62,001

I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and start driving. I don’t know why I took it. Curiosity? Fear? Stupidity? Probably all three. Maybe I just didn’t want to leave behind another mystery to rot in the dust like everything else. Leaving things behind feels too permanent these days.

The map’s still glowing on the cracked screen—thousands of red dots, shifting like ants with no queen. One dot stays locked dead center. Me. Always me. A reminder that no matter how empty the world feels, something is still keeping score.

I glance at it every few minutes, even though I know it won’t tell me anything new. I keep expecting the dots to disappear. Or multiply. Or close in like a noose tightening around my neck. I wonder if anyone else is staring at their own dot somewhere, just as paranoid.

They don’t. They just... exist. Like they’ve always been there, waiting for someone dumb enough to notice. Or waiting for orders. I don’t know which is worse.

Her voice crackles through my actual phone, shattering the fragile quiet I’d been pretending was peace.

"You’ve been unusually quiet, Gabe. Did the cannibal camp not satisfy your social needs?"

"...Just thinking."

"That’s dangerous."

For once, I agree with her. Thinking hasn’t done me many favors lately. It just gives the ghosts in my head more room to stretch their legs.

The road stretches on for hours—if you can still call it a road. More like a scar across the earth, half-swallowed by sand and broken promises. I pass rusted cars, their doors hanging open like mouths frozen mid-scream. Billboards advertising resorts, fast food, happy families—all peeling into nothing under the weight of a world that doesn’t care anymore. I wonder how many people believed those ads right up until the end.

I catch myself checking the phone again. Like I’m waiting for those dots to spell out a message. Maybe something like "We see you" or "Run." Maybe I’d prefer that to this silence.

"You know, Gabe, there's a word for this. Obsession."

"I call it caution."

"Semantics won't save you. Neither will that phone."

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, fighting the urge to hurl the thing out the window. But some part of me—the stubborn, paranoid part—keeps whispering, what if it’s important? What if ignorance isn’t safety—just a slower death? It’s not like I have anyone left to warn me otherwise.

The horizon offers no answers. It never does.

Eventually, I spot a collapsed overpass sprawled across the highway like a final warning. Figures. Even the roads are tired of letting me pass.

I stop the car and step out, grabbing the cultist’s phone and my rifle. The wind greets me like an old enemy, carrying the scent of rust, oil, and decay baked into the bones of a dead world. Every gust feels like it’s trying to erase me.

Climbing over the wreckage feels like walking through the ribcage of some giant corpse. Gravel shifts underfoot, metal groans with every step. From the top, I can see further than I want to—empty highways dissolving into the horizon, littered with vehicles that never made it wherever they were going. Each one a story that ended the same way.

Halfway across, my boot slips on loose concrete. Instinct kicks in—I grab at a jagged piece of rebar to steady myself.

That’s when I hear it.

A hollow crack.

I already know what it is before I look. The phone tumbles from my pocket, bounces once... twice... then disappears into a dark crevice between two slabs of concrete.

I crouch there, staring into the gap like it might stare back. Like it might offer me some explanation before swallowing everything.

Her voice cuts in, sharp as ever.

"If you’re considering throwing yourself into a pit after garbage tech, I would advise against it."

"...Wasn’t planning on it."

But I stay frozen a moment longer anyway. Not because I care about the phone—but because losing it feels too easy. Like something wanted it buried. Like some secrets don’t need to be understood—they just need to be lost.

I wipe the blood from my scraped palm and force myself to move.

By the time I get back to the car, the sun is bleeding out across the sky. I drive without thinking, letting the engine’s hum blur into the static of my brain.

That phone shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t.

But now, knowing it’s gone—knowing I can’t check those dots anymore—it feels worse. Like I’m walking blindfolded through a minefield, waiting for the click beneath my foot.

Her doesn’t let me sit with that thought for long.

"We’re approximately 300 miles from the warehouse. I recommend resting soon. Driving while exhausted statistically leads to—"

"I know."

"—poor decisions and premature death."

It isn’t long before I spot the crumbling shape of a gas station clinging to relevance. Windows shattered, roof sagging like it’s tired of standing. Like it knows no one’s coming back.

I kill the engine and sit there, watching dusk swallow what’s left of the day. For a second, I wonder what this place looked like when it was alive. Families fueling up. Kids begging for snacks inside. Music on the radio. People thinking tomorrow was guaranteed.

Now it’s just me. And ghosts that don’t even bother haunting anymore.

I grab my rifle and step into the cooling air. The metal sign above creaks, swaying like it might give up at any moment. I almost envy it.

Inside, the place is a tomb. Shelves stripped bare, the floor littered with broken glass and memories no one wants. Graffiti covers the walls—desperate messages from people trying to leave a mark before they vanished.

STILL HERE.

FOOD’S GONE. WE’RE NEXT.

A third message catches my eye, scrawled lower, almost like it was written by someone sitting down.

DON’T TRUST THE SILENCE.

Behind the counter, a skeleton slumps against the wall, fingers curled around an empty bottle. They didn’t wait for Seraphin to decide their fate. Maybe they were the lucky one.

I rummage through the debris out of habit. An old lighter. A pack of gum turned to dust. A faded photograph of a family I’ll never know. A child’s toy missing its head. Each item a relic of a world that collapsed under its own arrogance.

Nothing useful. Just reminders that survival doesn’t mean living.

I find a corner where the ceiling isn’t threatening to crush me and sink to the floor. My back hits the wall, and for a moment, I let myself feel how heavy everything is. The weight of being the last to remember a world that’s already forgotten itself.

Her buzzes in my ear, right on cue.

"Sweet dreams, Gabe. Try not to dwell on the fact that you're statistically likely to die alone in a place like this."

"You really know how to tuck a guy in."

I shut off my phone, plunging myself into real silence—the kind that presses on your chest and reminds you that even your thoughts echo too loudly.

I close my eyes, knowing tomorrow won’t be any better.

But I’ll keep moving.

Because that’s all I know how to do.

And because stopping? Stopping is just a slower way to die. And I’m not ready to die standing still.