OutBreak

Chapter Three

The pale light of dawn graying the world awoke me from my restless sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, Sara would appear. Her face haunted me, her image dissolving into the darkness of my mind, ever ghostly, beyond my grasp. That fragile night's peace had only served to remind me of my solitude, and the heavy silence was broken by the moaning of the undead—an uncomfortably familiar lullaby.

I knew today was the day I needed to leave the safety of this temporary refuge. The small fortified house had served its purpose, but staying here any longer was a death sentence. Somewhere in this growing wasteland that used to be our world lay the base where Sara had been taken. I was determined to find it. I stuffed my pack full, my mind a jumble of strategy and gnawing anxiety regarding treading into unknown territory. The streets outside were a minefield: ruined homes, burned-out cars, and crumbling roads filled with both dead and living who, in their desperation, had turned monstrous. I knew I couldn't be careless.

I slipped out the back, kept to my belly, and crawled swiftly and invisibly in the shadows. The sun dipping over the horizon cast long sinister shadows, like outstretched hands along the ground. It was an unnerving stillness that made me aware of every sound and movement. I kept to the fringes of side streets and alleyways, avoiding the open roads where danger was most likely to find me.

After hours of walking through this landscape of disintegration, I finally reached the outskirts of town. Buildings grew sparse and gave way to straggly fields—patches of dirt. It was through this no-man's land that I first saw him—a figure drawn taut with nervous energy, his head jerking as if at his shoulder. Recognition hit me like a blow. It was the man who had fled on the day Sara had been taken.

My heart was pounding as I approached him, my mind racing to plan a confrontation that wouldn’t attract unwanted attention. I followed him through the tall grass and overgrown landscape, using it to close the distance without his knowledge. At an opportune moment, I suddenly charged forward, catching him from behind and pressing my knife against his throat.

I whispered low and dangerously, "Don't move." He was frozen, his body quivering in my grasp as fear took over. "Okay, okay, just don't kill me. I'll tell you everything," he stammered. I dragged him to the nearest tree and made him sit with his back to it. My knife was still pressed to his throat. "Talk," I ordered.

"They're mercenaries," he started, the words spilling out in a panicked cascade. "Ex-military. They've fortified the base—armed to the teeth. They were hired to take people, like your girl, for some kind of experiment or something. I don't know the details. I swear!"

The implication was racing through my mind—mercenaries, experiments; it was worse than I thought. But before I could press him for more, a rustling in nearby bushes turned me around in time to see a woman stumble out, torn and dirt-smeared, yet strikingly beautiful despite her bedraggled state, her eyes wide with fear and desperation.

"Please," she panted, "help me. They're after me!"

I didn't need to ask who "they" were—bandits, no doubt—men who, in this new world, had shed every last vestige of decency, surviving by preying on the weak. I gripped the knife tightly, but I knew I couldn't stay there. "Follow me," I ordered, tugging the man to his feet and nodding to the woman. "Stay close."

As fast as we could, we headed, but with due care, through the undergrowth, away from the direction she'd come from. The woman kept to my side, her breathing coming in panicked gasps. She was a complication, yet I couldn't bring myself to leave her to fend for herself.

We emerged into a small clearing, and I gestured that they halt. The woman dropped to the ground, devastated. The man stayed on his feet alongside her, still highly nervous. I squatted beside her, taking a close look around in case of any bandits.

"We'll rest here for a minute," I said, trying my best to sound soft and reassuring to counteract the surging adrenaline coursing through my veins. "But we can't stay long."

She nodded, her eyes welling with gratitude. "Thank you," she whispered. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't found me."

The look she gave me then, full of so much more than gratitude, set me on edge. But there was quite literally no time for that. I really needed to stay focused. The woods were growing dark, and we were going to have to start walking soon.

As we prepared to leave, it felt like memories were bleeding through into the present—things I'd done to survive, skills I'd learned. I wasn't always this person—this survivor—who could take off the dead as well as the living. Pre-all of this, I was just a guy trying to make ends meet. My apocalypse started when I was home alone. My parents and brother had gone to my hometown, but I got left in the dust. I knew my brother would protect the rest; he'd always been the stronger one, the fighter. But few people ever recognized he was more than that—a fighter. He had been an assassin, a hired gun, and he had kept that part of his life well hidden, even from me.

I didn't know how to fight back when it all went to hell. The first weeks were pure chaos, running around, hiding somewhere, and just trying to figure it all out—trying to work out some way of surviving. I was lucky I could make it through each new day without being killed. Then I met someone, a woman who knew how to fight and how to survive. She took me under her wing and taught me everything I needed to know. But she didn't last long. The world was cruel, and it took her from me before I could repay her for all she'd done. Her lessons lived on through me, though. They kept me alive. Now they were the only thing keeping me standing here in this clearing, knife in hand, ready to face whatever came next.

