Apocalypse Day 16 — Evening — Forest service road outside Tellico Plains, Tennessee
The first thing Ethan learned about Tellico Plains was that it had a voice.
It wasn't the kind you heard with ears—not exactly. It was the way the air changed as they moved, the way the quiet got stretched thin, the way every distant scrape made your skin decide whether to rise or settle.
Behind the gas station, the town was waking up.
Not like people waking up. Like something hungry turning its head toward a sound.
Ethan shoved the zip-tied man forward with one hand and kept the other on the rifle sling across his chest, eyes flicking between the gap of buildings, the far end of the lot, the places someone could appear without warning. The prisoner's face was bloodless now, his eyes wide and glassy with fear—the kind of fear that didn't make a person honest, just desperate.
Grace had Hannah by the elbow, guiding her fast but steady. Grace looked like she was running on stubbornness and fumes: flannel open over her fitted tank, hair still tied up tight, cheeks pale. Every few steps she swallowed like she was trying to keep something down.
Hannah moved like her body couldn't decide whether to bolt or collapse. She kept her cardigan wrapped tight around herself even in the heat, hands shaking at the cuffs. Her eyes darted everywhere—doors, alleys, rooftops—like she expected something to come down from above. The torn hem of her skirt snagged on her knees when she hurried. She looked out of place in a way that made Ethan's brain label her immediately:
Not built for this. Not yet.
Even so, when she stumbled, she caught herself. When a distant grunt echoed down the street, she didn't scream—she clamped her mouth shut so hard her jaw trembled.
That mattered.
They rounded the corner toward the SUV and Ethan's gut tightened.
A figure was sprawled near the dumpster—baseball cap, sleeveless shirt—the crowbar guy. He wasn't out cold anymore. He'd rolled to his side, blinking blearily, one hand clawing at the ground as he tried to push himself up.
His gaze found them.
For a split second, his face showed something like anger—then calculation.
His lips parted.
Ethan felt the moment before it happened, like a pressure change.
He's going to yell.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He stepped in fast, grabbed the man by the collar, and slammed him back against the dumpster hard enough that the metal boomed—one sharp sound that made Ethan's teeth grit.
The crowbar guy sucked in a breath to shout anyway.
Ethan drove the hatchet handle into the side of his throat—not a kill strike, not some movie thing. A brutal, practical blow that shut the airway down for a second and turned the shout into a choking wheeze.
The man's eyes bulged. He clawed at Ethan's wrist.
Ethan leaned in, voice low and flat. "Make noise and you die."
The man's hands fluttered weakly.
Ethan didn't wait for understanding. He shoved him down behind the dumpster, out of sight, and stomped the man's forearm—once—hard enough to break the grip he was trying to form around the dumpster edge. The guy made a strangled sound into the dirt.
It wasn't mercy. It wasn't cruelty.
It was math.
Ethan turned away like he'd just kicked a rock off the trail.
Grace stared at him, horror and comprehension fighting across her face.
Hannah's eyes went even wider, and she pressed her cross to her lips so hard her knuckles went white.
Ethan didn't explain. Explanations wasted time.
"Move," he said.
They reached the SUV. Ethan yanked the rear hatch open and shoved the zip-tied man inside, face-down on the cargo mat. The man thrashed, boots scraping.
"Please—wait—listen—" he wheezed.
Ethan planted a knee lightly on the man's shoulder blades—not crushing, just controlling—and tightened a second length of cord around the man's ankles. Not pretty. Not comfortable. Secure.
Grace helped Hannah into the back seat. Hannah sat stiffly, hands clenched in her lap, cardigan wrapped tight like it could shield her from the world. She smelled faintly like old perfume and fear.
Ethan caught the smallest detail as he slammed the hatch—Hannah's blouse was torn at one shoulder, enough to show pale skin and the strap beneath. She flinched and tugged the fabric up, cheeks flushing with embarrassment even in the middle of a nightmare.
He noticed the shape of her—soft curves under modest clothes, hips that made her skirt hang the way it did—then his mind snapped back to the street. One line of awareness, and then it was gone. Survival didn't leave room for lingering.
Ethan slid into the driver seat. Grace got in beside him, shutting the door quietly. The town's silence pressed against the windows.
From somewhere out front—main street direction—glass shifted, then a dull thump, then that low, wet sound again.
Closer now.
Ethan started the engine.
The SUV caught on the first turn like it wanted to live too.
He pulled out from behind the building and accelerated just enough to be quick without screaming tires. The last thing he wanted was to broadcast their route.
As they passed the gas station's front windows, Ethan saw movement in the dim interior—shadows drifting, slow and blind, drawn toward the place where the noise had happened.
Grace stared straight ahead, breathing shallow through her nose.
Hannah's whisper floated from the back seat. "Are… are they—"
"Don't talk about it," Ethan said. Not harsh, just firm. "Not right now."
