I woke on my second morning in the new world with muscles that ached in unfamiliar places.
Yesterday's training had been intense—hours of weapons practice, the perimeter walk, the encounter with that lone infected I'd managed to avoid. My body, despite being younger and stronger than my old one, was reminding me that knowledge integration didn't replace physical conditioning.
Good morning, Evan, APEX's text appeared as I sat up. How are you feeling?
"Sore," I admitted, rolling my shoulders. "But functional."
Excellent. Today we're exploring the dam. It's critical you understand the power system keeping the lodge operational.
I nodded, swinging my legs out of bed. "And if we run into infected?"
Then you'll handle it. Yesterday you evaded successfully. Today, you might need to engage. Are you ready?
Was I? I'd fired hundreds of rounds at stationary targets. I'd practiced drawing and reloading until my hands moved without thought. But that was different from facing something that wanted to kill me.
"Ready as I'll ever be," I said.
After a quick breakfast of oatmeal and coffee—real coffee, which felt like an impossible luxury—I geared up. Glock on my hip, Ka-Bar strapped to my belt, compound bow across my back with a quiver of arrows. I'd considered bringing the rifle but decided against it. Too cumbersome for what was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance.
Smart choice, APEX said. Mobility over firepower for this mission. The dam is only 400 meters from the lodge—you should be able to retreat quickly if needed.
"That's reassuring," I muttered, checking my gear one last time.
One more thing. Take these.
A drawer in the armory slid open, revealing a pair of binoculars and a small first aid kit.
The binoculars will let you scout from a distance. The first aid kit is self-explanatory. Always be prepared for the worst.
I added both to my pack and headed out into the morning.
The forest was alive with sound—birds calling, leaves rustling in a light breeze, the distant trickle of water. The air was crisp and clean, tasting of pine and earth. It was beautiful in a way that made it easy to forget the danger lurking in the shadows.
Follow the trail southeast, APEX directed, highlighting the path in my vision. Stay alert. The dam area sometimes attracts infected—the sound of running water can mask their presence.
I moved carefully, practicing the techniques from yesterday. Stepping heel-to-toe to minimize noise. Staying aware of my surroundings. Checking sightlines. Every twenty meters, I stopped to listen, letting the forest's natural sounds tell me if anything was wrong.
The forest seemed peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
That's your instincts developing, APEX noted. Trust them. The absence of sound can be as telling as noise.
Ten minutes later, I heard it—the low rumble of water moving through machinery.
The dam emerged from the trees like a relic from another era. It wasn't massive—maybe fifteen meters tall, concrete and steel spanning a narrow gorge. Water flowed over the top in a controlled cascade, and I could see the intake pipes that fed into the turbine house below. Moss and vegetation had begun reclaiming the concrete, but the structure looked solid.
This is a micro-hydroelectric facility, APEX explained as I approached cautiously. Built in the early 2000s to provide power to the ranger station and surrounding area. Output capacity: approximately 50 kilowatts. More than enough for the lodge's needs.
I used the binoculars to scan the area before approaching. The clearing around the dam was empty—no movement, no signs of infected. Just the steady rush of water and the hum of machinery.
Clear for now. But stay vigilant.
I made my way down a steep path to the turbine house—a small concrete building at the base of the dam. The door was unlocked, hinges creaking as I pushed it open. Inside, I found exactly what APEX had described: a turbine connected to a generator, both humming with quiet efficiency. Control panels lined one wall, their indicators showing steady output. Dust covered most surfaces, but the machinery itself was clean and well-maintained.
Someone had been taking care of this place. Recently.
"APEX, when you said the lodge was prepared three months ago..."
I meant the supplies, the greenhouse, the systems. Someone set this up for you. I don't know who.
That was unsettling. But I pushed the thought aside and focused on the task at hand.
The system is automated but requires periodic maintenance, APEX said. Check the intake screens for debris, inspect the turbine bearings, verify the output voltage. I'll guide you through it.
