Chapter 2: Into the Woods

My heart is racing as I take in the old hallway, dotted with family photos now covered in a layer of dust. More of the living dead shuffle towards me, drawn by noise and smell. The front door is ahead, but two corpses now block my path, their decaying flesh hanging in strips from yellowed bones.

Gripping my makeshift weapon—a fireplace poker I'd snatched in desperation—I charge at the first with a yell. It turns sluggishly, milky eyes fixing on me with mindless hunger. I whack it hard across the jaw, sending rotten teeth flying in a spray of blackened blood. As it staggers, I spin low and take out its legs at the knees with a well-placed blow. The sickening crunch of brittle bones giving way echoes in the narrow hall as it crumbles to the floor in a heap.

The second is quicker though, learning from its companion's fate. As I turn to engage, it lunges with claws outstretched, tearing ragged gouges in my shoulder. Pain lances through me, hot and sharp, but I have no time to react before it knocks me to the ground. I grapple with it, holding its snapping jaws away from my face as its fetid breath washes over me. The stench of decay fills my nostrils, threatening to make me gag.

Summoning all my strength, I manage to roll us over so that I'm on top. With my good arm, I jab the poker hard into the soft tissues of its decaying neck. It convulses pitifully, greenish fluids gurgling from its wounds, then goes still. Panting, I scramble to my feet, clutching my bloodied arm, feeling warm blood seeping through my fingers.

Ahead, the front door beckons, still intact behind its thick wood and metal security features. I retrieve my weapon and stagger toward escape, leaving a crimson trail behind me. Each step sends jolts of pain through my injured shoulder, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins keeps me moving.

The escape is so close I can almost taste the fresh air beyond the door. With my good hand, I throw my weight against the heavy wooden barrier. It creaks open slowly, the hinges long since rusted into place, protesting against the sudden movement.

A gust of cool air greets me, carrying the sickly sweet scent of rotting vegetation. Pale fingers grasp outward from the mass crammed into the tiny storm porch, trying to find purchase to shamble through the opening after their prey. With a grunt, I shoulder the door closed behind me, feeling faces and limbs crush underneath with sickening crunches. The impact sends shockwaves of pain through my injured shoulder, nearly making me cry out.

For a moment, I lean heavily against the solid door, gasping in sharp lungfuls of cleaner air and taking stock of my battered body. My shoulder aches fiercely where claws tore flesh, blood oozing sluggishly down my arm. The wound throbs in time with my racing heartbeat, a constant reminder of how close I came to joining the ranks of the undead.

Bruises from my tumble throb dully, promising a rainbow of colors in the coming days—if I live that long. But I'm alive, for now, and that's more than most can say in this nightmare world.

Raising my eyes, I observe my neighborhood with a dull dread. Shambling figures roam aimlessly up and down the street, some dragging destroyed limbs behind them. Empty cars sit strewn across lawns and intersections, long since abandoned by fleeing survivors. Gardens once meticulously maintained now grow wild and untended, nature reclaiming what was once stolen from it.

A moan draws my gaze to the left. Three corpses shuffle out from between two houses, drawn by the commotion at my door. To the right, more emerge from the forest line at the end of the block. I'm surrounded on all sides with no way out of this claustrophobic development. Desperately, I scan for anything that can help—a car with keys in the ignition, a shed with tools, any means of escape or defense.

My eyes land on a shed nestled in the corner of a fenced backyard across the street. If I can make it through that cluster of walkers and find something useful inside, it may give me a fighting chance. But it's not going to be easy. The distance seems impossibly vast, a gauntlet of snapping jaws and grasping hands between me and potential salvation.

Gripping my fireplace poker like a talisman, I peel myself away from the house with a pounding heart. One step, then another, as quietly as possible towards the open gate. The three closest walkers seem oblivious for now, still shuffling aimlessly. I hold my breath as I slip past them into the yard, acutely aware of how loud my heartbeat sounds in my own ears.

A rustling from behind makes me whirl; poker arched to strike. But it's just a plastic tricycle left out to fade in the sun, blown over by the breeze. I let out a tremulous sigh of relief. Too close. Keep it together, John. Just a little farther...

The shed looms ahead, a dilapidated structure of weathered wood and rusted metal. I throw myself at the flaking wooden door, scrabbling at the padlock uselessly with bloody fingers. Damn it! With a growl, I swing my weapon at the rotting wood instead, cracking it open enough to squeeze inside.

It's musty and cluttered within, dust motes dancing in the thin shafts of light that penetrate the gloom. My flashlight reveals tools along one wall and, jackpot—a crowbar propped in the corner. I snatch it up gratefully, feeling its reassuring weight in my hand. I'm better equipped to defend myself at least, but outside, angry moans grow louder as more walkers converge on my location. I've overstayed my welcome. Time to move.

Shouldering open the splintered door, I brace for what awaits on the other side. The world outside seems to have grown darker in the few moments I was inside, shadows lengthening as the sun dips lower in the sky. Three walkers now lurch towards the shed, drawn by the noise. Gripping my new crowbar tightly, I steel myself for a fight.

