Chapter Text
The cabin was off the beaten path and clearly past its prime—a perfect spot to lie low should it be unoccupied. She crouched in the bushes and waited for someone to come home. If they were to do so, they’d do it before the sunset.
As the sun slowly settled behind the canopy of trees, turning the forest still save for the gentle sounds of nature, she knew it was her lucky day.
She stood up from her post and quietly—as if not to attract anything that could’ve been wandering deeper in the woods—made her way to the door.
They wouldn’t budge.
She pulled on the knob a bit harder, praying that they simply got stuck, but her apparent luck had run out. Bracing herself, she pushed against the door.
They creaked and that was about all she’d receive for her efforts. She huffed in irritation before stepping back.
She slid the knife out of her backpack and started to sneak around the house, looking for an alternative entry point. She’d lived long enough to know that no place was impenetrable.
Cabins like that usually had structural damage—decades of abandonment leaving their mark. Once you got inside, it was just a matter of killing whatever lurked in the shadows.
She continued rounding the corners, her hands searching for a compromised plank but none came loose. She mumbled under her nose about how it was the only place that seemed relatively safe and, of course, it had to be closed off when she noticed an unplanked window. Dirty, cracked glass filled her with joy unlike anything she’d experienced in the past weeks.
As her eyes fully adjusted to the darkness, she could see that windows on the opposite side of the cabin weren’t planked either, and since someone didn’t finish their job, the possibility was that they left the cabin rather than succumbed to the infection while inside.
She braced herself against the wall and reached for the window—to her surprise, it gave in with a little squeak. She lifted herself with a grunt and slid in softly enough not to attract anything that might have been inside. And then, she lit her lighter to look around.
She was in the kitchen. Or, at the very least, something that used to be one.
The fire was reflecting against counters and utensils scattered around, none of them raising alarm. Survivors didn't need mixing bowls and rusty kettles. She stepped forward, scanning her surroundings—listening to the possible noises from within the house.
She relaxed a bit as she entered the living area. The moon was shining through the unplanked windows and illuminating a small coffee table. Things lying on the surface caught her attention. She hid her lighter and bent over the couch to examine them—a few bandages, some peroxide, and ammo.
Someone was living here.
Fear settled in her gut, cold and heavy, and coming a second too late. She straightened herself in a hurry and her back was struck by something hard.
“Move and that'll be the last thing you do,” a male voice spoke from behind her.
She slowly inhaled. If he was a trapper, she would already be dead.
Another survivor was little consolation though.
“Relax.” She forced herself to be calm. “I didn’t know someone was living here.”
“Tough luck,” the voice replied and she huffed.
She slowly turned around, the rifle now pointing directly at her chest. The man didn’t flinch, his eyes scanning her suspiciously.
He was visibly older than her, his face roughed up by whatever he’d lived through. It must have been a lot.
“Are you just gonna stare at me?” His expression was blank. “I have no time to play. Get out. Now.”
The gun was still pointed at her.
Somehow, she didn’t doubt that he’d drag her out if she didn’t move, but her survival instinct kicked in again and she just had to try bargain with him.
“You must know what happens after twilight. Let me stay the night and I'll go first thing in the morning," she asked calmly while lifting her chin.
His face hardened.
“Ain’t happenin’. Get out.”
She waged her options—she could still attempt to sway him, but the gun pointed at her chest was less than ideal. She raised her hands in defeat.
“I’m leaving. Lower your rifle.”
He looked at her for a few more seconds and slowly did as she asked.
“Thanks,” she said while walking to the kitchen.
She turned the corner without looking at him.
“You can stay this night," he said as she was reaching for the door. "But you leave tomorrow. Either willingly or I'll drag you out.”
She smiled under her nose. He wasn’t a total monster then. Or maybe he was, but he had a moment—not that she’d look a gifted horse in the mouth.
She came back to the living room and settled onto the couch. Her stomach rumbled and, for whatever reason, it made her feel embarrassed. She reached into her backpack quickly and fished an energy bar.
As she was unpacking it, she could see his back, the rifle holstered safely over his shoulder. He didn’t trust her one bit and he was right to do so—the majority of survivors was ruthless, no matter how innocent they seemed.
“I'm gonna cook some meat. Eating those destroys your stomach,” he said without turning around.
She didn’t know whether it was an invitation to eat with him or a lecture. She put the bar down either way. He finally stopped whatever he was doing and marched into the kitchen.
She sank deeper into the couch, her muscles finally relaxing. Past weeks consisted of her sleeping on the ground with one eye open—the squeaky, dusty couch was an upgrade.
“Come on,” he said without looking at her.
And she did.
~
She knew how to hunt.
Her group—when she still had one—never stayed in one place for too long, so it came in handy. Unfortunately, she was terrible at skinning animals, so she opted to scavenge for cans and dry foods instead. Less hassle.
The taste of fresh meat was almost too good to be true though and she devoured it with no care for manners—not that anyone cared about them in these times. The man, however, was slow and gentle while eating. She assumed that he had it often.
“Been living here long?” she asked as she finished chewing a chunk of meat.
He didn’t look up from his meal.
“What is it to you?”
“Nothing, just making a conversation.”
There was a brief moment of silence and then he spoke again.
“Just short of a month.”
She stretched her back and looked around.
“I'm moving North. Want to get to Boston before winter comes," she said.
It wasn’t entirely true. Her original plan was scrapped as the cabin turned out to be inhabited.
“You will die before you make it to Boston. The surrounding area is clear in maybe 4-5 miles radius. Beyond the river, it’s trappers and infected.” For some reason, his no-nonsense attitude annoyed her.
“What makes you think I can’t deal with trappers and infected? I made it this far.”
For the first time, some resemblance of emotion crossed his face. He was either amused or irritated, she couldn’t tell.
“Then the weather will kill you.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but he’d already dismissed her, shifting his gaze from her face and focusing on his meal.
~
They returned to the cabin and as soon as she sat on the couch, she started talking. Her irritation with the man had passed, and whether she liked it or not, she was starved for human connection.
“I never got your name."
“Joel,” he answered as he sat in the armchair standing opposite of the couch.
“Jane,” she introduced herself even though he didn’t ask.
He didn’t acknowledge it either. It was as if he didn’t want to know her. As if she was just a nuance. The harsh truth was that she was—it was a world of strangers you didn't want to share your space with.
Joel eased into his armchair and studied her face carefully.
“How old are you?” His question came as a surprise.
“Mid-20s,” she answered truthfully.
It seemed like their exchange died there, so she lifted herself off the couch and asked:
“Is there some water I can wash my face with?”
He grumped under his breath.
“Bucket by the door. There should be a cloth in one of the drawers.”
She felt relieved. It’s been a few days since she had access to clean water. She stepped into the kitchen and quickly removed her jacket along with a blouse that she had underneath.
She placed the bucket by her legs and wetted the cloth. Then she leaned over the sink and started cleaning her face—it felt good to get rid of all the grime. She wetted it again and slid the cloth down her neck and cleavage.
She could swear she felt his gaze on her back the entire time, but she didn’t turn around to check. It didn't matter anyway. It was his place and it wasn't as if bathrooms worked out in the woods.
When she was finished, she put the blouse back on and came back into the room.
"You can sleep on the couch," he said. "I don't use it."
"Thank you," she said but all she got in return was a dismissive grunt.