I spent the next forty-five minutes going through the checklist APEX provided. My engineering knowledge made the work straightforward—checking gauges, inspecting connections, clearing minor debris from the intake screens. Everything was in good condition. Whoever had set this up knew what they were doing.
"How long will this keep running?" I asked, wiping oil from my hands with a rag.
Indefinitely, with proper maintenance. The water flow is consistent year-round, fed by snowmelt from the mountains. As long as you keep the intake screens clear and the machinery lubricated every few weeks, you'll have power.
That was something, at least. One less thing to worry about.
I was washing my hands in the stream when APEX's text flashed yellow.
Contact. Multiple targets. 70 meters, northwest. Moving this direction.
I froze, water dripping from my hands. "Infected?"
Analyzing movement patterns... Confirmed. Three infected. Two runners, one stalker. They're moving toward the dam—likely drawn by the water sound.
My heart rate spiked. Three. I'd avoided one yesterday. Three was different.
"Options?"
Evade—move back to the lodge immediately. You have a head start. Engage—eliminate the threats before they get closer. Hide—take cover in the turbine house and wait for them to pass.
I looked around quickly, mind racing. The turbine house had only one exit—the door I'd come through. If they came inside, I'd be trapped. The path back to the lodge was exposed for at least fifty meters—if they spotted me, I'd have to outrun them.
That left engagement.
"If I fight, what are my chances?"
With proper tactics and positioning: 71% survival probability. The stalker is the primary threat—faster, more intelligent, uses cover. Eliminate it first if possible. The runners are straightforward—aggressive but predictable. Use the terrain to your advantage.
71%. Not great odds. But better than being trapped or caught in the open.
I drew the Glock, checked the chamber—loaded—and moved quickly to a position behind a large boulder near the dam's base. Good cover, clear sightlines to the treeline, multiple escape routes if things went wrong. I pulled the bow off my back and set it within reach, along with three arrows.
Good positioning, APEX confirmed. Bow first—silent, won't attract more infected. Switch to the Glock only if necessary. Wait for them to enter the clearing. Engage at 20 meters or less for accuracy.
I nocked an arrow, my hands steadier than I expected. The knowledge integration was working—my body knew what to do even if my mind was screaming.
The infected emerged from the trees.
The first runner was a woman—or had been. The fungal growth covered half her face, grotesque plates of organic matter that pulsed faintly. Her movements were jerky, aggressive. She made a clicking sound as she moved, testing the air.
The second runner followed close behind, a man in the tattered remains of a flannel shirt. His eyes were clouded white, unseeing. His jaw hung at an unnatural angle.
And behind them, moving with predatory grace, was the stalker.
It was faster, more controlled. The fungus hadn't fully consumed its face yet, and its eyes—still partially human—scanned the area with disturbing intelligence. It moved from cover to cover, using trees and rocks to shield itself.
Smart. Dangerous.
Stalker is priority, APEX reminded me. Wait for a clear shot.
They moved into the clearing, drawn by the sound of the water. The runners shambled toward the stream, but the stalker hung back, cautious. Its head swiveled, scanning.
I drew the bowstring back to my anchor point, muscles straining against the seventy-pound draw weight. The stalker paused behind a tree, only partially visible.
Not yet.
It moved again, stepping into the open for just a moment. Fifteen meters away.
Now.
I released.
The arrow flew true, catching the stalker in the chest. It staggered, let out a strangled sound, and dropped to one knee. Not dead, but wounded.
The runners reacted instantly, their clicking intensifying into shrieks as they turned toward my position.
Runner one, 18 meters. Runner two, 20 meters. Engaging.
I dropped the bow and drew the Glock in one smooth motion. The first runner charged, moving faster than I expected. I fired twice—center mass, just like I'd practiced. Both rounds hit, staggering it, but it kept coming.
Head shot. Now.
I adjusted my aim and fired. The runner's head snapped back, and it collapsed mid-stride.
