The afternoon sun filtered through the forest canopy in broken shafts of gold, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the still air. Leaves rustled softly underfoot as Captain John Price moved through the woodland like a ghost, each step deliberate and measured. His boots pressed into the carpet of pine needles and decomposing organic matter with barely a whisper, his weight distributed with the unconscious precision that came from three decades of operating in hostile territory. The air hung thick and humid, carrying the earthy scent of pine resin, damp moss, and the faint sweetness of decay—not the human kind, but the natural rot of fallen logs and last autumn's leaves slowly returning to soil.
Price paused mid-stride, dropping into a slight crouch, his sharp eyes scanning the forest floor and the spaces between trees with the methodical sweep of a man who'd learned long ago that complacency was a death sentence. His gaze tracked from left to right in overlapping arcs, searching for movement, for shapes that didn't belong, for the telltale shamble of the walking dead. Nothing yet. Just trees and shadows and the occasional flutter of a bird high in the canopy.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose and continued onward, his right hand resting on the grip of his HK433C, thumb near the safety.
After another hundred meters, Price stopped again and pulled the folded map from his vest pocket, snapping it open with practiced efficiency. The previous owners of the cabin—that family who'd chosen death together rather than face whatever horrors had driven them to it—had marked their location with a circle of red pen. The ink had faded to rust-brown, but the mark was still clear enough. Price oriented the map, using the sun's position and his own internal compass to confirm his bearings.
His calloused finger traced a path westward from the red circle, following the terrain features until it intersected with a thin black line representing a railway. The track ran roughly north-south, and at its southern terminus sat a small black square with text beside it: "Terminus Station."
Price's eyes narrowed as he studied the symbol. Back in the cabin, standing over that rickety table with the newspaper's apocalyptic headlines still fresh in his mind, he'd circled this location with his own pen. A railway station. A terminus. A place where lines converged.
"Setting up a sanctuary, or a base in a train station might not be the worst idea," he muttered, his gravelly voice barely above a whisper.
His tactical mind, honed by years of mission planning and base security assessments, automatically began cataloging advantages. Limited access points—most stations only had a handful of entrances, maybe two or three at most. That meant he could funnel attackers—whether walkers or the living—into chokepoints where they'd be easier to handle. Elevated platforms would provide the high ground, always a decisive advantage in any engagement. From up there, he could spot threats at distance, pick targets with precision, control the battle space.
The railway lines themselves would act as natural barriers and channels. Walkers weren't known for their ability to navigate obstacles; the tracks, the fencing that typically ran alongside them, the drainage ditches and embankments—all of it would slow the dead down, give him precious seconds or minutes to react. The wide-open approaches to most stations meant good visibility. No surprise attacks. He'd see them coming from hundreds of meters out.
But it wasn't just defensive advantages that appealed to him. "Strategic location like that, built on a transport network," Price thought, refolding the map along its worn creases. "Could use the tracks to guide recon missions, supply runs... hell, even an escape route if it came to that."
Railway stations were rarely isolated. They were built near population centers—towns, suburbs, industrial areas. That meant potential resources: stores to loot, warehouses to scavenge, water treatment facilities, maybe even military or police armories if he got lucky. And the structures themselves were built to last. Concrete walls, steel support beams, reinforced foundations. Walkers wouldn't scratch them, and any human threats would think twice before trying to breach defenses like that.
The possibilities stacked up in his mind like a mission briefing building toward its conclusion. Train cars could serve as modular shelters, sealed off and secure. The boxcars would make excellent storage for supplies. Passenger cars could be converted into living quarters or even a makeshift infirmary. Many stations had underground service tunnels or maintenance areas—safer sleeping quarters, harder to breach, easier to defend.
"Long-term potential, too," Price mused, tucking the map back into his pocket. "Large rail yards have expandable perimeters. Open areas that could be fortified, room for farming if you could secure enough space, vehicle repair bays, additional living quarters as the population grows."
His pragmatic side immediately countered with the drawbacks. "Maintenance could be a problem, though." Keeping a station secure would require manpower—something he was currently short on by about a hundred percent. It would need supplies, constant vigilance, repairs to fencing and barriers, patrols to sweep the perimeter. One man couldn't hold a location that size indefinitely.
