The screams came first.
Dylan stood frozen, helpless to do anything but watch as the undead ripped Clyne's chest open, bone snapping, flesh tearing. His brother's eyes met his, screaming.
"NO!" he screamed.
The dream changed. His dad was now on the ground, a machete falling from his grip as a horde of shriekers pulled him down. Dylan attempted to flee, but his legs wouldn't budge.
"Dad!" the word tore from his throat as he reached for him.
He dropped to his knees, the guilt suffocating him. He should have protected them. He had failed them all.
Then—
He collapsed. As if the earth collapsed beneath him, his heart pounding against his chest.
Then he jolted awake—panting, wide-eyed.
The dock beneath him groaned, waves lapped softly against the wooden pilings, teasing the tempest within him.
He slowly stood, hands shaking, forcing a sharp breath as he tried to shake the nightmare loose.
He bent and picked up his tomahawk, its blade still dirty from the hunt earlier. Then the sack, a scuffed canvas bag with a few dented cans and three fish he caught earlier.
At the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement—a shadow. His body tightened reflexively, but he scolded himself and shook his head. The apocalypse tended to get inside one's head, so that one began to see threats in every shadow.
The dock groaned softly behind him, and before he could move, a figure launched at him, his movements fast and predatory. Dylan spun about, his hand snapping toward his tomahawk, but the stranger kicked it, sending it flying from reach. The fight erupted in a blur of fists and bone-jarring impacts. The stranger moved with deliberate force; Dylan answered with sheer will.
They struggled, Dylan's knuckles landed against the man's jaw, sending him reeling backward, but the stranger regained his footing in a hurry, his eyes blazing with greed. He coveted the food Dylan had gone to such trouble to gather, and he was ready to kill for it.
Dylan was able to grab a throwing knife from his pocket and hold it tightly in his hand as the man withdrew a dagger and a small knife from his back pocket. The man attacked, his dagger slicing through the air, but Dylan dodged to the side, thrusting the knife into the man's neck with one quick strike.
The man choked, his eyes wide in shock as blood poured from the wound. He staggered, his movements weakening, until he fell onto the dock, dead. Dylan took a step back, his side on fire with pain where the small knife had struck home. His vision dimmed, the world spinning around him as he slipped and fell into the water below.
The cold ocean was both shock and relief as he fought to stay awake, his body dragging him under.
As the darkness closed in on him, a flash of movement caught his waning eye. A form, shapeless and vague, moved toward him with speed and agility that seemed bordering on unnatural. His mind scrabbled for an explanation. None held.
The figure reached him, firm hands clasping his arms and drawing him in. There was an odd warmth in the touch. Dylan's awareness faded further, the world around him blurring into nothingness.
When he opened his eyes, he was on the shore. Waves murmured nearby, the salty taste of the sea still clinging to his lips. He blinked, disoriented. A few meters away, the dock stood quiet, and beyond it lay the body of the man who had attacked him, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath it.
Dylan's hand went to his side as he scanned the beach for the figure that had dragged him from the water. There was nothing.
He tore a strip from his shirt and bound it tightly around his waist, gritting his teeth as pain flared. When he was done, he slumped back against the sand, staring up at the sky.
How did he end up here—on the beach, still breathing?
Summoning his strength, Dylan pushed himself upright, swaying as dizziness washed over him. He clamped a hand over the makeshift bandage, teeth gritting as pain flared.
Then—a splash cut through the stillness.
His eyes snapped open. He scanned the beach, then the dock—where the man's body had been.
It was gone.
The pool of blood still stained the planks, dark and drying, a grotesque reminder of the struggle. But the corpse had vanished.
Dylan dragged himself to the dock and bent to retrieve his tomahawk, his hands shaking as he closed his fingers around the grip. He reclaimed the sack the man had tried to steal, then straightened slowly, forcing himself to look around.
Nothing.
No body. No movement. Only the wind off the sea and the endless water beyond.
He was alone.
Then a ripple disturbed the water.
Dylan's senses prickled, adrenaline cutting through the haze of pain and fatigue. He squinted, shaking his head, blaming the movement on dizziness—
A head broke the surface a few feet away.
He reacted on instinct. Muscles screamed as he raised his tomahawk, the familiar weight steadying him even as his body threatened to give out. Every nerve locked onto the figure before him.
How long had she been underwater?
The thought flickered through his mind and vanished. He kept the blade raised.
Her face was calm, watchful—too calm. She studied him with open curiosity, dark eyes catching the light. Something in her gaze made his grip falter.
The tomahawk dipped.
His knees buckled. The world tilted, and then he was falling, the dock and sky blurring together as he slipped beneath the surface.
Cold closed around him.
Strong hands caught his body before it could sink. He drifted in and out, aware only of motion—of being held, guided.
Then air. Sand beneath him.
By the time his vision cleared, the water was empty. Only faint ripples lingered where the figure had been.
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Author's Note:
Every story begins with a fracture. For Dylan, it is loss, guilt, and the haunting silence of survival. But in the ruins of the world, even the sea keeps secrets. Thank you for joining me at the beginning of this journey.