The second runner was closing fast. I fired three times in rapid succession. The first shot went wide—adrenaline making my hands shake despite the training. The second caught it in the shoulder. The third hit center mass.
It stumbled but didn't fall.
Finish it.
I fired again, this time aiming carefully. The round hit its head, and it dropped.
Movement to my left—the stalker, wounded but not dead, was crawling toward me with terrifying determination.
I turned and fired twice. Both shots hit, and the stalker finally went still.
Silence.
I stood there, Glock still raised, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. The three bodies lay motionless in the clearing, fungal growths already beginning to decay in the sunlight.
Threat neutralized, APEX said, its text returning to normal blue-white. Excellent work. Your accuracy under pressure was 69%—within acceptable parameters for your first real engagement.
"Acceptable parameters," I repeated, my voice shaking. "I almost missed. That second runner—"
But you didn't miss the shots that mattered. You assessed, adapted, and executed. That's what survival looks like.
I lowered the Glock, my hands trembling now that the adrenaline was fading. The smell of gunpowder mixed with something else—the sickly sweet stench of the infected. I'd killed them. Three people who'd once had lives, families, dreams.
Now they were just bodies.
Don't think of them as people, APEX said quietly. They stopped being people the moment the infection took hold. What you killed were threats. Nothing more.
I wanted to believe that. I really did.
"We should go," I said, holstering the Glock. "Before more show up."
Agreed. Gunfire carries. Collect your arrow if it's salvageable, then we return to the lodge.
I retrieved the arrow from the stalker's chest—the shaft was intact, though I'd need to clean the broadhead. Then I took one last look at the dam, at the bodies lying in the clearing, and started back up the path.
My legs felt like jelly, and my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
But I'd survived.
I'd faced the infected and lived.
Back at the lodge, I went through the motions mechanically. Cleaned the Glock. Cleaned the arrow. Put everything back in its place. My hands were steady now, but my mind kept replaying the encounter—the stalker's too-human eyes, the runners' shrieks, the moment when I thought I'd missed.
Sit, APEX said. We need to debrief.
I collapsed into one of the chairs by the fireplace, suddenly exhausted.
Your performance was solid, APEX began. But let's analyze what happened. You chose engagement over evasion—why?
"The other options were worse. Running meant being exposed. Hiding meant being trapped."
Correct. You assessed the tactical situation and chose the best option. Your positioning was excellent—good cover, clear sightlines, escape routes. Your execution had flaws, but that's expected for your first real combat.
"The second runner. I almost—"
Almost doesn't matter. You corrected and adapted. That's the skill that keeps you alive. But we'll work on maintaining accuracy under pressure. More training, more repetition.
I nodded, staring at my hands. "They were people, APEX."
They were. And that's going to haunt you sometimes. But you need to separate what they were from what they became. The infection isn't a disease you recover from. It's a death sentence that turns the victim into a weapon. You didn't kill people today, Evan. You defended yourself against something that would have killed you without hesitation.
"Doesn't make it easier."
No. It doesn't. But it's the truth.
We sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the fire I'd started.
"What now?" I asked finally.
Now you rest. Process what happened. Tomorrow, we continue training. You've proven you can survive an encounter. Next, we make sure you can do it consistently.
"And then?"
Then, when you're ready, we start thinking about Jackson. About Joel. About what you want to do with the nine months you have.
Nine months. It seemed like forever and no time at all.
"APEX," I said. "Today... thank you. For the guidance. I don't think I would have made it without you."
You would have. You're more capable than you think. But you're welcome. We're partners in this, Evan. I'm here to help you survive. And maybe, if we're lucky, to do more than just survive.
I managed a tired smile. "One day at a time."
One day at a time.
I headed upstairs as the sun began to set, my body aching and my mind exhausted. Through the window, I could see the forest darkening, shadows lengthening between the trees.
Tomorrow, I'd train more. I'd get better. I'd prepare.
But tonight, I just needed to sleep.
And try not to dream about the stalker's eyes.