The road out of town was littered with abandoned cars like someone had hit pause on an evacuation. Ethan steered around them carefully, refusing to funnel himself into tight gaps. The smoke haze thickened as they climbed out of the little valley, sunlight turning weak and coppery.
When he finally saw trees again—real trees, not storefronts—his shoulders eased a fraction. Not safe. Just… less exposed.
Grace's hand drifted toward her stomach again, fingertips pressing lightly like she was trying to calm something inside her. She caught Ethan looking and forced a small, brittle smile.
"It's just… hunger," she said too quickly.
Ethan didn't answer. He didn't believe her. He also didn't want to speak the thought out loud.
A mile outside town, he took a turn onto a narrower forest service road where the pavement cracked and the grass grew in thin green seams. The SUV bumped and rattled. The world became quieter, but not calmer.
Hannah leaned forward slightly, voice trembling. "Thank you."
Grace turned in her seat, eyes softening despite everything. "We're going to get you somewhere safe."
Hannah's eyes filled again. "I—I was at the church. We were handing out food, and then… people started—" She choked on the words. "My parents said if anything happened, I should go to the church. That God would—"
Her voice broke.
Ethan listened with half an ear while his eyes stayed on the road.
He didn't trust churches. He didn't distrust them either. He distrusted places that drew people.
"Where are your parents?" Grace asked gently.
"North Georgia," Hannah whispered. "Near Dalton. But I couldn't… I couldn't get out. The roads—there were cars everywhere. And then those men found me and said they'd help and they—"
She went quiet, shame burning her cheeks.
Grace's expression tightened—anger, protective and sharp. She reached back and squeezed Hannah's hand. "You don't have to explain. Not now."
Ethan heard the unspoken question in Grace's silence anyway: What are we going to do with her?
His answer was the same one it always was.
We do what we can afford.
A sound came from the cargo area—a muffled grunt and a scrape as the zip-tied man tried to shift.
Grace's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "And him?"
Ethan's gaze stayed forward. "Information first."
Grace's voice dropped. "You're not going to—"
"I'm not going to do anything stupid," Ethan said. That was as close to comfort as he offered.
They drove until the light began to soften toward late day and the shadows between trees grew longer. Ethan watched the road signs—half-visible through grime—and made a choice he didn't love but trusted: higher ground and fewer people.
He turned off onto a gravel spur marked by a battered Forest Service sign. The path narrowed until branches brushed the sides of the SUV. The engine noise felt too loud in the woods.
A small overlook opened up ahead—an old pull-off with a view down into the valley. From there, the smoke smear over Tellico Plains looked even uglier, spread wide like rot.
Ethan parked with the SUV's rear facing the road—easy exit. Habit.
He killed the engine.
For a moment, the silence was so complete it felt like pressure in his ears.
Then, faintly—far below—came a distant chorus of wandering grunts and the occasional sharp crack of something breaking.
The town was alive in the wrong way.
Ethan got out first, scanning the treeline, the ditch, the rocks. He didn't see movement. He didn't trust that. He circled the vehicle once, checking sightlines, then opened the rear hatch.
The zip-tied man blinked up at him, sweat shining on his forehead. "Man, please—listen—"
Ethan dragged him out and sat him on the gravel, back against a stump. He didn't hit him. Didn't threaten with dramatics. He simply made the man feel the weight of being at Ethan's mercy by standing there calmly.
Grace stepped out next, one hand steadying herself on the door frame. She looked like she was about to be sick again, but she forced it down. Hannah climbed out behind her, clutching her cardigan closed, eyes darting to every patch of shadow.
Ethan crouched in front of the prisoner. "Name."
The man licked his lips. "Kyle."
"Last name."
Kyle hesitated.
Ethan's expression didn't change. His plain, average face was blank enough to be unsettling.
"Kyle Mercer," the man blurted.
Ethan nodded once, like he'd expected lies anyway. "How long since it started?"
Kyle swallowed. "Two weeks. Two and—two and change. I don't know. It's—everywhere."
Ethan clocked it. The day count matched their own isolation.
Grace's eyes flicked to Ethan. To Apocalypse Day 16 without anyone needing to say it.
Ethan kept his voice level. "Any broadcasts? Military checkpoints? Safe zones?"
Kyle's laugh cracked halfway through. "Safe zones? Man, there ain't no—there ain't no safe—"
Ethan leaned closer. "Answer."
Kyle's eyes flicked to Grace, to Hannah, like he was trying to appeal to the women. "I heard… I heard Knoxville had something. Or maybe it was—" He shook his head fast. "It's all rumors. Radio went dead. Phones dead. People ran outta gas. Then the sick people started biting and—"
Hannah made a small sound and hugged herself tighter.
Grace's jaw clenched. "What were you doing to her?"
