"I suppose this is it then..." Jackson muttered to himself, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. His eyes scanned the two houses as the cars parked into their respective driveways.

For a moment, if he ignored the smeared blood on the road, the dark stains splattered along the sidewalks, it almost seemed… normal. A peaceful suburban street. Just a couple of families arriving home after a long trip.

But Jackson knew better.

The world had changed, and there was no such thing as normal anymore. The only thing that mattered now was survival.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

At least the street was quiet. No shambling corpses lurking around, no distant moans or shuffling feet. That had been the hope—small towns meant fewer people, which in turn meant fewer dead.

For now.

"Are we going to help them?" Tyler's voice piped up from the passenger seat, his small hands gripping the edge of his seat as he peered out the window. His wide, expectant eyes flickered toward the other cars, eager to get out, to be a part of something.

Jackson glanced at him before turning his attention back to the houses.

"No. Not sure it’s our business what they take," he answered flatly. "Wouldn’t do much to help, anyway."

Tyler frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. "But—"

Jackson reached over and ruffled his son's hair, a little too roughly, making Tyler scrunch his nose in protest.

"Don’t pout," Jackson added with a smirk. "We’re all tired, kid. They’ve got it covered."

Tyler huffed, crossing his arms as he slumped against the seat. "Fine…" he mumbled, though his expression made it clear he wasn’t happy with the answer.

Jackson ignored his son’s sulking, his focus locked onto the front door of Timothy’s house. He had a strange feeling in his gut. Something was nagging at him, a sensation he couldn’t quite place.

Instinct.

Something wasn’t right.

And if there was one thing he had learned in his life, it was to always trust his instincts.

---

Timothy walked through his house with deliberate caution, his body tense with every creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. His mind played tricks on him, filling the dark corners with the image of the dead lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The sudden sound of the door shutting behind him made him jump, his pulse hammering in his ears.

It was irrational, he knew. But part of him couldn’t shake the thought of something reaching for his ankles the moment he stepped into his bedroom.

Allison’s voice cut through the thick silence, her words sharp and focused.

"Angela, Ben, go to your room and pack everything you need into one big bag. Just the essentials," she instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Ben, blinking sleepily, nodded in understanding. Without hesitation, he opened the door to his bedroom, the first one in the long hallway. His room had always been his safe space, but now it felt foreign—cold and unfamiliar.

Angela, on the other hand, wasn’t as quick to comply. She scowled, arms crossed tightly against her chest, her frustration bubbling over.

"But Mom! I have way too many clothes, my makeup, my skincare, my hair tools—I can’t fit all of that into one bag!" she protested, her voice laced with disbelief.

Allison turned to her daughter, her expression unwavering.

"Angela," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "None of that matters right now. Just pack enough clothes for a week. We’ll find more supplies once we’re settled somewhere safe."

Angela opened her mouth to argue but hesitated at the serious look in her mother’s eyes. She wasn’t used to this version of her mom—this no-nonsense, survival-focused woman.

Timothy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to keep the situation calm.

"Listen, sweetheart," he said, stepping in gently. "I know this is hard. But we don’t have time to take everything with us. We need to be able to move fast if we have to."

Angela’s lips pressed into a thin line, her frustration still evident, but she huffed and turned on her heel, storming toward her bedroom.

"Fine," she muttered under her breath, her tone filled with irritation.

Timothy let out a quiet breath of relief before glancing over at his wife.

"She’s gonna hate us for this," he muttered.

Allison gave him a small, tired smile. "She can hate us all she wants. As long as she’s alive to do it, I don’t care."

Timothy chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Fair point."

With that, they both turned toward their own bedroom, ready to start packing what little they could take with them.

---

"Angela?" Ben asked his sister, his voice soft as he idly fiddled with a toy car, rolling it back and forth between his fingers.

Angela barely looked up, sitting cross-legged on the floor, folding some of her clothes into a small pile. She felt exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally.

"Yeah, Ben?" she answered, expecting some childish complaint, but when she turned her head, she caught the troubled look in his eyes.

Ben hesitated, pushing the toy car away before finally speaking. "Do you think... Do you think life will be normal again? Do you think I’ll ever go back to school like the other kids?"