Still, Price concluded, his mind already mapping out defensive positions and patrol routes, it was better than wandering aimlessly through the woods, eating canned beans and sleeping in trees.
Then a darker thought intruded: If there's still such a thing as a sanctuary in this godforsaken world. A safe haven that actually lives up to the name.
He'd seen enough in his career to know that when society collapsed, humanity often followed suit. The worst came out in people when there were no laws, no consequences, no civilization to keep the monsters in check. He'd operated in failed states, in war zones where warlords ruled through terror and violence. This new world—this world of the walking dead—would be no different. Probably worse.
Price was jarred from his thoughts by a sound carried on the breeze—low, guttural, unmistakably inhuman. "Mmmnnghhhhh..." A wet, rattling moan that seemed to come from multiple directions at once, bouncing between the trees. "Uhhhrrhhhhh..."
His body tensed instantly, decades of combat instinct overriding conscious thought. His hand tightened on his rifle as his eyes snapped into focus, scanning the forest with renewed intensity.
Quickly, smoothly, Price shifted to the cover of a massive pine tree, his broad frame blending seamlessly into the shadows cast by its trunk. He controlled his breathing—slow inhales through his nose, slower exhales through his mouth—keeping his heart rate steady despite the spike of adrenaline.
Bloody walkers, he thought, his mind cataloging everything the newspaper article had told him. Slow, brainless, but relentless. Easy to underestimate—until they've got their teeth in you and you're infected, dying, becoming one of them within hours or days.
He gripped the handle of his rifle tighter, feeling the familiar texture of the polymer stock, the weight distribution he knew as well as his own hands. Best to stay sharp. One mistake, and it's game over. No second chances in this world. No respawns, no second lives.
Peering carefully around the tree trunk, keeping most of his body concealed, Price spotted them—two walkers, shambling through the forest in their grotesque, disjointed rhythm. The first was perhaps forty meters out, moving with the jerky gait of a broken puppet. Its skin was a patchwork of decay, gray-green and mottled with darker patches where the flesh had rotted away entirely. Strips of clothing hung from its frame—looked like it had once been wearing business casual, a button-down shirt and slacks, now filthy and torn. One eye was milky white, fixed forward in a dead stare. The other socket was empty, dark and crawling with something Price didn't want to examine too closely.
The second walker lagged slightly behind, dragging its left leg like deadweight. The limb was mangled, bent at an unnatural angle below the knee, leaving a trail in the soft earth as it struggled forward. This one had been female once—long hair still clung to portions of its scalp, though much of it had fallen out in clumps. Its jaw hung slack, broken or dislocated, swinging slightly with each labored step.
Price frowned, his tactical mind running calculations. Two targets. Slow moving. No apparent awareness of his presence yet. He could take them out—quick headshots, drop them both in under three seconds. But the sound...
He had no idea what a gunshot might draw in these woods. The forest was too quiet, unnaturally so, and the crack of his HK433C would carry for kilometers. Could be more walkers nearby, drawn by the noise like sharks to blood in the water. Could be other survivors—and in this world, other survivors weren't necessarily friendlies. He needed to conserve ammunition anyway. No telling when he'd find more, and every round was precious.
Price's hand moved to his combat knife, drawing it smoothly from its sheath. The worn leather grip was comforting in his hand, familiar as an old friend. The blade was seven inches of carbon steel, kept religiously sharp, with a slight curve designed for penetration and cutting. He'd used it in close-quarters combat more times than he could count—Spetsnaz soldiers in Russia, insurgents in tight urban environments, sentries who needed to be silenced without alerting their comrades.
Two of them, he thought, watching them shuffle closer. Nothing I haven't handled before. But let's not get cocky, John. That's how people get killed. One at a time. Quick, clean, and quiet.
He waited, his breathing slow and controlled, every muscle coiled and ready. Patience was as much a weapon as the knife in his hand. Let them come to you. Control the engagement.
When the trailing walker—the one with the mangled leg—was just within range, about three meters from the tree, Price moved like a striking viper. He stepped out from behind the pine in one fluid motion and drove his boot into the center of the walker's chest. The impact was solid, his reinforced toe connecting with brittle ribs that cracked audibly. The walker flew backward, its arms windmilling, and crashed into the underbrush with a heavy thud and a spray of dead leaves.