The first corpse shambles into range, and I swing hard, caving in the side of its rotten skull. It crumples without a sound, a puppet with cut strings. The second is faster though, learning from its fallen comrade. I barely duck in time as clawed hands swipe where my throat had been a moment before.

Rolling away, I spring to my feet and jam the pointed end of the crowbar straight through its eye socket with a wet crunch. It drops instantly, twitching once before going still. Behind it, the third walker gnashes empty gums, unable to close the distance before I brain it too. The impact sends shockwaves up my arms, nearly making me drop the weapon.

But more are coming, shambling down the street towards the feast of blood and noise I've made. I have to leave now. Darting through the open gate, I scan for an escape route and spot a shabbily-maintained trail leading into the forest. It may hide me from view long enough to lose these things on my tail.

Gripping weapons in both hands now, I sprint for the trees as a tide of groans and snapping jaws spill from the neighborhood behind. Branches claw at my clothes and skin, but I plunge headlong into the greenery, putting as much distance as I can between myself and the horrors of suburbia.

Deeper into the woods, I flee, wondering what new terrors may lurk in the creeping shadows ahead. For now, all I can do is keep moving and pray I'm not simply trading one death trap for another. The forest closes in around me, a maze of twisted trunks and gnarled roots threatening to trip me with every step.

My lungs are burning by the time I risk a glance back. Through the dense trees, I can just make out shuffling figures moving away, drawn elsewhere by some other unseen disturbance. For now, I've lost them—but who knows for how long.

The woods around me are eerily still. No birdsong, no small animals rustling in the undergrowth. Just my heavy breathing echoing through the empty forest. I lean against a broad oak trunk, its rough bark digging into my back, taking stock of my situation while I catch my breath.

My shoulder throbs with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of my close call. I gingerly peel back the torn fabric of my shirt, wincing as it sticks to the congealing blood. The sight makes my stomach churn—three deep gashes, angry red against my pale skin. I need to bind and clean the wound as soon as possible to avoid infection, but with what? I scan the forest floor, hoping for some useful plants, but nothing looks familiar in the fading light.

A wave of dizziness washes over me, whether from blood loss or pure exhaustion; I can't tell. I slide down the trunk, feeling every scrape and bruise as I hit the ground. Weapons in hand, food, and supplies nonexistent, alone in an unknown and potentially hostile environment. The odds are not in my favor out here.

Taking a steady breath, I force myself to my feet, ignoring the protest of aching muscles. I start moving again, slowly now. My instincts are on high alert for any sound or movement out of the ordinary. The crunch of brush behind me has me whirling with crowbar raised, but nothing is there. Just the wind, perhaps. Or...something else?

A rustle in the bushes to my left draws my attention. Slowly, carefully, I approach, bracing for an attack. But the source of the noise comes as a surprise—a scruffy brown squirrel, rooting around for nuts as if nothing is wrong with the world. The sight of normal wildlife is oddly reassuring. I'm not alone out here after all.

Heartened, I continue my trek, keeping to rocky higher ground where I can. The forest floor is a maze of gnarled roots and fallen branches, each step a potential twisted ankle. As I navigate the treacherous terrain, the trees seem to close in around me, their branches reaching out like grasping hands in the growing darkness.

Sunset is approaching fast, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple visible through gaps in the canopy. I need shelter, warmth, and supplies—preferably all together if possible. Scanning alertly through the trees, I pray some safe refuge reveals itself before darkness falls.

As if in answer to my silent plea, I spot something through the trees—a glint of metal catching the last rays of sunlight. Hope surges through me as I push forward, ignoring the burning in my shoulder and the heaviness in my limbs.

Breaking through a dense thicket, I find myself at the edge of a small clearing. There, nestled against a rocky outcropping, stands a weather-beaten cabin. Its windows are dark, the porch sagging, but it's the most beautiful sight I've seen all day. The wooden structure looks old but solid, a testament to the craftsmanship of a bygone era.

I approach cautiously, crowbar at the ready. The floorboards creak ominously under my weight as I climb the steps, each sound seeming to echo through the quiet forest. Peering through a grimy window, I can just make out the shadowy outlines of furniture inside. No movement, no signs of life—or un-life.

As I reach for the door handle, a chill runs down my spine. In the dirt by the cabin's foundation, half hidden by overgrown weeds, I spot something that makes my blood run cold—a human footprint. And it looks fresh, the edges still crisp in the soft soil.

I freeze, suddenly aware of how exposed I am on this creaky porch. Is this cabin already occupied? And if so, by friend or foe? As the last light fades from the sky, I realize I'm out of options. Whatever lurks inside, it can't be worse than what waits in the darkness of the forest.

With a deep breath, I tighten my grip on the crowbar and slowly turn the handle. The door opens with a protesting groan, revealing a dark interior that smells of dust and abandonment. I step inside, every nerve on edge, ready for anything.

"Hello?" I call out softly, my voice sounding foreign in the stillness. "Is anyone here?"

No response comes, but as my eyes adjust to the gloom, I notice something on a nearby table—a half-eaten can of beans, the spoon still stuck in the congealed mess. Someone was here, and recently. But where are they now?

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I realize—I may not be as alone as I thought. And in this new world, that could be either my salvation or my doom.