Angela’s hands froze mid-fold. The question struck her in a way she hadn't expected. She could still hear the faint conversations their parents used to have, debating whether to send Ben to private school or keep him homeschooled. None of that mattered now. The world they knew was gone.

She swallowed, choosing her words carefully. "No, Ben... I don’t think things will ever be normal again."

Ben looked at her, his face falling slightly. "Oh..."

Angela winced, hating how blunt she sounded. But she wouldn’t lie to him. She refused to fill his head with false hope.

"But," she continued quickly, "we’re going to have to be strong. You and me. We don’t have a choice. We’ll figure things out—together."

Ben frowned, staring down at his hands before nodding. "Even stronger than Mom?"

Angela let out a small breath, thinking about their mother’s past—the struggles she overcame, the way she had always tried to protect them. Their family had been stable, safe. Now, all of that was gone.

"Yeah, Ben," she said, giving him the most reassuring smile she could muster. "Even stronger than Mom."

Ben let that sit for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "Can you help me be strong, Angela?" His voice was so small, but the weight of his words made her chest tighten.

She blinked a few times, caught off guard by how serious he was. Could she even be strong herself? Could she promise him something she wasn’t sure she could deliver?

But as she looked into his hopeful, trusting eyes, she realized there was only one answer she could give.

Angela nodded firmly. "Yes, Ben. We’ll be strong together."

Before she could say anything else, Ben threw his arms around her, hugging her tightly. She was startled at first but quickly wrapped her arms around him, squeezing just as tightly.

They held on for a long time—longer than they had in months. Neither of them spoke, because for the first time in a while, words weren’t needed.

They just held on.

---

"Do you ever think of him?" Timothy asked suddenly, breaking the long silence that had settled over the room. The only other sound was the zipping and unzipping of their bags as they packed.

Allison paused, her hands hovering over the clothes she was folding. She turned her head slightly, her brow furrowing as she looked at him. "Think of who?" she asked, her voice laced with confusion.

Was he talking about an old ex? That wouldn’t make sense—Timothy had always known she’d only dated one guy before him. Or maybe it was Richard he was hinting at. They had been talking a lot lately, but that was only because Richard was practical and had good ideas.

Timothy let out a rough sigh, running a hand over his short hair. "You know who," he muttered, his tone heavy.

The moment the words left his mouth, Allison's expression darkened. Her fingers clenched around the fabric in her hands, and she let out a quiet breath. "Gabe…" she murmured, the name alone making her throat tighten. Her voice was flatter now, her usual warmth replaced with something distant. "I mean… he was my baby brother. Of course, I think of him. It hurt… but I still love him."

Timothy nodded slowly, regret flashing in his eyes. He hadn’t meant to dampen the mood, especially not now. But it was something he thought about from time to time—how she had someone in her family she’d been close to. Someone she would never see again.

"I wish I had known my siblings like that," he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter. He wasn’t trying to make this about himself, but he wanted her to know he understood loss in his own way. "When my parents split, I got stuck with my mom. My dad… well, I barely saw him after that."

Allison softened slightly, tilting her head. "Did you ever try to reach out?" she asked, genuinely curious.

Timothy gave a dry chuckle. "I thought about it, but my mom made it sound like it wasn’t worth it. And my dad? He moved on real quick. Got remarried to some woman who didn’t want kids. Guess I was an inconvenience."

A heavy silence lingered between them. Allison knew Timothy didn’t talk much about his past, and when he did, it usually meant it was weighing on him.

"But you had your stepdad, right?" she pointed out, hoping to lighten the weight in the air.

"Yeah, and he was a good guy. But it’s not the same, you know?" Timothy shrugged, glancing down at his hands. "No siblings, no real connection with my dad… Most of my time was spent alone, except when I had friends over. Or when I was chasing after the woman of my dreams."

Allison’s lips twitched into a small smile despite herself. "Oh? And who might that have been?"

Timothy smirked, leaning back slightly. "Some girl named Angela Alvarez," he teased before shaking his head. "Who, as it turns out, became Angela Jones."

Allison rolled her eyes but chuckled softly. "Yeah, yeah… lucky me," she said, nudging his arm playfully before turning back to her packing.

For a moment, the tension eased. But even as they joked, the unspoken reality hung between them—Gabe was gone. And Timothy’s family had never truly been whole to begin with.

