The morning after the cries faded, the air was too quiet.
Alex sat at the kitchen table with his notebook open, sketching rough plans for barricades and food storage. His parents moved quietly around the house, their voices low, as though raising them might summon danger. But Alex's eyes kept drifting to the south window, toward the Daniels' farm.
Half a mile away, but close enough that on summer afternoons, he could sometimes hear their dog barking. Close enough that he had waved to Mr. Daniels while passing in his van.
Now it was silent.
Alex tapped his pencil against the page. He couldn't shake the thought: What if they need help? What if they left supplies behind?
By noon, he closed the notebook. "I need to check the Daniels' place."
His mother looked up sharply. "No. It's too dangerous. You heard those things last night. You even encountered them in town."
"I know," he said gently. "But we need to know what's out there. If they're alive, we help them. If they're not… maybe we find food, tools or other supplies. We can't just sit here and hope for the better."
Robert studied his son's face for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "He's right, Margaret. We need to know what's around us. We can't stay blind."
She pressed her lips together, then finally sighed. "At least take something better than a bat."
Alex opened the gun cabinet in the living room. Inside was the family's old 12-gauge shotgun, rarely touched except during hunting season. A box of shells sat beside it. He loaded six rounds, slid the rest into his pocket, and slung the weapon over his shoulder.
The weight was unfamiliar but reassuring.
The dirt road to the Daniels' farm stretched empty under a pale sky. Each step crunched on gravel, each breath sounded too loud. Alex carried the shotgun at his side, eyes scanning the fields.
Halfway there, he passed the abandoned pickup he'd seen from the roof. Up close, it was worse. The windshield was spider-webbed with cracks, and the driver's door hung open. Inside, the seat was soaked dark with dried blood. No driver. No keys.
Flies buzzed lazily in the afternoon heat.
Alex tightened his grip on the shotgun and moved on.
Soon the Daniels' property came into view. The white farmhouse sat still, shutters closed. The barn loomed behind it, doors shut. Their truck was in the driveway, door ajar, just like the one in the ditch.
"Hello?" Alex called softly as he neared the porch. "It's Alex Carter. From up the road."
No answer.
He stepped carefully onto the porch. The boards creaked. He tried the front door. Locked. He circled to the back—also locked. Curtains inside were drawn tight.
Then he saw it: a smear of blood along the porch railing, dried dark. His stomach clenched.
He circled toward the barn. A chain was looped around the handles but not locked, just draped loosely. He hesitated, then slowly pulled one door open.
The smell hit him first—coppery, sour. Flies buzzed louder.
Inside, hay bales were scattered, tools abandoned. And in the corner lay a shape.
A body.
Alex's breath caught. He stepped closer, shotgun raised. It was Mr. Daniels. His throat was torn open, his face slack. Dried blood pooled beneath him.
Alex backed away, bile rising. He remembered the cries he'd heard two nights ago. Was it Daniels? Or someone else?
He closed the barn door quietly, as if afraid to wake the dead.
The farmhouse might still hold supplies. He forced himself toward the back door again. This time, he smashed the small windowpane beside the knob with the butt of the shotgun and reached through to unlock it.
Inside, the air was stale, the shades drawn. Furniture was overturned in the living room. A lamp lay shattered on the floor. No voices. No movement.
He moved room to room, clearing each one as carefully as he could. Bedroom: empty. Kitchen: cupboards ransacked but not bare. Pantry: better—cans of beans, corn, powdered milk, bags of flour.
He stuffed what he could into his duffel bag.
Upstairs, he found the teenage boy's room. Posters on the wall, game console still plugged in, clothes scattered. On the bed lay the dog. Alex's chest tightened—the animal was still, body curled, throat torn like its master's.
He whispered an apology and closed the door.
The last room was the master bedroom. The sheets were tangled, the dresser drawers pulled halfway open. But no bodies. Maybe Mrs. Daniels and the boy had fled. Or maybe they hadn't made it back here at all.
Alex grabbed what supplies he could—bandages from the bathroom cabinet, candles from the nightstand, a box of batteries from the desk. He moved quickly, fighting the urge to flee.
Downstairs again, he paused at the kitchen table. A notebook lay open, scrawled in shaky handwriting.
Sept 18. News says stay inside. But Paul's fever is worse. Don't know what to do. God help us.
The last line was smudged, as if written in a hurry.
Alex closed the notebook, throat tight. He shoved it into his bag.
The walk back was heavier, the duffel digging into his shoulder, the shotgun slick with sweat in his hands. Every rustle of grass made him whip his head around.
When his house finally came into view, relief flooded him. His parents were waiting on the porch. His mother rushed down to meet him, eyes scanning the duffel.
"You found things?"
"Yes," Alex said. He dropped the bag onto the table inside, spilling out cans, flour, bandages, candles. "The Daniels are gone. Mr. Daniels is… dead."
His mother covered her mouth. His father bowed his head.
"What about the rest of the family?" Robert asked.
"Didn't see them." Alex hesitated. "Maybe they got out. Maybe not."
Silence hung heavy. They all knew what "maybe not" meant.
Margaret finally whispered, "At least you're safe."
But Alex didn't feel safe. He felt the weight of the notebook in his duffel, of the blood in the barn, of the choices made too late.
That night, after supplies were stowed and windows checked again, Alex sat at the table with his own notebook. He wrote:
Lessons from the Daniels' Farm
Locking doors doesn't stop them.
Illnesses turns fast. Regular families won't know how to handle it.
Supplies abandoned in chaos. Worth the risk—sometimes.
He tapped the pencil, staring at the page. He wasn't just scavenging anymore. He was learning. Cataloging. Preparing.
Through the window slit, he saw the Daniels' farm faintly in the distance. Empty now. Silent.
The world was widening, yes. But it wasn't bigger—it was emptier.
Alex whispered to himself: "We'll take what we can. Learn what we can. Survive what we must."
And the fields swallowed his voice whole.