Apocalypse Day 17 — Pre-dawn — Hardwood ravine off a forest service road outside Tellico Plains, Tennessee
The woods had a way of turning every sound into a question.
A branch snap could be a deer. Or it could be a footstep. Wind through needles could be nothing—until it wasn't. Ethan held still long enough to let his pulse settle, then listened again, letting the night lay itself out in layers.
Closest: Grace's breathing—controlled, shallow, fighting her own stomach.
A little farther: Hannah's soft sniffles that she tried to bury in her sleeve.
And somewhere out beyond the ravine: faint voices, carried thin on the cold air, paired with the occasional metallic clink that made Ethan's jaw tighten.
Not infected.
People.
They'd moved twice after leaving the overlook—first into that shallow dip, then deeper into a hardwood ravine where the ground fell away and the brush grew thick enough to hide a small group if they kept their silhouettes low. The trees here were bigger, older, and the leaf litter muffled footsteps if you walked like you meant to vanish.
Grace sat with her back against a broad oak trunk, knees drawn up. She'd finally buttoned her flannel, the fabric pulled snug across her chest, and she'd added a thin windbreaker over it that made her look smaller than she really was. Her face was pale in the low light, freckles sharp against skin that didn't have the warmth it should. She kept rubbing her thumb over her wedding ring, eyes unfocused like she was thinking about the distance between states.
Hannah had layered her cardigan under her jacket and pulled the hood up, braid tucked inside like she was trying to hide her hair from the world. The denim skirt was a terrible choice for this—too exposed, too easy to snag—and Ethan had already clocked it as a problem he'd have to solve when daylight came. She hugged herself tight, shoulders hunched, eyes darting to every dark pocket between trees.
Riley crouched a few yards away with her knees up, arms wrapped around the red gas can like she could keep it from being stolen again just by holding on hard enough. Her denim jacket was unbuttoned, the shirt beneath dark with sweat at the collar, and a smear of dirt ran down one cheekbone. She looked like she hadn't slept in days—eyes too bright, movements too quick when a sound shifted.
Ethan stayed on his feet, half in shadow, head angled toward the distant voices.
Riley whispered, barely moving her lips. "That's them, isn't it?"
Ethan didn't answer right away. He measured the distance by sound—how loud the clinks were, how clearly he could make out syllables.
"…told you it was up here…"
"…check the trailer first…"
"…quiet, damn it…"
Riley's throat bobbed. "They're taking my stuff."
Grace looked up from the oak, and the anger in her eyes was tired anger—spent, but still sharp. "How many?"
Ethan raised two fingers, then paused, listening again. Another voice slid in from the left, and a fourth from the right. He held up four.
Hannah's eyes widened further, and she clamped a hand over her mouth like she was afraid her breathing would betray them.
Riley's whisper broke. "We should— we should go back. Before they—"
Ethan's gaze stayed outward. "Not in the dark."
Riley's hands tightened on the gas can. "But—"
Ethan turned his head just enough for her to see his expression. Not harsh. Final. "That road is a funnel. They've got lights. They're awake. We go back now, we trade your trailer for our blood."
Riley stared at him like she wanted to hate him for being right. The emotion flickered across her face—loss, fury, fear—then folded inward. She bit the inside of her cheek and nodded once, hard.
Grace shifted, swallowing. Her hand drifted to her lower stomach again, fingers pressing lightly as if she could settle whatever was rolling there. Her brows pinched, and for a moment she looked like she might gag. She breathed through it, nose only, refusing to let her body make noise.
Ethan watched that too, filed it away, then looked back toward the voices.
A flashlight beam swung through the trees far off—white light slicing trunks, sweeping the ground in slow arcs. It stopped, jittered, then moved again.
"Hold," Ethan mouthed.
All three women went still.
The beam wandered, searching like an insect antenna. It didn't find them. It drifted away.
Ethan waited until it was gone, then crouched between them and kept his voice down to a thread. "We're leaving this spot before the sky turns."
Grace's eyes flicked to the darkness above. "Before dawn?"
"Yes."
Hannah whispered, trembling, "Where do we go?"
Ethan didn't say safe, because there wasn't any. "Somewhere harder to follow."
Riley swallowed. "They'll see the truck in the morning and—"
"They already saw it," Ethan said. "That's why they're there."
Riley's jaw tightened. She looked away, blinking fast.
Grace's attention sharpened on Ethan. "Do you think they're coming this way?"
"Maybe," Ethan said. "Maybe not. But they know someone else was up there. Engines don't climb to overlooks on their own."
Hannah flinched at that, shoulders curling tighter.
Ethan shifted his weight and pointed toward Hannah's skirt, then toward the brush. He didn't need to lecture her—his eyes did it. That will snag. That will slow you down.
Hannah's cheeks flushed even in the dark, and she nodded, mortified.
Grace spoke softly, protective. "We'll fix it later."
Riley's voice came small. "I've got a pair of sweatpants in the tote—if they didn't take it."
Ethan's mouth tightened. "We assume they did."
Riley's eyes flicked up, stung. She didn't argue.
A distant clatter rose again—someone tossing something into metal. The voices got louder for a second, then dropped back down.
Ethan lifted a finger to his lips. He waited. Counted slowly in his head until his breathing matched the woods again.
Then he moved, and the group moved with him.
No talking. No stumbling. No beams of light.
Ethan led them along the ravine, keeping the creek line to their left so they had a sound buffer—water whispering enough to mask tiny mistakes. He chose routes that forced anyone following to work for it: through tangled brush, across damp leaf beds, under low branches that slapped shoulders and snagged hair.
