Apocalypse Perspective: Frozen Fear

Elliot didn't stop running. His legs were shaking, his chest heaving, but he couldn't slow down. He didn't want to look back, but he couldn't stop the image of his father's final moments from flashing in his mind. The sound of his father's voice, the desperation in it—"Go, son, go"—echoed through his head like a drumbeat. It was the only thing that kept him moving.

His feet pounded against the cold concrete floor of the terminal, his body moving on autopilot. His mind was numb. He wasn't sure where he was going. The exit? The tarmac? Anywhere but here.

Max, his loyal dog, was still at his side, the only constant in this nightmare. The dog's fur was matted with dirt and blood, but Max stayed close, sensing the boy's panic and offering a small measure of comfort in this chaotic world.

"Dad," Elliot whispered under his breath, as though saying it out loud would make it less real. But it didn't. The weight of his father's death was too heavy to carry, too much to process all at once.

He had always imagined he would have more time with him. More chances to talk, to understand. And now, his father was gone. And he was alone.

As Elliot reached the end of the hall, he saw Ben and the others still standing near the doorway. They were silent, their faces drawn and tired. No one said anything. What could they say? They had seen it too—the sacrifice, the horror. It was a wound that ran too deep for words.

Ben looked at Elliot with a mix of pity and determination. "We need to keep moving," he said quietly. "We're not safe here. Not anymore."

Elliot nodded, his throat tight. His eyes stung, and he fought the urge to break down, to scream, to ask why. But there was no time for that. His father's last words still rang in his ears, urging him forward.

They moved as a group, cautiously now. Every sound was amplified, every shadow a potential threat. Elliot kept his eyes on the ground, not trusting himself to look around too much. The memories of his father, of the last moments they had shared, were too fresh.

They reached the far end of the terminal, and Elliot finally allowed himself to look up. The windows ahead were cracked, the sky visible through the broken glass. It was dark outside, the air thick with the remnants of the storm. The world outside was just as unforgiving as the one they had left behind.

"There," Ben said, pointing toward the tarmac. A small, private jet was parked near the runway. Its engines were off, but it was still their only chance.

Elliot didn't speak. He just nodded, his feet moving again. It wasn't much of a plane, but it was their best shot at getting out of here, away from the chaos, away from the infected.

Max trotted beside him, keeping pace as they hurried across the broken pavement. The wind bit at their faces, and Elliot's eyes watered from the cold. But he barely noticed it. His mind was focused on one thing: getting on that plane. Getting out of this hellhole.

When they reached the plane, Ben quickly checked the doors, but they were locked. He swore under his breath, pulling out a small tool from his pocket. "Give me a minute," he said, crouching in front of the door.

Elliot didn't wait. He couldn't. He walked to the side of the plane, Max following closely behind. His hands were trembling, and his mind was still racing, trying to piece together everything that had happened in the last few hours. His father's death, the virus, the infected, and now this—this was supposed to be the end of it, right? The plane was their way out.

But the nagging doubt in his mind wouldn't let him rest. What if it wasn't enough? What if the virus had already spread too far? What if this was just the beginning?

A noise broke his thoughts—a faint crackling from the radio inside the plane. He glanced toward Ben, who had finally managed to open the door. Ben looked up at him, eyes wide. "Get in. Now."

Without hesitation, Elliot ran toward the plane, pushing open the door and climbing inside. Max followed, leaping up into the cabin. They were in. But that was only the first step.

The plane's interior was cramped, with only a few seats, but it was better than nothing. Ben quickly closed the door behind them, sealing them in. He moved toward the cockpit, flicking switches and adjusting controls.

Elliot collapsed into one of the seats, his body shaking. Max curled up beside him, sensing the boy's exhaustion. The weight of the last few hours—the pain, the loss, the terror—crushed him all at once. He wanted to cry, to scream, but he didn't have the energy. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried to focus on the one thing that mattered: survival.

Ben's voice broke through the silence. "We're good to go," he said, his voice steady. "Buckle up."

Elliot did as he was told, strapping himself into the seat. The engines roared to life, and the plane began to move, slowly at first, then faster as it picked up speed. Elliot's heart raced, but not from fear this time. It was something else. Hope. It was a fragile thing, a flicker of light in the darkness, but it was enough to keep him going.

The plane took off into the night sky, leaving the airport—and everything they had lost—behind.