---

"Jordan! No!" Andrew’s voice rang through the house as he stepped out of the room, his eyes narrowing at the sight before him.

Jordan was struggling to shove his bulky Xbox Series X into his backpack, the massive console taking up almost the entire space. Not a single piece of clothing had been packed yet.

"What?! You won't let me bring my Xbox? What am I going to do out there?" Jordan whined, his face twisting into an exaggerated pout.

Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose, already exasperated. He knew his son was addicted to that damn console, but he had hoped—naively, perhaps—that Jordan would take this situation a little more seriously.

"You’re going to learn how to survive in the actual world," Andrew said firmly, his voice laced with frustration. He barely paused before continuing, cutting off Jordan before he could interject. "Besides, we won’t have electricity anyway."

He smirked a little as he said it, inwardly relieved. Maybe, just maybe, all of this madness would force his son to break free from that screen for once. Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

"But Dad!" Jordan groaned dramatically, clutching his controller like it was some kind of sacred artifact. "Killing zombies teaches me how to kill them in the real world!"

To emphasize his point, he began pressing imaginary buttons, pretending to aim and shoot at invisible enemies.

Andrew let out a deep, exhausted sigh, rubbing his temple.

"Yeah... There’s a big difference between holding a controller and holding a real gun," he muttered, an involuntary shiver creeping down his spine.

Jordan stared at his father for a moment before shaking his head, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

"Oh yeah? And what do you know about holding a real gun?" he asked, his tone dripping with mockery as he rolled his eyes.

Andrew’s breath hitched slightly, memories from his childhood flashing through his mind like a bad dream.

The kids he had hung out with back in school. The ones who had tried to drag him into gang violence. Teaching him how to hold a gun, how to aim, how to pull the trigger.

He had escaped that life. Barely. And now, with the world crumbling around them, the thought of Jordan ever having to pick up a weapon—especially against something that used to be human—made his stomach churn.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to push those thoughts away. His son would never know that part of his past.

Not if he could help it.

"More than you could imagine, son," Andrew muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder. His voice carried an edge of exhaustion, maybe even frustration, as he squinted at his son. As always, Jordan had made no real progress, just standing around, wasting time.

Jordan frowned, shifting uncomfortably under his father’s gaze. "What’s that supposed to mean?" he asked, crossing his arms.

Andrew let out a tired sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It means, Jordan, that while you’re sitting here doing nothing, the rest of us are making sure we don’t starve to death," he said, his patience wearing thin.

Jordan opened his mouth, ready to fire back a snarky remark, but before he could, his mother’s sharp voice cut through the room.

"Jordan! Come on! Stop messing around! We don’t have time! Help me get your clothes into your bag!" Julie snapped from the other room, her tone laced with irritation.

Andrew winced, his jaw tightening. "Jesus, Julie, keep your voice down," he muttered under his breath, half expecting a horde of the dead to come crashing through the windows any second now.

But the house remained eerily silent.

Jordan rolled his eyes, groaning loudly. "Alright! Fine, Mom! I'm coming!" he huffed, dragging his feet as he made his way toward her.

Julie didn’t respond, but the sound of hurried packing filled the room as Jordan finally got to work.

Andrew watched his son leave before turning his attention back to the cabinets. He pulled them open one by one, searching for anything edible. His fingers grazed over dust-covered cans, checking labels, tossing aside anything questionable. "Gotta make sure we have enough," he murmured to himself.

He knew they had supplies, but was it enough? Would it ever be enough?

His stomach twisted at the thought.

They had to keep moving.

---

Jackson groaned, rubbing his stomach again. "God... When are they gonna be done? I'm starving," he muttered, his voice tinged with irritation.

Tyler, sitting beside him, glanced up with a small frown. His father seemed different now—more impatient, more restless. Wanting to help, he reached into the small pack of supplies they had and pulled out a pack of Lance peanut butter crackers. With a hopeful smile, he extended them toward Jackson.

"There's crackers right here," he offered cheerfully.

Jackson barely glanced at them before scowling. "Yuck! No!" he snapped, swatting the packet from Tyler’s hand.

The crackers hit the floor with a soft thud. Tyler flinched, eyes wide with shock. He hadn’t expected that reaction at all. His father had been stern before, but this... this was something else. It reminded him of the way his mom talked about people having "bad days" when they weren’t feeling right.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Dad..." Tyler mumbled, staring at the floor, his voice small and shaken.