Kyle flinched. "We weren't—she was just—look, we were trying to survive too—"
Ethan didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "What were you doing."
Kyle's eyes darted away. His silence was answer enough.
Grace's face went cold. "You're disgusting."
Kyle's voice turned pleading. "Lady, please, I— I didn't— I didn't hurt her—"
Hannah's whisper cut in, shaking and small. "You held the gun on me."
Kyle's mouth opened, then closed.
Ethan stood up.
Grace's eyes widened. "Ethan—"
Ethan looked at her. The average guy with dirt on his cheek, a flannel hanging open, and tired eyes that had already made decisions today.
"We can't bring him," Ethan said.
Grace swallowed. "We can't just—"
"We can," Ethan said, and his voice didn't carry pride. It carried certainty. "If he gets loose, he hurts us. If we feed him, we lose food. If we sleep, he watches. If we take him to anyone, he lies."
Grace's breathing turned shaky. Her hand drifted to her stomach again. Hannah watched them like a child watching adults argue about whether the house was on fire.
Kyle started shaking his head hard. "No, no, no—man, come on—come on—"
Ethan walked to the rear of the SUV and pulled out a strip of cloth—something they could spare. He didn't enjoy this. He also didn't hesitate.
He knelt and tied the cloth around Kyle's mouth, firm and secure.
Kyle tried to thrash, muffled sounds punching through the gag.
Grace's face twisted. "Ethan…"
Ethan looked at her again. "I'm not killing him."
Grace's eyes searched his, desperate for a better answer.
Ethan gestured toward the treeline and the slope leading down toward a creek line he'd spotted on the map before. "I'm leaving him where he has a chance. Bound. Gagged. Away from town. Away from us."
Grace's voice broke. "That's not a chance."
Ethan didn't lie to her. "It's more than he'd give us."
Grace blinked hard, tears threatening. Then she swallowed them down like she swallowed everything else today. Her faith didn't make her naive. It made her hurt when she chose pragmatism.
Hannah's voice came out barely above a breath. "Please… don't let him come with us."
Grace turned toward her, startled.
Hannah's cheeks were wet again, but her eyes were firm in a frightened way. "He—he scared me. He would've—" She couldn't finish.
Grace's expression softened into something protective. She nodded once. "Okay."
Ethan didn't waste time. He dragged Kyle a short distance into the brush, far enough that the road wouldn't show him, close enough that someone could find him if the world still had decent people in it. He leaned him against a tree, checked the knots one last time, and stepped back.
Kyle's eyes were huge. He shook his head frantically.
Ethan looked down at him with a flat, tired calm. "You live if you keep your head. You die if you make noise."
Kyle's muffled pleading followed Ethan as he walked away.
Ethan returned to the overlook.
Grace was sitting on the SUV's bumper, elbows on her knees, staring down into the valley. Her face looked older in the smoky light. Hannah stood nearby, arms wrapped around herself, trying not to shake.
Ethan glanced at Grace's profile. The way her flannel hung open, the way her tank top clung to her chest from sweat, the way she kept swallowing like her body didn't want to cooperate. He wanted to ask her outright.
Are you pregnant?
He didn't.
Not here. Not now. Not when fear could turn that question into panic.
Instead, he did what he always did.
He made the next move.
"We stay off roads tonight," Ethan said. "We find somewhere we can watch approaches. We keep quiet."
Grace nodded slowly, not looking at him. "Do you think… my mom is alive?"
Ethan's throat tightened. He forced the words out anyway. "I don't know. But we're going to try."
Hannah's voice trembled. "I don't have anyone else."
Grace turned toward her and reached out, hesitated, then gently cupped Hannah's cheek like she was calming a frightened animal. "You do now."
Hannah broke, quietly. She cried without screaming, shoulders shaking, trying to keep it contained like she didn't want to be a burden.
Ethan watched, and something inside him shifted—not warmth, not softness exactly, but the acceptance of a new weight added to his pack.
Another person.
Another risk.
Another responsibility.
He looked out over the valley toward the smoke and listened to the distant, hungry noises drifting up through the trees.
They weren't safe.
But they were together.
And tonight, that would have to be enough.
At the edge of the overlook, as the light started to fade into deeper gold, a sound carried up from the road below—faint at first, then clearer:
An engine.
Not theirs.
Ethan went still.
He raised a hand—silent command—and Grace and Hannah froze with him, eyes wide.
The engine sound grew louder for a moment… then slowed, like whoever was driving had seen something.
Ethan's gaze flicked to the trees. To the road. To the shadows lengthening fast.
In a world like this, an engine could mean help.
Or it could mean the kind of trouble that wore a human face.
Ethan didn't move toward it.
He moved to cover.
Because he didn't help unless he thought he could win.
And right now, he didn't know what he was fighting.