moment, catching his breath. The tension faded, but an unsettling feeling lingered.
He hadn't wanted to kill.
But he hadn't hesitated either.
From their hiding spots, Yann, Marc, and Nina emerged, their faces a mix of admiration and unease.
Rose was the last to approach, her expression pale but steady.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
Alan nodded.
"Yeah… I'm fine."