Jackson blinked, as if coming out of a trance. His son’s frightened expression hit him harder than he expected. Guilt twisted in his gut, worse than the hunger gnawing at him. He exhaled, rubbing his forehead.

"No... I’m sorry," Jackson muttered, shaking his head. "I don’t know what’s gotten into me."

His hands trembled slightly, but he balled them into fists to steady himself. He needed to keep it together—for his son, for their survival. Whatever this short temper was, whatever this unsettling feeling creeping into him, he had to shake it off.

Tyler hesitated before speaking again, his voice careful, like he didn’t want to upset his father any further. "It's okay, Dad... My mom says mental issues run in our genes."

Jackson let out a short breath, somewhere between a scoff and a dry laugh. "Yeah? That so?"

Tyler nodded, still unsure if his dad was mad or just tired.

Jackson sighed, leaning back in his seat. He didn't think he had mental issues—at least, none that he was aware of. But something about this world, about everything they’d been through, was starting to eat away at him. He just hoped it wasn’t something that would make him lose himself entirely.

The father and son sat inside the truck for a long time, the silence stretching between them like an invisible thread. Eventually, Tyler dozed off, his exhaustion finally catching up to him. The past few nights had been restless, and now, with his head tilted against the seat, his breathing slow and steady, he was finally getting some real sleep.

Jackson, however, was wide awake. His fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel, his leg bouncing anxiously. He felt... off. Something about sitting here didn’t feel right. It was too still. Too easy. The warmth inside the truck, the way his body naturally wanted to sink into the seat and just stay—stay forever—was dangerous. A trap.

He shook his head, licked his lips, and forced himself to keep his focus. His eyes drifted toward Timothy’s house. His jaw clenched.

What if he went inside?

What if he tore those weak little children apart?

The thought crept in so suddenly, so effortlessly, it sent a shiver down his spine. It would be easy—so damn easy.

His stomach twisted violently. What the hell was he thinking?!

Jackson shut his eyes, taking in a slow, deep breath, trying to purge the disgusting thought from his mind. Get it together. Get it the fuck together. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to focus on anything else.

But then... that feeling crept in.

It was subtle at first, like a tickle against the back of his neck. Then it grew. A slow, crawling sensation that slithered its way up his spine.

Something was watching him.

The realization struck him like ice water dumped over his head. His breath hitched as his grip on the machete tightened.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Just paranoia.

Then, his body tensed. No.

This wasn’t just in his head.

His eyes snapped open, scanning the darkness outside the truck, his pulse hammering against his ribs. He could feel it. Something beyond the trees, beyond the abandoned homes, beyond the void of the night.

"Come on!" he barked, his voice low and sharp. "Show yourself, motherfucker!"

His hand wrapped around the machete he’d grabbed from the tool shop earlier. He held it firm, ready. His knuckles whitened as he raised it slightly, prepared for anything.

His gaze flicked to Tyler, watching his son’s sleeping face, making sure he hadn’t stirred. The last thing he needed was for Tyler to wake up to this.

Slowly, cautiously, Jackson turned back to the window.

Nothing.

Not a damn thing moved in the darkness.

Jackson was just about to let himself relax, to convince himself that nothing was out there, that he was just losing his mind—when he saw it.

Further down the road.

His breath caught in his throat. His fingers went numb around the steering wheel.

One of the dead.

It stood motionless at the very end of the street, nothing but a dark silhouette against the dim glow of the moon. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have been a problem—not if he stayed quiet, not if he didn’t move. But something was wrong.

This one wasn’t just wandering.

It was staring.

Jackson couldn’t see its eyes from this distance, but he felt them locked onto him. A sick, unnatural awareness clung to its posture. It wasn’t just standing there—it was focused.

A chill ripped through his body, his breath quickening.

And then…

A voice.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It was inside his head, deep and slithering, curling around his skull like thick smoke.

Jackson clenched his jaw, pressing his fists against his temples, trying to block it out. Get out of my head. Get out of my fucking head.

His pulse thundered in his ears, panic mounting like a rising flood.

“Fuck! Fuck! I can’t take this!” he exploded, his voice shaking with desperation. His hands flew to the ignition, fumbling as he twisted the key. The engine roared to life, loud and sudden.