"We need to get moving," I said, wrenching myself back to the present. She stood, her eyes never leaving mine. The man, paralyzed with fear, looked at me, wondering if he'd make it through the day. I motioned for them to follow and started down the path toward the base where Sara was being held. The future was totally uncertain, but one thing was crystal clear: I'd stop at nothing to get Sara back. Anyone who came between us was going to have to be a mercenary, bandit, or zombie to try their worst with me.

We had barely gained any distance when we heard them. The bandits had found us. They came from the trees—four of them, grinning like they had already won some great prize. The girl gasped and huddled behind me; the man stood still as stone, eyes wide in terror.

"Seems like you've got quite a collection here," sneered the bandit leader, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his machete. "Give us the girl, and we might let you live. Maybe."

I stepped into the clearing, knife at the ready. "So you're just going to have to kill me first," I said, my voice steady despite the surge of adrenaline racing through me.

The leader laughed roughly. "An' that," he said, swinging his machete. I was quicker. I dodged and, in the same motion, lashed at his arm with my knife. He grunted but held tight. We danced around each other warily while the rest of the bandits watched for their opportunity.

The fight was brutal, but the world had made me brutal. I fought like a man possessed, every move calculated, every strike aimed to kill. The leader was the first one to fall, the deepest gash in his throat cutting off his sneering laughter. The others hesitated, but just for a moment, then charged at me. I didn't think; I acted—parrying, slashing, ducking, dodging—the lessons of the apocalypse. The woman watched with horror as I finished off the second and third bandits quickly and efficiently. The last one, eyes wide with terror, debated whether to fight or run. He ran, and I didn't chase him. I had other things on my mind.

I looked down at the woman, who was still trembling. "You okay?" I said, my voice softening. She nodded, eyes wide with shock and something else—maybe admiration. The man, huddled some feet away, finally spoke. "You killed them," he stammered.

"They would have killed us," I replied flatly. "We didn't have a choice." He nodded, but I saw the fear in his eyes—fear of me. I didn't care. I had done what needed to be done. Now we had to keep moving. Survival in this world didn't allow for regrets or second thoughts. The bandits had made their choice, and so had I.

I wiped the blood off my knife onto my sleeve and sheathed it before turning back to the woman and the man. Still in shock, neither showed much desire to bolt. That spoke volumes of their obedience. It was a good omen.

"We still need to move," I told them in an icy voice. "We're a short way from the base, and thus a short way from safety."

Her huge eyes locked on mine. Her dark, tangled hair hung around her face, but in her eyes blazed a fire, a purpose I'd seldom found within the majority of survivors over recent months. She faltered, her mouth falling open as if finally deciding to speak, and I kept silent, giving her the time she needed.

"Thank you," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. I nodded slightly, not fussing over her thanks at all. "And what's your name?" It hit me then that we hadn't exchanged names amidst the chaos.

"Amara," she said, firm now. "And you?"

I didn't see the need to give my real name—the old self was dead a long time ago, after all. "Rex," I said. "And you?" I asked the cowering man.

The man gave me a haunted look—part fearful, part awestruck. "I'm Lucas," he said, his voice shaking. "I just can't believe you saved us like that. I really didn't think we were going to make it."

I took him in from head to toe—he looked weary, like he hadn't eaten a decent meal in weeks. Still, there was something about his eyes—a sadness so profound it stayed with me. "We'll make it if we stick together," I said. "But I need to know something. Lucas, you were part of that base, weren't you? The one we're heading to?"

Lucas tensed, his gaze flicking to Amara before coming back to me. He nodded slowly, his face clouding with guilt. "I was. But I left. I couldn't stay there, not after what they did to her."

Amara's eyes narrowed, her face a scowl. "To who?" she asked, suspicion dripping from her tone.

Lucas swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "My wife and daughters. The people on the base—they took them. They said it was for the greater good that they needed women to repopulate. But I couldn't let them do that. I couldn't protect them." His voice cracked, and he bowed his head, shame etched into his features. Despite everything, I felt a pang of sympathy. I knew how it felt to lose somebody and just how helpless it was when the new world got brutal.

Amara crossed her arms, her face softening, but guarded. "And Sara?" she asked again, curiosity and something else—perhaps jealousy—in her voice. She stared at me, like silent tension hung midair. I shrugged off the distraction, my eyes settling on Lucas.

"She was taken," Lucas whispered. "I do not know what they intend to do with her, but I could not stay to find out. I—I ran. I'm sorry." His voice hung heavy with shame. I saw the inner turmoil in his eyes—the self-hate at running and failing to save his family. Sometimes in this world, running was the only option that remained.

"We're going to get her back," I said certainly. "And if your family's still alive, we'll find them too." Lucas nodded, his eyes welling up. Obviously not a fighter, he was a man who'd lost everything. And I couldn't blame him for wanting to live on, even with the guilt of what he'd left behind.

Amara broke the silence that had fallen between us. Her face was unreadable. "We gotta get moving. We're just targets sitting here." I nodded. The sooner we got to base, the better. But when we started moving again, I felt Amara's gaze on me, like she judged this stupid man who had jeopardized everything for a person whose name he hadn't even bothered to say until now.