Out of the fight for now, Price thought, already pivoting to face the first walker.
It had noticed him—if "noticed" was even the right word for whatever passed for awareness in those dead brains. The walker lurched toward him with renewed urgency, its remaining eye fixed on him with single-minded hunger. Arms outstretched, fingers hooked into claws, jaws working open and closed with wet snapping sounds. The moan rising from its throat grew louder, more insistent.
Price sidestepped its clumsy advance, his boots finding solid purchase on the forest floor. The walker stumbled past him, unable to adjust its trajectory, and Price moved in from behind. The knife flashed in his hand, sunlight glinting off the blade for a split second before he drove it deep into the walker's back, aiming for where the heart would be on a living person.
The blade sank in with a sickening wet squelch, parting decayed flesh and muscle like rotten fruit. Dark, congealed blood—more like tar than anything that should come from a living body—oozed around the knife. The smell was overwhelming, a wave of putrefaction that made Price's eyes water.
But the walker didn't stop. It didn't even slow down. It kept coming, twisting in his grip, jaws snapping at empty air inches from his face. Price could see the teeth—yellowed, some missing, others broken to jagged stumps—gnashing together with enough force to break bone.
"Christ," Price cursed under his breath, yanking the knife free with a sucking sound. The walker lunged again, and this time Price buried the blade in its side, between the ribs, angling upward where the lung should be.
Still nothing. The walker stumbled briefly, its momentum interrupted, but then it was reaching for him again with those grasping hands.
Christ, these bastards just don't quit. Stabbing anywhere but the head's a waste of time and effort. Gotta remember that—destroy the brain, stop the walker. Old habits die hard... well, harder than these things, apparently.
As the walker lunged for a third time, Price stepped inside its reach, using its own momentum against it. He grabbed the back of its head with his free hand—the skull felt soft under his palm, like overripe fruit ready to burst—and forced it down while simultaneously driving his knee up into its face. Bone crunched. Teeth scattered. But still it struggled, still it reached for him.
Price angled the blade upward and drove it into the base of the skull, where the spine met the cranium. He felt resistance for a moment—tough membrane, then the slightly softer texture of brain tissue. He twisted the knife, scrambling whatever was left of the walker's motor functions.
This time, it dropped instantly. The body went completely slack, all tension vanishing like someone had flipped a switch. It crumpled to the forest floor like a marionette with its strings cut, hitting the ground in a heap of decayed limbs and tattered clothing.
Right. That's how it's done.
Price planted his boot on the walker's shoulder and wrenched the knife free, then wiped the blade on its filthy clothes, the fabric so rotten it nearly disintegrated at his touch. "Persistent bugger," he muttered.
Behind him, the sound of shuffling and snapping branches announced the second walker's return to the fight. It had managed to right itself and was now staggering toward him, its gnarled hands reaching blindly, its broken jaw working soundlessly.
Price rolled his shoulders, loosening the muscles, and stepped forward with purpose. One left. Keep it quiet, keep it quick. Then get the hell out of here before the dinner bell brings more guests.
He ducked under the walker's outstretched arms, closing the gap in an instant. This time he didn't waste effort on center mass or dramatic knife work. He simply grabbed a fistful of the walker's hair—the strands came away in his grip, but enough held—and yanked its head to the side, exposing the temple.
The knife plunged straight into the side of its head with a sickening crunch, the blade punching through the thin temporal bone like it was wet cardboard. The walker twitched once, its jaw working soundlessly for a moment, milky eyes rolling back. Then it slumped to the ground, truly dead this time.
Price stepped back immediately, scanning the area with quick, efficient sweeps of his vision. Trees. Shadows. Nothing moving. No more moans carried on the wind. His ears strained for any sound of approaching footsteps—living or dead.
Two down. Quiet. That's the way to do it. Now, let's not stick around to see if they've got mates wandering about.
He sheathed his knife, the blade sliding home with a soft click, and took a deep breath. The adrenaline that had flooded his system during the brief fight was already beginning to ebb, replaced by a gnawing sense of weariness that went bone-deep. His hands wanted to shake—not fear, just the body's natural response to combat stress—but he forced them steady through sheer will.
No time to rest, though. Rest gets you killed. Move. Always be moving.