The noise snapped Tyler awake.

The boy jolted upright, eyes wild with panic, his breath coming fast as he turned toward his father.

“What?! What’s going on?! Are you okay, Dad?!” Tyler’s voice was frantic, his gaze darting around the truck as if expecting to see something clawing at his father, something already inside, teeth bared and waiting.

But there was nothing.

Jackson didn’t even look at him. He was shaking, his foot pressing down on the gas, ready to peel out of the driveway without a second thought.

“They’re everywhere! They know we’re here! We have to go!” Jackson’s words came out in a breathless, frantic rush, his fingers gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. His entire body screamed flight.

Tyler’s stomach twisted. His father wasn’t thinking—he was breaking down.

He barely had time to react before the truck lurched forward, the tires grinding against the pavement.

“Dad! Stop!” Tyler yelled, his hands flying out as he reached for him. “What are you doing?! We have to wait for the others!”

But Jackson wasn’t listening.

It was as if he couldn’t hear him at all.

Tyler swung at Jackson’s arm, his fist landing hard against the muscle. The sharp jolt of pain snapped Jackson back into reality, the shock of it anchoring him, reminding him that he was human—not some caged animal, not some paranoid husk of a man losing himself to the fear.

Jackson recoiled, his head snapping toward Tyler, bloodied spit flying from his mouth as he snarled, "What?! Damn it!"

But Tyler didn’t flinch. Didn’t cower. He stood his ground.

“We are waiting for the others!” Tyler barked, his voice firm, unwavering.

Before Jackson could react, Tyler reached over and yanked the gear shift into park, his other hand slamming down on the emergency brake.

Jackson’s breath hitched, his hands still tight on the wheel. He could see the determination in his son’s eyes, the fire burning there. His mother must have taught him something about handling a truck. The realization made Jackson pause. He let out a slow breath, his muscles unwinding just slightly.

Tyler relaxed, too, but his gaze stayed locked on his father, watching, making sure he wouldn’t try anything else.

Jackson finally relented, exhaling shakily. “Okay... okay... fine...” His voice was lower now, the adrenaline still rattling inside of him, but he wasn’t fighting anymore.

His gaze flickered back toward the far end of the road, to where the dead had been standing, that unnatural awareness lingering in its stance.

But it was gone.

His stomach clenched. Shit.

That was all he could say. That was all he could think. It had been there. It had been staring at him.

And now... it wasn’t.

Tyler followed his father’s gaze, frowning when he saw nothing but empty street. “What is it, Dad? Is something wrong?” His voice wavered slightly.

Jackson’s fingers twitched. He kept staring outside, his breath uneven. Then, slowly, he turned back toward his son, eyes wide, unsettled. He shook his head.

“No... It’s nothing... I just don’t like it here... Let’s get the others.”

Without another word, he rolled the window down, the cool night air rushing in. He scanned the area, ensuring nothing lurked too close before cupping his hands and yelling at the top of his lungs.

Tyler nodded quickly. “Okay... That sounds like a good plan to me... I like that plan...” His voice was tense, but he forced a smirk, trying to ease some of the tension.

But deep down, something twisted inside of him.

He had a bad feeling.

Something was wrong.

Even though logic told him it was unlikely, a sick voice in the back of his mind whispered:

What if something already happened to them?

"TIMOTHY! ANDREW! YOU MIGHT WANT TO GET OUT OF THERE! NOW!" Jackson’s voice boomed across the quiet street, sharp and urgent. His own words sounded strange to him—why the hell was he telling them to leave? The house was probably the safest place they could be right now. Wasn’t it?

He gritted his teeth, waiting for a response, his fingers tapping anxiously against the steering wheel.

The front door SLAMMED OPEN so hard it nearly broke off the hinges. Andrew burst out first, eyes wide, scanning the area like a man expecting the worst.

"WE’RE COMING! WHAT’S GOING ON?!" His voice was frantic, his grip tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder.

"THE DEAD... THEY’RE CLOSE BY..." Jackson’s breath hitched as he forced himself to stay calm. Or were they? He looked around again, but the street was eerily silent. No moaning. No shuffling. No signs of the dead creeping toward them.

