Chapter 6: And then, he saw him.
The trail was a ghost, a whisper of passage only a man with nothing left to lose could follow. Nate moved with a predator's patience he didn't know he possessed, his hunger and thirst now secondary to the cold, singular purpose of the hunt. For hours, he tracked them, his eyes reading the forest floor like a map. A scuff on a mossy rock, a single thread from a jacket caught on a thorn bush, the subtle compaction of leaves where a heavy pack had been set down. They were good, but they were complacent. They felt secure in their territory.
The land began to rise into a series of rugged, densely wooded hills. The air grew cooler. And then, he saw it. Not the compound itself, but the absence of something. Through a break in the canopy, he saw a sheer rock face, a granite cliff that rose a hundred feet. And nestled at its base, almost invisible until you were right on top of it, was a man-made structure. It wasn't a cabin; it was a prepper's compound, a relic from a time when paranoia had a purpose.
His breath hitched. He dropped to his belly and crawled the last few yards to the crest of a ridge, using a thicket of mountain laurel for cover.
The place was a fortress. A high wall, fashioned from rough-hewn logs sharpened into points at the top, encircled a cluster of buildings: a main lodge, a few smaller outbuildings, and a greenhouse with shattered panels. Two watchtowers, crude but functional, stood at opposite corners, each manned by a solitary figure with a rifle. The compound was backed directly against the cliff face, making it impregnable from one side. It was obscured, defensible, and terrifying.
His plan, whichh had felt so clear and justified in the dark of his hiding place, now seemed like the ravings of a madman. A dozen or more people moved within the walls. He saw Kaelan's group being greeted. Axe dumped the burlap sack, and Nate's own pack, onto a central wooden table with a look of triumph. His supplies, his life, were now community property.
And then, he saw him.
Leaning against the doorframe of the main lodge, looking bored and petulant, was Pierce. Skylar's boyfriend from the Palisades Manor. He was thinner, his expensive clothes replaced with functional, dirty canvas, but the arrogance was still etched into his posture. He watched Kaelan's return with a sullen expression, his arms crossed. He was alive. Of course he was. The kind of privilege he wielded had simply morphed, finding a new currency in this brutal world.
His eyes found Skylar again. She stood slightly apart from the men, her bow still in hand. She wasn't looking at Pierce. She was staring at the ground, her shoulders slumped in a way that had nothing to do with fatigue. The vibrant, bored socialite was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out shell. She didn't speak to anyone. When one of the other men, a lanky individual with a scar across his cheek, said something to her, she just nodded once, a tight, mechanical gesture, and looked away.
Nate's eyes swept the compound, counting, assessing. Twenty-six people in total. Five women including Skylar. The math was ugly and immediate. The women were all relatively young. They moved with a quiet, deliberate subservience, their eyes downcast. None of them carried visible weapons. The implications settled over him like a shroud. He knew how this worked. It wasn't about romance or partnership. It was a brutal economy. In a world where physical strength was the primary law, the women's survival would be a transaction. Their bodies for protection, for a share of the food, for the right to exist behind these walls. They were commodities. Shared around like toys to keep the stronger, more dangerous men content. The thought was a cold knot in his stomach. He hadn't been with a woman since before the fall; the loneliness was a constant, low ache. But this… this was a different kind of hunger, one that turned human beings into property.
His grand plan of killing Kaelan and taking everything back was suicde. He was one man, weak from hunger, armed with nothing but a rock he'd picked up. A direct assault was a death wish.
He had to scale t back. Drastically. He didn't need everything. He needed a chance. That meant a weapon. A gun, preferably, but even a good knife would be a miracle. And food. Just enough to get his strength back, to make the journey back to his cabin possible.
He studied the compound's rhythms. The guards in the towers changed at dusk. The main gate, a heavy, reinforced timber door, was bolted from the inside after Kaelan's group entered. There were no lights after sundown; they weren't wasting fuel. The moon was a waning sliver, offering little illumination. The dead of night would be his only ally.
His new plan was simple, desperate, and marginally less suicidal. He would wait. He would watch. He would find a weakness. A shadowed section of the wall, a moment of inattention from a guard. When the world was at its blackest and the compound was asleep, he would go over the wall. He would find a weapon, find some food, and get out. He wouldn't be a hunter reclaiming his prize. He would be a thief, stealing back a sliver of a chance.
The choice was clear. He would wait for night. He settled deeper into the mountain laurel, the damp earth seeping into his clothes. The cold fury was still there, but it was now a patient, calculating thing. He watched the smoke curl from the lodge's chimney, the symbol of a warmth and security he was about to violate. He was no longer just surviving. He was at war.