Logan didn't stay long after that.
He marked the sigil with chalk—a big "X" and a warning arrow—and made his way out the back of the store. The red sky above had darkened slightly, as if something massive had passed between the Earth and whatever sun still lingered behind the crimson veil.
No more Shadowlurkers. But he didn't feel alone.
He took a looping path home. No straight lines. That was basic survival—straight lines were predictable, manageable to ambush. He moved through overgrown backyards, vaulted rotting fences, and ducked through alleys that now twisted at unnatural angles. The world was folding in on itself.
A house he passed looked twice as wide as before, with crooked windows like a melted painting. One car had sunk halfway into a tree, roots warping around the rusting frame like fingers.
But the real shock came four blocks from his bunker.
A human silhouette.
Standing. Waving.
Logan froze, ducking behind a half-collapsed shed. He raised the binoculars and locked onto the figure.
Male. Roughly his age. Beard, torn hoodie, blood-crusted sleeves. Holstered pistol, not drawn. His other hand gripped a stick with a white rag tied to the end—crude, but a peace flag nonetheless.
"Hey! I see you!" the man shouted. "I'm not infected! Don't shoot!"
Logan stayed silent, watching for backup. He scanned rooftops, scanned windows. Nothing moved.
He stepped into view, shotgun raised but not yet aimed.
"Name," Logan said flatly.
"Chris. Chris Rourke. Lincoln Street. I was holed up in a liquor store freezer for two days before it got too quiet."
Logan closed the distance slowly.
"How do I know you're clean?"
Chris didn't argue. He pulled up his sleeves—there were no bites, rashes, or black veins—just pale skin with dehydration and cold.
"I'm good, man. I swear. I got supplies too—batteries, MREs, water tablets, and some meds. We can trade. I'll pull my weight if you've got a place."
Logan's eyes narrowed.
"I have a base."
Chris's eyes lit up like a drowning man spotting dry land. "Seriously? Like… reinforced? Not just boarded-up walls and prayers?"
"Move slow. Hands up."
Chris didn't argue.
They walked in tense silence, Logan keeping five paces behind, weapon ready—no sudden movements. No talking. Chris didn't push his luck.
When they reached the outer perimeter, the sight stopped him cold.
Wires strung through nailed-down fencing—tripwire markers. Sentry posts rigged with junkyard motion lights. Sandbags were stacked along the porch. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't military-grade.
But it was real.
"Jesus," Chris muttered. "You built all this?"
"I built it to outlast the world," Logan said.
He slid open the hidden latch behind the old shed, revealing a steel-plated passage lined with solar cabling and reinforced bolts. Chris followed wordlessly, his awe dulled by caution.
Inside, the bunker lit up with quiet LED lines running off solar and manual crank backups. Rows of shelves. Battery banks. Storage sealed tight. A workstation hummed with diagnostic chatter. In the center is Logan's throne: a bolted-down swivel chair surrounded by screens, schematics, and a handcrafted interface glowing with system integration.
Chris let out a long breath. "Jesus. I thought I was paranoid."
"I was," Logan said, already powering down his weapon. "Turns out, paranoia's just being early."
Chris dropped his bag on the floor and slowly raised his arms. "You want to search me? Go ahead. No bites. No hidden blades. No tricks."
"Strip to your boxers. Slowly."
Chris didn't argue.
Logan searched every pocket and seam, checked under bandages, and scanned his gear for tampering or GPS signals.
He was clean.
"Get dressed."
Chris sighed with relief. "Most people would've just shot me and taken the bag."
"I'm not most people."
"No shit."
They sat across from one another. Logan didn't offer food. Chris didn't ask. The silence between them felt like a loaded chamber.
Chris finally broke it.
"So… now what? You gonna toss me back outside?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you're useful."
Chris stared for a moment, lips twitching at the edges.
"Damn. Fair enough. I don't have tools but can shoot, scavenge, and read terrain. Got a little first-aid training too."
Logan leaned forward.
"Why are you here?"
Chris's grin faded.
His voice dropped.
"I saw the sky break."
Logan didn't blink. "What?"
"Three days ago," Chris said, voice low. "Just before I hid in the freezer. I saw it. The clouds didn't just swirl—they split like something cut a hole into the sky. And through it… I saw eyes."
He paused.
"Not human. I don't even know if they were alive. But they looked down."
Logan didn't speak.
He'd seen strange things—warped streets, floating debris, animals that didn't walk right anymore—but this sounded like something else.
"What happened after?"
Chris stared at the floor. "That's when it started. The expansion. The distortion zones. Like the world got rewritten."
He looked up again. "Something's changing the rules of Earth, man. And I don't think we're meant to survive it."
Just then, Logan's tablet buzzed on the desk.
System Alert: First Survivor ContactTemporary Ally Detected: Chris RourkeLoyalty: UnknownContribution Potential: ModerateNew Options Available:
Assign Role
Dismiss
Monitor Behavior
Initiate Faction Protocol
Logan tapped Monitor Behavior. Trust wasn't free. Not anymore.
Chris didn't notice the menu pop-up.
But Logan noticed everything.
This wasn't just the end of the world anymore.
This started something new—something far more dangerous than isolation.
It was the start of people again.
And people were always the worst monsters.