The encounter, and the revelation of the gun, had shifted something within our group. The desperate hope of reaching Uncle Pete's
farm now felt less like a distant dream and more like a desperate, tangible mission. We moved with renewed urgency, the horror
of the dead man and the growling infected spurring us forward.
The forest grew denser as we pressed on, the fading light filtering through the leaves creating an oppressive gloom. Every snapping
twig, every rustle in the undergrowth, made us jump. May, surprisingly, was quiet now, clinging to Mom, her earlier curiosity
replaced by a subdued wariness.
We walked for what felt like hours, the only sounds our ragged breathing and the crunch of our boots. The air grew colder, and the
thought of night falling in these woods was a terrifying prospect.
"We need to find somewhere to shelter for the night," Mom suggested, her voice strained. "It'll be too dangerous to keep moving
in the dark."
Just as despair began to settle in, Thomas, who had been scanning the horizon, pointed. "Look! Over there! Is that… a cabin?"
Through the thickening trees, a faint, barely visible outline emerged. It was small, unlit, and looked derelict, but it was shelter. A
fragile glimmer of hope in the encroaching darkness.
The discovery of the cabin was a desperate relief, a tiny beacon of hope in the overwhelming darkness of the forest. With renewed
purpose, we pushed through the last stretch of dense undergrowth, the small structure slowly revealing itself. It was clearly old, its
wooden walls weathered and warped, the windows opaque with grime and time. It looked less like a cozy retreat and more like
something out of a horror movie, but right now, any roof over our heads felt like a palace.
"Looks deserted," Dad muttered, gripping Jonathan's arm as he moved to take the lead, the pistol held ready. "Everyone stay
close. Thomas, Jenna, keep an eye on May. Theresa, right behind me."
The air around the cabin was still and heavy, a silence that felt more unnerving than the earlier howls and snaps of twigs. As we
approached the porch, the floorboards groaned under our feet. The front door hung ajar, revealing a maw of impenetrable darkness
within.
Dad nudged the door open wider with his foot, the creak echoing loudly through the silent woods. A wave of musty, damp air,
tinged with the faint scent of decay, wafted out. Jonathan, ever cautious, had already flicked on the flashlight on his phone, its
beam cutting a shaky swathe through the inky blackness inside.
The single room visible was sparse: a rickety table overturned, two chairs scattered, and dust motes dancing in the weak light.
Cobwebs draped every corner like ancient lace. There were no signs of recent occupation, no fresh tracks, no lingering smells of
human presence – only the undisturbed quiet of a place long abandoned.
"Looks clear," Dad whispered, but his eyes were still scanning every shadow. "Theresa, help me check the back rooms, if there are
any. Kids, stay here, keep the door in sight. Jonathan, keep that light steady."
As Mom and Dad disappeared into the deeper shadows of the cabin, a shiver ran down my spine. The quiet was almost worse than
the noise outside. It felt like the cabin was holding its breath, waiting. May, nestled against me, let out a small whimper.
"It's okay, May," I whispered, tightening my arm around her. "Just an old cabin. We'll be safe here." But even as I said the words, I
wasn't entirely convinced.
The first slivers of dawn were a welcome, if hesitant, guest. They seeped through the grime-streased windows of the cabin,
painting the dust-filled air with a weak, milky light. I woke with a gasp, the phantom growl of the infected woman still echoing in
my ears, my legs aching from the fall. For a split second, I was back in the terrifying chase, but the quiet, musty air of the cabin
pulled me back to the present.
May was still curled tightly against Mom, both asleep, their faces peaceful in the pre-dawn glow – a stark contrast to the previous
night's terror. Jonathan and Thomas were sprawled on the grimy floorboards near the front door, the pistol resting beside Jonathan's
hand. Dad was already stirring, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his gaze immediately going to the door, a silent sentinel
even in slumber.
The cabin was no five-star resort, but it had held. We had survived the night. No crashing through the walls, no guttural screams
from within. Just the unsettling quiet that now seemed to define our world. It wasn't the natural silence of a peaceful forest; it was
an absence, a void where the sounds of civilization, of other human lives, should have been.
We moved slowly, stiff from the cold and the hard floor. Dad checked the perimeter of the cabin through the grimy windows, his
face grim. "No movement out there," he murmured, more to himself than to us. "But that doesn't mean it's clear."
Mom started rummaging through the meager supplies in our backpacks, pulling out a half-empty bottle of water and a crushed
granola bar for May. We ate in silence, the dry food a comfort in its normalcy, yet tasting strangely like ash.
The rising sun, now a more confident presence, streamed through the gaps in the cabin's boards, illuminating the countless dust
motes dancing in the air. It felt like a new day, but it was nothing like the 'spring lights' of November 17th. That day, laughter had
filled the air. Today, it was just the rustle of leaves outside and the quiet thumping of our own fearful hearts.
The question of what to do next hung heavy in the air. Should we press on towards Uncle Pete's farm immediately, or wait, trying
to conserve our limited energy and resources? The safety of the cabin was temporary at best.
The decision to stay at the cabin, to gather our strength and conserve what little we had, felt like the only sensible choice. The horrors
of the previous day had taken their toll, and the thought of immediately venturing back into the unknown was daunting. We
rationed the remaining water and food, cleaning up the cabin as best we could, trying to make it feel less like a forgotten tomb and
more like a temporary sanctuary. Jonathan and Dad took turns standing watch at the door, the pistol now a constant, grim companion.
Thomas, ever resourceful, managed to find a few pieces of dry firewood nearby, enough for a small, smokeless fire later
that night if we risked it. May, surprisingly resilient, played quietly with a loose button she'd found, creating her own small world of
make-believe.
The day passed in an unsettling blend of boredom and hyper-awareness. Every rustle outside, every creak of the old cabin, sent a
jolt of adrenaline through us. We talked in hushed tones, mostly about anything but the current nightmare. Mom reminisced about
her childhood, Dad about fishing trips, anything to distract from the gnawing fear. It was a fragile peace, a thin veneer over the
chaos that now defined our lives.