Grace moved with a stubborn rhythm—quiet, careful, not fast. The nausea kept hitting her in waves; Ethan saw her pause twice, hand braced against a trunk, eyes squeezed shut, breathing controlled until the moment passed. She didn't complain. She didn't ask to stop.
Hannah struggled more. The skirt caught on briars, and she had to use her hands to free it, knuckles scraping. Still, she stayed upright. When a branch snapped behind them—loud as a gunshot in the stillness—Hannah froze, eyes wide, panic swelling.
Ethan didn't hiss at her. He just reached back, caught her wrist, and squeezed once. Firm. Anchor. Move.
Hannah moved.
Riley brought up the rear, gas can hugged to her side, boots surefooted in a way that told Ethan she was used to uneven ground. When Hannah snagged again, Riley reached forward and tugged the fabric free without a word. Quick hands. Practical. Another mark in the "asset" column.
They climbed out of the ravine to a ridge thick with pines, then cut sideways until the distant voices thinned into nothing. Ethan didn't stop when the sound disappeared; he stopped when the world felt empty enough that a new sound would stand out.
He found a spot where fallen trees formed a natural screen, the kind of place you'd miss even if you were looking—especially if you were sweeping with a flashlight and thinking like a hunter.
He crouched, listened, then signaled them in.
Grace eased down first, back against a log, flannel bunched under her shoulders. Her face was drawn tight, and the moment she stopped moving, her body tried to revolt. She pressed her palm to her stomach again and breathed through her nose until her eyes stopped watering.
Hannah lowered beside her, still shaking. Her hood shadowed her face, but Ethan could see her lips moving silently around the small cross at her throat—prayer or habit, he didn't know.
Riley set the gas can down with exaggerated care, then sat with her knees up, chin resting on them like she didn't trust herself to speak.
Ethan stayed standing, watching the trees go from black to charcoal as the first hint of dawn crept up behind the smoke haze. The light didn't feel clean. It felt sick.
Grace spoke quietly, breaking the silence in a controlled way. "You didn't ask her anything."
Ethan glanced down at her.
Grace's eyes flicked toward Riley. "About what happened. About who those men were. About—" She stopped, swallowed, and her hand drifted to her stomach again like the motion was automatic. "About anything."
Ethan's voice stayed low. "Later."
Riley let out a shaky breath. "They weren't with me. I never— I just saw them once on the highway. They had a flatbed and rifles and…" Her voice thinned. "They were dragging someone."
Hannah stiffened. Grace's expression hardened.
Ethan didn't react outwardly. He absorbed it like he absorbed everything else.
Riley stared at the ground. "I didn't stop. I couldn't. I—" She swallowed hard. "I just drove."
Grace's eyes softened a fraction—not forgiveness exactly, but understanding. "You're alive," Grace said. "That matters."
Riley's eyes flicked up, wet and furious with herself. "Does it?"
Grace didn't flinch. "Yes."
Hannah whispered, barely audible, "I would've died if you didn't come."
Riley's jaw trembled. She looked away fast.
Ethan watched them—three women pressed into the same broken night, fear knitting them together whether they wanted it or not. He didn't romanticize it. Fear didn't equal trust. Trust took time, and time was expensive.
He kept his attention on the woods.
A faint crunch sounded off to the right—leaf litter disturbed. Ethan froze, hand lifting.
All three women went silent instantly, like they'd learned his signals in a single night.
Ethan listened.
Another crunch. Then nothing.
Could be a deer. Could be someone creeping. In the dim, you didn't get certainty. You got choices.
Ethan picked a pebble from the ground and flicked it hard into the brush far left.
It struck a dead branch with a sharp tick.
A moment later, something bounded away—fast, light, four-legged. The sound faded.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
Grace's shoulders dropped a fraction. Hannah's eyes closed like she'd been holding her breath. Riley rubbed her hands over her face, smearing dirt and sweat.
"Get what sleep you can," Ethan murmured.
Grace looked up at him. "Are you sleeping?"
Ethan's answer was a quiet shake of his head.
Grace's gaze held his for a beat longer than it needed to. Her eyes were tired and full of things she wasn't saying—about parents in other states, about the town behind them, about the way her body kept betraying her with nausea and heat.
Then she nodded and leaned her head back against the log, eyes closing.
Hannah hesitated, then curled on her side, cardigan pulled up under her chin. The skirt rode up slightly as she shifted, and she tugged it down quickly, cheeks flushing even in exhaustion.
Riley stayed sitting for a while, staring into the trees. Finally she spoke again, so soft Ethan almost didn't catch it.
"I can take a watch."
Ethan looked at her. In the weak pre-dawn light, her face was smudged, scraped, tired. Determined in a shaky way.
"You don't know what you're listening for," Ethan said.
Riley's mouth tightened. "Teach me."
Ethan didn't offer reassurance. He offered a test. "Two hours. If you hear anything that sounds like steps—real steps—touch Grace's shoulder. Don't whisper. Don't call out. Just touch."
Riley nodded once. "Okay."
Ethan stepped back into the trees, picking a position where he could see their hiding place and the approach routes. He stayed still enough that the woods forgot he was there.
As the sky lightened from charcoal to bruised gray, the smoke haze turned the dawn into something dull and wrong. Somewhere far off—down toward the road—an engine coughed, then ran for a few seconds, then died again.
Ethan's gaze narrowed.
They'd lost the truck.
But they'd learned something better:
There were people out here with fuel, lights, and enough confidence to make noise.
And that meant the dead weren't the only thing hunting.