As Price melted back into the shadows of the forest, resuming his westward trek toward the railway line, his thoughts lingered on the absurdity of it all. The sheer, cosmic joke of his situation.
This wasn't how I pictured myself after dying, he thought with grim humor. Thought I'd be having a pint with the devil himself, swapping war stories and sharing a laugh about all the poor bastards we'd sent his way. Trading bullets for blades, fighting the dead instead of the living.
But at least it's a fight I know how to win, he mentally added. For now, anyway.
He adjusted his pace, settling into the ground-eating stride of an infantryman on patrol. One foot in front of the other. Cover ground efficiently but not so fast you miss threats. Keep your head on a swivel.
One step at a time. Survive today. Worry about tomorrow when it comes.
The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, a sea of green and brown broken only by the occasional clearing or rocky outcropping. Shadows grew long and deep as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the western sky in shades of orange and purple. Price trudged on, knife in one hand—he'd stopped resheathing it hours ago, preferring to keep it ready—and the other brushing branches aside as he moved.
His every step remained deliberate and measured. Heel to toe, testing each footfall before committing his full weight. Avoiding dry twigs or anything else that might crack and give his position away. His ears were open, constantly processing the ambient sounds of the forest: wind through leaves, distant bird calls, the scurrying of small animals in the underbrush. Listening for the groans of walkers or the distant echo of human voices—neither of which promised anything good in this new world.
"Railway track's still a day out, if my bearings are right," Price thought, his eyes scanning the landscape as the light continued to fade. "Could push on through the night, cover more ground. But wandering through the woods in the dark's just askin' for trouble."
He'd seen too many soldiers get sloppy after dark. Exhaustion set in, attention wavered, and that's when the enemy struck. Better to stop, regroup, conserve his energy. Keep his head clear and his reflexes sharp for tomorrow.
As the light faded further, filtered through the canopy into a dim twilight, Price spotted a small natural depression in the forest floor about fifteen meters off his current path. It was tucked between a cluster of lichen-covered boulders, their sheer faces creating a natural wall on three sides. The arrangement formed a rough U-shape, maybe two meters across at the widest point, with just one narrow entrance. A gnarled pine tree arched overhead, its thick branches forming a natural canopy that would break up his silhouette and provide some shelter if it rained.
The floor beneath was carpeted with fallen pine needles—soft, relatively dry, and most importantly, it wouldn't crunch and announce his presence if he had to move during the night.
"This'll do," Price muttered under his breath, approaching the spot with his knife still ready.
He cleared the entrance first, checking the narrow gap between boulders for any signs of walkers or animal dens. Nothing. Then he squeezed through and swept the interior with quick, efficient movements. The space was empty save for some dead leaves and a few pine cones. No tracks, no scat, no signs of recent occupation.
Price crouched low, dragging his knife across the ground to clear out debris and create a relatively flat area to sit. "Good cover," he assessed, his tactical mind cataloging the advantages. "One entrance means I'll hear anything coming. Limited sight lines work both ways—I can't see out well, but they can't see in. No walkers sneakin' up on me tonight."
He unslung the small backpack from his shoulders—his muscles protesting at the sudden absence of weight—and lowered himself carefully against the largest boulder. The stone was cool against his back, retaining some of the day's heat but not uncomfortably so. He stretched his legs out, feeling his knees pop, and allowed himself a moment to simply breathe.
From the backpack, Price pulled out his essential items one by one, arranging them within easy reach. His firestarter—a reliable magnesium stick with a steel striker, military issue. One of his two remaining cans of food, the label so faded he couldn't tell what was inside anymore. And the bottle of water, now less than half full from the day's trek.
He gathered a small handful of the driest pine needles from the corners of his shelter, along with some small twigs and bark he'd collected during his walk. Striking the firestarter carefully, Price sent a shower of white-hot sparks into the tinder pile. On the third strike, a tiny flame caught, curling up through the needles with barely a whisper of smoke.
He fed it carefully, adding progressively larger twigs, building the fire just large enough to cook but keeping it low and controlled. "No sense advertisin' myself to every nutter or walker within a mile," he thought, watching the flames with practiced attention.
Once the fire had settled into a steady burn, Price opened the can with his knife—no fancy can openers in the apocalypse—peeling back the lid to reveal... beans. Again. In some kind of tomato sauce that had separated into layers of grease and paste. It wasn't appetizing, but he'd eaten worse. Much worse.