Andrew frowned, catching Jackson’s unease. "WHERE? I DON’T SEE ANY—"

CRASH!

A loud, gut-wrenching SHATTER of glass made them all whip their heads toward the sound.

The bathroom window of the house across the street had just EXPLODED OUTWARD.

Something MOVED inside.

Then—SHE appeared.

An OLDER WOMAN, her frail, bloody hands clawing at the frame, shoving her broken fingers through the glass. She was trying to climb out. But the window was TOO SMALL. Her withered, decaying body wriggled, shards of glass slicing into her flesh.

Julie gasped, her voice barely above a whisper. "OH, MRS. ADLER..."

She shivered violently, staring at the woman—OR WHAT WAS LEFT OF HER. She remembered the way she used to talk to her on her porch, how she always had a kind smile, how she used to bake too many cookies and bring them over.

Now, she was nothing but a MONSTER.

Andrew’s face darkened. He GRABBED Julie’s wrist, yanking her toward the car. "MRS. ADLER IS DEAD. AND WE WILL BE TOO IF WE DON’T HURRY THE HELL UP."

Julie swallowed hard, eyes flickering between the older woman and her husband. But she DIDN’T ARGUE. She just nodded quickly, pulling Jordan with her.

Jordan, however, didn’t move right away. His stomach twisted as he stared at Mrs. Adler’s struggling body.

He had MESSED WITH HER so many times—left trash on her porch, let his dog piss on her fence, played loud music late into the night just to piss her off.

And now?

Now she was BARELY HUMAN.

A lump formed in his throat. His fingers twitched.

"GOODBYE, MRS. ADLER..." His voice was quiet, barely audible.

Then he climbed into the car without another word.

From across the lot, Richard SLAMMED his hands against the hood of his car. "COME ON! STOP SCREWING AROUND AND HURRY UP!"

"WE’RE MOVING, SHUT UP!" Andrew snapped back, throwing open the driver’s side door.

The others rushed to their vehicles—Timothy, Allison, Angela, and Ben moved fast, ignoring Richard’s barking orders as they climbed inside.

Jackson sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel, staring at the MAP on the dashboard. His fingers traced over the creased paper, his mind already racing.

"ALRIGHT... I GUESS THIS IS IT NOW..." His voice was quiet but firm, carrying through the open windows. "TIME TO START THE LONG TREK."

Tyler glanced at him, sensing the hesitation. "YOU THINK WE’LL FIND IT?"

Jackson inhaled deeply, his gaze flickering toward the empty road ahead.

"WE HAVE TO."

---

"Looks like we are pulling up on Raleigh in about a mile..." Richard said in a calm and relaxed voice, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. The thought of returning home, even if it wasn’t quite the same, filled him with something close to comfort.

Though he hadn't lived in his original home for nearly thirty years, there was still a sense of familiarity in being near his hometown.

He could already see the tips of the buildings breaching the horizon, standing tall against the dim sky.

But then—something felt off.

Richard’s fingers instinctively tightened around the steering wheel, his foot easing off the gas. His smile faded as his eyes narrowed. His gut twisted.

Something was wrong.

His hand hovered over the gear shift as he slowed the car down. The truck and the SUV behind him followed suit, their headlights bouncing against the worn asphalt.

Angela leaned forward, her expression shifting to concern. "What? What is it?" She pushed herself closer to the front seat, straining to see ahead.

Her mother quickly threw an arm out, blocking her from moving further. "Angela, sit back." 

Angela shot her an irritated look but didn't push against her mother's firm hold.

Richard’s breath hitched, his eyes locked onto the scene before them.

"The... the city..." His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Then, as they crossed over the final rise, the full horror of downtown Raleigh came into view.

The skyline was unrecognizable. Blackened ruins jutted into the sky like skeletal remains. Some of the once-proud towers had collapsed entirely—others stood half-destroyed, twisted metal and broken concrete reaching out like jagged teeth. Fires had long since died out, leaving behind nothing but charred husks of buildings and a thick haze of dust that clung to the air.

The city was gone.

An eerie silence fell over the group. No one spoke. No one breathed. The weight of the devastation settled over them like a suffocating fog.

Then, finally, Timothy broke the silence.

"Holy shit..." His voice was barely more than a breath. Then, stronger, filled with disbelief: 

"They nuked it..."