Dawn bled weak light over the farmlands. John trudged along the cracked road, boots heavy, revolver low. The fire from the silo had died out behind him, but the smoke trail still smudged the sky like an accusation.
He hadn't slept. Couldn't. Every shadow in the corn felt like crimson skin waiting to burst out. The Ferals hadn't followed, but their screeches were still in his head.
Up ahead: an old gas station. Its windows smashed, pumps gutted. A relic in the graveyard of the world.
John pushed through the glass door, revolver raised. Shelves were overturned, counters ransacked. Nothing moved. He picked through what scraps were left—half a lighter, some water in a filthy jug, a box of nails. He pocketed what he could.
Then he froze.
In the back corner, crouched in the shadows, something shifted. Not a Shambler—the movement was too steady. Not a Feral—too calm.
The figure rose slowly. Skin peeling off in ribbons, bones jutting like scaffolding. Its chest still rose and fell with breath. Its eyes—black pits with faint glimmers inside—locked onto John's.
A Ghoul.
It didn't screech. Didn't lunge. Just stood there, swaying slightly, watching. Its lips twitched like it wanted to form words, but nothing came. Only a rasp, wet and broken.
John aimed the revolver square at its skull. His finger hovered on the trigger.
The Ghoul tilted its head. Recognition flickered in its hollow gaze. Like it knew him.
John's grip tightened. Sweat slid down his temple. "You gonna move?" he muttered, voice low, gravelly.
The Ghoul stepped forward—slow, cautious. Its hands lifted, open. Not an attack. Not yet.
For a moment, the silence pressed in. Just a man and something that used to be a man, staring each other down.
John lowered the revolver an inch. Not mercy—just confusion. The Ghoul's jaw trembled. A noise slipped out, half-growl, half-breath. Then it turned, staggered toward the smashed door, and limped into the daylight.
Gone.
John exhaled, holstered the revolver. He sat against the counter, lit a cigarette with shaking hands. The journal came out. He wrote with slow, jagged strokes:
Saw one today. Not a Shambler. Not a Feral. Something else. It looked at me like it knew. Like it remembered. God help us if that's true.
He shut the book hard, stuffed it away, and walked out.
The smoke from his cigarette curled up into the gray sky. The question lingered, heavy as lead:
Was that thing more human than him?