He held the can over the flames using a green stick to avoid burning his fingers, rotating it slowly to heat the contents evenly. The faint metallic scent mixed with the tang of wood smoke and pine sap. When the beans started bubbling around the edges, he pulled the can back and set it on a flat rock to cool for a moment.
Price ate slowly, deliberately, using a bent piece of metal from the can's lid as a makeshift spoon. Each mouthful was chewed thoroughly, swallowed carefully, chased with a small sip of water. Rationing wasn't just about making supplies last—it was about efficient digestion, about extracting every calorie your body could process.
He eyed the water bottle as he drank, forcing himself to stop when it was still a quarter full. "That'll have to last 'til tomorrow," he thought grimly. "No telling when I'll find more. Could be a stream near the railway. Could be nothing. Can't count on anything."
When he finished eating, Price used a scrap of cloth from his pocket to wipe the can clean, removing as much residue as possible. The can itself he buried in the soft dirt at the back of his shelter, covering it completely and scattering pine needles over the disturbed earth. Scent control—any food smell could attract animals, or worse, walkers following some vestigial memory of what food meant.
Price knelt by the fire and carefully snuffed it out, smothering the flames with dirt and then scattering the embers with a stick until even the faintest glow had been extinguished. He waited another five minutes in the darkness, making sure no hidden ember would flare back to life and give away his position.
His eyes adjusted to the night slowly. The moon was waxing gibbous, providing some illumination through gaps in the canopy. Enough to see shapes, to distinguish boulder from tree, but not enough to navigate safely.
Price's gaze shifted upward to the pine tree arching over his shelter. It was sturdy, probably sixty or seventy years old, with branches thick as his thigh near the trunk. The lowest branch was about two meters up—high enough to be out of easy reach for walkers, close enough he could climb it without too much difficulty.
He stood, testing the tree's bark for handholds, then pulled himself up with the economical movements of someone who'd done plenty of obstacle courses and field training. His boots found purchase in the rough bark, and within seconds he'd hauled himself onto the thick branch about three meters off the ground.
The branch was wide enough to lie on, though not comfortably. Price straddled it first, getting a feel for the balance, then pulled a small coil of paracord from his pack. Military-grade 550 cord, rated for two hundred and fifty kilograms. He'd carried some variation of this rope on every mission for the last twenty years.
He looped it around his waist and chest, then around the trunk, tying it off with a bowline knot—secure, easy to untie even under load, wouldn't slip or cinch down if he shifted in his sleep. The rope was tight enough to hold him if he rolled in the night, but not so tight he couldn't breathe.
"Not exactly five-star lodgin'," Price thought, leaning his head back against the bark and trying to find a position that wouldn't leave him completely crippled come morning. "But it'll keep me from fallin' and breakin' my bloody neck. Silver linings and all that."
He laid his knife on the branch beside him, within easy reach. His rifle he kept slung across his chest, the weight familiar even in sleep. One hand rested on the grip, finger outside the trigger guard but ready.
The forest sang its nocturnal tune around him: the distant hoot of an owl hunting in the darkness, the faint rustle of leaves in the night breeze, the occasional crack of a branch as some animal moved through the undergrowth. Price's breathing slowed, deepened, his body finally allowing exhaustion to take over.
His grip on the knife's handle tightened briefly, an unconscious gesture, before sleep finally claimed him.
.
The first pale light of dawn broke through the canopy like a slow tide, painting the world in shades of grey and silver. Price stirred, his body protesting the night spent on a tree branch, muscles stiff and joints aching. His hand went instinctively to his knife—still there, right where he'd left it—as consciousness returned fully.
The rope had held. He hadn't fallen. Small victories.
Price untied himself with practiced efficiency, coiling the paracord and securing it back in his pack. He climbed down carefully, his back protesting every movement, and stretched once his boots hit solid ground. He bent forward, feeling his spine crack and realign, then twisted side to side, working out the worst of the stiffness.
"Right then," he muttered, taking a swig from his nearly-empty water bottle. "Time to move."
He conducted a quick police call of his campsite, making sure he'd left nothing behind that could identify him or indicate his direction of travel. Satisfied the area looked undisturbed, Price shouldered his pack and oriented himself using the morning sun's position.
