Apocalypse Perspective: Frozen Fear

The night came quickly. The storm, relentless as ever, swallowed up the last of the daylight, leaving them in an eerie, suffocating darkness. Elliot had lost track of time—had it been days? Weeks? The days had blurred together into one endless stretch of cold, hunger, and exhaustion.

They'd found a small, half-buried cabin after hours of walking, its roof sagging under the weight of the snow. It wasn't much, but it was shelter. A small, crumbling thing, with broken windows and walls that groaned with the wind. It smelled of mildew and decay, but to Elliot, it felt like a palace compared to the open wilderness.

Inside, they lit a small fire in the stone hearth. Ben had offered to help, but Elliot's father had quickly taken over, setting the kindling with practiced hands. Ben hadn't said much since they'd arrived. His silence had become something heavy, like he was carrying some secret he wasn't ready to share.

Elliot sat close to the fire, trying to warm his frozen fingers. The flames flickered, casting long shadows on the walls. Max lay at his feet, curled up tight, his eyes flicking between the door and the window, ever watchful.

"You're quiet," Elliot said, his voice almost lost in the crackling of the fire. He wasn't sure if Ben even heard him at first, but after a long moment, the boy's eyes flicked up, meeting his.

"Just tired," Ben replied, his voice distant. "Been a long road."

Elliot nodded, but he wasn't convinced. He'd seen how Ben looked at them sometimes, like he was measuring them, trying to figure out whether they were worth trusting. It made him uneasy. The boy wasn't like anyone he'd ever met. He was too guarded, too... uncertain. But Elliot didn't have the luxury of being picky about who he traveled with anymore. There was no choice. Not really.

Elliot's father was sharpening his knife across the room, his movements slow and deliberate. He hadn't spoken much either. His eyes were fixed on the blade, the soft scrape of metal against stone filling the silence. Elliot could see the tension in his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes. He was tired, too. Tired of running. Tired of fighting.

Elliot's mind drifted back to the last time he had seen his mother. She'd been sitting in the kitchen, humming softly as she worked, the smell of freshly baked bread filling the house. He could still remember the way the sun had filtered through the windows, the warm light casting long shadows across the floor. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He missed that warmth. The way everything had seemed so certain, so safe. Before the world had cracked open.

He blinked, pushing the thought away. It didn't matter now. There was no going back.

"Do you think we'll find it?" Elliot asked quietly, not sure if he was talking to his father or to himself. "That place Ben talked about... the settlement?"

His father didn't answer right away. He set the knife down with a soft clink and rubbed his hands together. The fire was still warm, but it wasn't enough to chase away the cold in his bones.

"We'll find it," he said at last, though his voice didn't carry the certainty it once had. "We have to."

Ben shifted slightly, leaning against the wall. "You can't trust everything you hear," he said, his tone a little sharper than before. "There's no guarantees. No one's safe."

Elliot's father turned to him, his expression unreadable. "I'm not looking for guarantees," he said slowly. "I'm looking for a chance."

Ben met his gaze, and for a moment, the two of them locked eyes. Elliot couldn't read the exchange, but he could feel the tension in the air, thick and palpable. It wasn't just about the settlement anymore. It was about something else. Something that neither of them was willing to say out loud.

Elliot glanced at his father, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides. There was so much his father wasn't telling him. So much that he couldn't.

He opened his mouth to ask, but before he could, Max growled softly, low in his throat.

The hair on the back of Elliot's neck stood up.

He shot to his feet, eyes darting to the door. Ben was already moving, his hand instinctively going to the knife at his belt. Elliot's father was already at the window, his rifle in hand, scanning the darkened world outside.

The storm was still raging, but the wind had shifted. The snow was falling harder now, swirling in thick, heavy gusts. But through the flurry of white, Elliot could just make out shapes moving in the distance. Figures. Dark, shadowy forms. Too many to count.

His father didn't hesitate. He grabbed his pack and slung it over his shoulder in one swift motion. "Get ready," he said, his voice tight, clipped. "They're coming."

Ben stepped toward the door, his knife drawn. "We need to move fast. We can't let them get too close."

Elliot's heart was racing. He had no idea what was out there—who or what those shapes were—but he could feel the danger in his gut. It was the same feeling he'd had back when everything started to fall apart. The same feeling that had warned him when his parents were still alive, when they were still whole.

They were coming. The infected. The storm. The end.

Elliot swallowed, trying to push down the panic rising in his throat. He glanced at his father, whose face was set, hard as stone.

"We fight," his father said simply.