Chapter 48 — Stillness by the Riverside
The sun slowly climbed from the east, and its blazing light finally washed away the eerie crimson glow of the Blood Moon.
Under the sharp morning sunlight, the full horror of the night revealed itself across the rural highway.
Two vehicles — almost unrecognizable, twisted beyond their original shapes — sat crookedly at the murky riverbank.
They looked less like modes of transport and more like steel carcasses that had crawled out of a meat grinder.
Every surface was smeared with dried blood and unidentifiable remains.
Limbs, mangled torsos, strands of hair — clung to metal like grotesque trophies.
The RV Kenny drove had a crater punched into its hood.
The windshield was a spiderweb of cracks, plastered with congealed filth.
The body was covered in deep claw marks, one side-view mirror torn clean off, wires dangling.
The front bumper was so twisted it barely hung on.
Hank leaned over the pickup's side and dropped down to the dirt — and every bone in his body screamed.
He swept his eyes across the area quickly.
To the rear: the open road.
To the front and left: the river.
To the right: sparse woodland.
Open space, visibility good.
A defensible position.
"Lee — turn the truck sideways. Nose facing the road."
"Ken — back the RV to the pickup's tail. Give me a narrow angle!"
His voice was steady — still the voice everyone trusted.
But the exhaustion beneath it was impossible to hide.
The two men worked without complaint despite the agony in their muscles.
Slowly, they maneuvered the battered vehicles into a V-shaped formation against the riverbank — a crude but functional defensive wedge.
Hank grabbed fishing line and empty tin cans from the RV toolbox and set up improvised tripwire alarms around the perimeter — thirty, maybe forty meters out.
Only when the last tin can hung did he finally exhale and slump against the cold tire.
With the adrenaline fading, the fatigue hit like a wave.
His chest throbbed where a bullet had bruised the vest the night before.
A small head peeked from the RV door.
"Hanks…?" Clem whimpered, then ran over and buried herself in his chest.
"It's okay, Clem."
He wrapped his arm around her trembling back.
He didn't need to say more.
In a world like this, fear was normal — crying meant you were still human.
Lee sat nearby, face stiff, rubbing it hard to stay conscious.
"Here."
Carley handed him a bottle of water.
"Thanks."
He didn't drink — he poured it over his head.
Cold water cascaded down. He gasped, shivering, but it brought him back.
There would be time to rest later —
but not until the kids and the women were safe.
Carley wordlessly opened another bottle for him and passed a can of food.
He finally ate — devouring it like a starving man.
"Slow down," Carley muttered, sitting beside him and wiping blood from his face.
"No one's taking it from you."
Kenny held Duck close, murmuring soft nonsense lullabies.
Katjaa handed out canned meat and water to the group, her voice gentle but unbreakable:
"Eat. You need energy."
No one complained about taste or temperature.
They just chewed like machines, fueling battered bodies that had worked past their limits.
Hank forced himself to finish a full can of beef.
The Iron Stomach trait kicked in, converting calories into real strength.
Only then did he check his status panel:
[Name] Hank Adolf
[Level] 9
[EXP] 89 / 90
[Attribute Points] 5
[Perception]: 2/10
- Danger Sense Lv1
- Insight Lv1
- Hyper Sense Lv1
[Strength]: 2/10
- Carrying Capacity Lv1
- Burst Power Lv1
- Toughness Lv1
[Constitution]: 2/10
- Iron Stomach Lv1
- Regeneration Lv1
- Vitality Lv1
[Agility]: 4/10
- Speed Lv1
- Parkour Lv1
- Stealth Lv1
[Intelligence]: 2/10
- Mechanics Lv1
- Energy Science Lv1
- Information Science Lv1
***
He could spend points — push his agility to unlock specialization, or upgrade vigor for better long-term survival.
But improvements always came with pain, and right now wasn't the moment.
He lifted his eyes toward the camp.
Kenny and Katjaa flanked Duck protectively, still singing faintly even though their eyes were unfocused — minds still trapped in last night's hell.
Lee and Carley sat shoulder to shoulder, quietly talking, clinging to whatever warmth they could find.
Clementine ate tiny spoonfuls of beans, leaning against Hank's leg, like it was the only place in the world she could feel safe.
Hank finally spoke, breaking the fragile silence.
His voice was tired — but clear.
"Shift watch rotation."
"Ken, Lee — you two carried us last night. Sleep four hours first."
"Katjaa — take Duck and rest."
"Carley — you're with me for first watch. Two hours. Then we swap with the boys."
Carley nodded immediately and checked her magazine without a word.
Hank climbed smoothly onto the roof of the RV and lay down in a spot with the widest field of view.
Kenny looked like he wanted to argue — his mouth opened, then closed again.
In the end, he only nodded, worn down to the bone.
Katjaa carried the already half-asleep Duck into the rear cabin of the RV.
Lee slumped against the pickup's tire, and the moment his eyes shut, his breathing deepened.
He was out cold almost instantly.
Everyone was exhausted.
Too exhausted.
As for the three people left behind at the motel —
no one mentioned them.
The silence was mutual, unanimous, and suffocating.
Hank chose a patch of ground that wasn't too muddy, shaded by the RV and a little cooler.
He wrapped his arm around Clementine and guided her there, sitting with his back against the cold metal wall.
From this angle he could watch the road ahead and keep the whole camp in his line of sight.
"Sleep a little, Clem," he whispered as he settled himself.
He shifted just enough to let her curl up more comfortably.
Her tiny head rested on his thigh, her little fingers instinctively gripping his vest strap.
She answered with a soft, blurry "mm…"
and almost instantly drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Only when he was certain she was fully settled did Hank release the breath he'd been holding.
Slowly — painfully slowly — he dragged his assault pack over, careful not to jostle the sleeping girl on his lap.
He unzipped it.
The first thing he saw were the overstuffed magazine pouches and scattered cardboard ammo boxes.
The dull moonlight — no longer crimson — glinted faintly off brass 9mm rounds and red 12-gauge shells.
Hank pulled out the P226 first, racked the slide to eject the chambered round, and removed the empty magazine.
His fingers trembled — a mix of fatigue and too many hours spent firing —
but he forced them steady.
One by one, brass rounds clicked into the empty magazine.
Ka-tack… ka-tack…
The repetitive, precise motion —
simple but requiring absolute focus —
slowly unwound the tension inside his skull.
When every magazine was full again, he slid them back into the vest pouches.
Next he replenished the shotgun bandolier, pushing thick red shells into the elastic loops.
Every motion was deliberate, controlled, quiet.
On the roof above him, Carley shifted her weight occasionally —
a faint creak of metal.
From the pickup came the muffled, uneven snoring of Kenny and Lee.
Behind him, the river whispered against the rocks in a low, steady murmur.
All the sounds layered together —
the click of ammunition,
the soft footfalls above,
the distant sighing of water —
became a fragile, temporary lullaby.
A moment of peace carved out of hell.
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