West. Toward the railway. Toward this "Terminus" station.
The forest gradually thinned as the morning wore on. The dense pine groves gave way to more mixed woodland, then to scattered trees and clearings. Price could feel the change in terrain, the subtle shift from deep forest to the edge of civilization—or what was left of it.
After several hours of steady walking, pausing occasionally to listen and observe, the treeline finally broke entirely. Price stopped at the forest's edge, concealed behind the last row of trees, and surveyed what lay ahead.
A stretch of railway tracks cut through the landscape like a scar, two parallel lines of rust-colored steel running north-south as far as he could see. The gravel bed was overgrown with weeds, the wooden ties weathered and rotting in places. Clearly, no trains had run this line in months.
But it was what stood beside the tracks that caught his attention.
Off to the side, about fifty meters from where he stood, a large weathered sign had been erected. It was wooden, maybe three meters tall and twice as wide, standing at a slight angle—either from poor construction or the effects of weather and time. The paint was faded, cracked, and peeling in places, but the letters were still legible, bold and black against a white background:
"SANCTUARY FOR ALL. COMMUNITY FOR ALL. THOSE WHO ARRIVE SURVIVE."
Price frowned, stepping carefully out of the treeline but staying low, using the tall grass and brush along the railway embankment for concealment. He approached the sign with his rifle raised, sweeping the area for threats. Nothing moved. The tracks stretched empty in both directions.
Up close, the sign told a different story than its hopeful message suggested. The wood was riddled with bullet holes—dozens of them, maybe hundreds, clustered around the edges and corners. Some looked like small-caliber rounds, probably handguns. Others were larger, assault rifle rounds that had punched clean through and splintered the wood behind them.
And there were stains. Dark stains that had started red but had long since dried to rust-brown, splattered across the white paint like abstract art. Blood. Old blood, faded by sun and rain, but unmistakable once you'd seen enough of it.
Price ran a gloved hand over his beard, his mind working through the implications. The sign itself was clearly meant to draw people in, to offer hope in a hopeless world. But the bullet holes and bloodstains suggested something had gone very wrong. A firefight. Multiple firefights, from the look of it.
Question was: who had been fighting whom? Survivors defending against walkers? Bandits attacking refugees? Some kind of internal conflict that had torn the community apart?
"Sanctuary, eh?" Price muttered, his eyes tracking the railway line southward, where it curved out of sight around a low hill. "Sounds too good to be true. And in this world, when somethin' sounds too good to be true..."
He didn't finish the thought aloud. Didn't need to.
Still, he couldn't ignore the faint hope stirring in the back of his mind, fragile as it was. His supplies were running critically low—one can of food left, barely a quarter bottle of water. Ammunition was finite. He couldn't wander these woods forever, living off the land and avoiding the dead. Eventually, his luck would run out.
A place like this—if it was legitimate, if it actually offered what the sign promised—might be exactly what he needed. Resupply. Intel on the larger situation. Maybe even allies, if he was very lucky.
And if it wasn't legitimate? Well, he'd dealt with worse than bandits and raiders. At least they could be reasoned with or put down permanently, unlike the walkers.
Price adjusted the strap of his backpack, settling the weight more comfortably across his shoulders. His eyes narrowed as he stared down the railway tracks, calculating distance and approach vectors.
"One way to find out," he said quietly. "Just have to keep sharp. Eyes open, finger ready, trust nobody."
Rather than walking directly on the tracks—too exposed, too obvious—Price moved parallel to them, staying within the treeline where it still existed or using the tall grass and scrub brush along the embankment for concealment when the forest gave way to open ground. His hand rested on his HK433C, the rifle held at low ready, muzzle pointed safely downward but ready to snap up in an instant.
The sign loomed behind him as he moved south, its painted promise growing smaller with each step. Above him, the sun climbed higher into a cloudless sky, the temperature rising, the air thick with humidity that promised afternoon thunderstorms.
Captain John Price disappeared down the railway line, each step measured and deliberate, each sense on high alert, moving toward an uncertain destination in a world that had ended while he slept.
Whatever awaited him at Terminus—sanctuary or slaughterhouse—he'd face it the same way he'd faced everything else in his long career.
Head-on, and ready for anything.