Apocalypse Day 17 — Morning — Timberline ridge east of Tellico Plains, Tennessee
The light that came with morning didn't feel clean.
It seeped through the trees in a dull gray wash, filtered by smoke and haze, turning the forest into a place that looked familiar but didn't read right. Dew clung to the leaves. The air had that cold, wet bite that made your lungs feel awake whether you wanted them to or not.
Riley sat rigid at the edge of their hiding spot, knees drawn up, chin hovering over them like she'd been carved there. Her denim jacket was zipped now, collar up, ponytail half-fallen so loose strands stuck to her cheek where sweat had dried. She looked exhausted in the specific way people looked after fear did the job sleep used to do.
Ethan eased in from his position without making the brush complain. He'd been standing in the shadows for hours, eyes stinging, jaw tight, the kind of stillness that made your muscles ache even though you hadn't "done" anything. He carried himself like he was trying not to take up space.
Riley glanced at him and immediately lifted two fingers—then pointed back toward the direction of the overlook.
"Movement," she whispered, voice barely there.
Grace opened her eyes at once. She'd been curled on her side against the log, flannel bunched under her cheek like a pillow. The fabric creased across her chest and shoulders; her tank top showed at the neckline where the buttons had shifted. Her face looked pinched, lips dry, freckles sharp in the weak light.
Hannah sat up too, hood still on, cardigan wrapped tight. Her skirt was wrinkled and dirt-streaked at the hem. She kept smoothing it down like the habit mattered, like modesty was a life raft she could hold onto.
"How close?" Grace asked, careful not to push air too hard through her throat.
Riley swallowed. "Not close-close. But I heard a voice. Male. And I saw a light swing through the trees."
Ethan looked past them, eyes narrowing through branches. "How long ago?"
"Maybe ten minutes." Riley's hands tightened together. "I didn't move."
Good, Ethan thought, without letting it show.
He crouched, listening. The woods gave him little: wind, distant birds that sounded confused, the soft drip of last night's dampness sliding off leaves. Then—faint, far—came a muted clink, like metal against metal.
Ethan's mouth went thin.
He turned to Grace, keeping his voice low and plain. "We're leaving. Now."
Grace nodded immediately, no argument in her eyes—just tired resolve. Hannah's breathing picked up, but she stayed quiet. Riley scooped the gas can and rose carefully, boots placing down with attention.
They moved along the ridge line, staying off anything that looked like a trail. Ethan chose the ugly routes—through brush that scratched, around thickets that forced them into single file, across damp ground where footprints wouldn't last. Nobody spoke. Even Hannah, who looked like she wanted to cry, kept her mouth shut.
After twenty minutes, Grace slowed.
Not from lack of will. From her body taking a vote.
She stopped near a wide oak and braced one hand on the trunk, shoulders rising once, twice. Her other hand drifted to her lower stomach again, fingers pressing lightly like she could settle whatever was rolling there. Her face went a shade paler.
Ethan angled himself between her and the direction they'd come from, then leaned in close enough for only her to hear. "Breathe. Slow."
Grace nodded, lips pressed tight. She swallowed hard and shook her head once, frustrated with herself.
Hannah hovered a few steps behind, eyes wide with worry. Riley glanced away, giving them privacy without being asked.
Ethan waited until Grace's breathing evened out. Then he spoke quietly, not gentle exactly—careful.
"Grace."
She looked up at him, eyes glassy with fatigue. "I'm okay."
He didn't accept it. He also didn't fight her on it. He asked the question anyway, straight to her face, like naming it might be safer than circling it.
"Are you pregnant?"
For a second, Grace didn't answer.
Her eyes flicked away, then back, and the muscles in her jaw tightened like she was holding a line.
Ethan kept his expression steady. He wasn't accusing. He wasn't celebrating. He just needed the truth, because truth changed decisions.
Grace exhaled through her nose. "I… I don't know."
Ethan didn't move. "Talk to me."
Grace's hand slid from the oak to her stomach again, protective and unconscious. "My period's late." Her voice dropped even lower. "It was late before we left, but I thought it was stress, or the hike, or… I don't know. Then the nausea started. And the smell of that guy at the trailhead—" She swallowed, eyes shining. "It hit me so hard I almost threw up on my boots."
Ethan's throat tightened. "How late?"
Grace hesitated, then forced it out. "A couple weeks."
That sat between them heavier than the smoke in the sky.
Ethan stared at her for a beat, and the first emotion that tried to surface wasn't joy. It wasn't panic either. It was something colder and more immediate.
Responsibility.
He leaned closer, voice still low. "Any pain? Bleeding?"
Grace shook her head quickly. "No."
"You dizzy?"
"A little." She gave a humorless little breath that almost resembled a laugh. "But I haven't eaten real food in days, Ethan."
He nodded once. That mattered too.
Grace's eyes searched his. "Say something."
Ethan's gaze held hers. In the gray morning light he looked tired and plain and human—just a man who'd been handed a world that didn't care what plans you'd made.
"We're going to confirm it," he said. "As soon as we can without getting ourselves killed."
Grace blinked, and her eyes filled. "That's your 'say something'?"
Ethan's mouth twitched—almost a smile, then gone. "It's what I've got."
Grace's breath shuddered. "I'm scared."
"I know," Ethan said.
It wasn't the most romantic answer. It was honest.
Grace wiped at her face with the heel of her hand, angry at the tears. "I didn't want to tell you out there. Not with—" She glanced toward the forest like the word zombies might summon them. "Not with everything."
Ethan nodded. "You did the right thing."
Grace's eyebrows pulled together. "Did I?"
Ethan didn't soften it with pretty words. "You kept moving. You stayed quiet. You didn't freeze. That matters."
Grace let that land. Her breathing steadied a fraction.
Behind them, Hannah whispered, shaky. "Are you— are you okay?"
Grace turned enough to give Hannah a real look. "I will be."
Hannah nodded like she accepted that as gospel.
Riley cleared her throat softly, eyes averted. "There's a creek line down slope," she said, shifting the subject the way people did when emotions got too close. "If we cut west, we can follow it without touching the road."
Ethan took the opening. "Good. We need water."
Grace started to step, then paused and caught Ethan's sleeve with two fingers—small, grounding contact. When he looked at her again, her voice was quiet but firm.
"If I am," she said, "we don't leave people like Hannah behind."
Ethan didn't answer right away. He looked past her, through trees, as if the forest might offer a better response.
Then he met her eyes again. "We still don't die for strangers."
Grace's gaze held steady. "She's not a stranger anymore."
Hannah's throat bobbed. She looked like she wanted to argue and thank them at the same time but couldn't manage either.
Ethan gave a single nod—not agreement with every future demand, but acknowledgment of the line Grace was drawing.
"Move," he said.
They descended toward the creek. The terrain got slick with damp leaves. Hannah slipped once and caught herself on a sapling, breath sucking in hard. Grace reached back automatically and steadied her without looking. Riley took the rear again, scanning behind them like she didn't trust her own shadow.
When they reached the water, it wasn't a pretty stream. It was narrow, cold, and fast enough to sound like constant whispering. The kind of sound that covered small mistakes.
Ethan knelt at the bank, eyes moving over the mud for prints. He saw deer tracks, raccoon prints, and—faintly—older boot marks, half-washed by water. Not fresh enough to worry him right now.
Grace crouched a few steps back and took slow breaths through her nose, face turned away from the metallic smell of creek mud. She looked like she was fighting her body again, winning by stubborn inches.
Hannah sat with her knees tucked to her chest, cardigan drawn tight. She watched Grace with a kind of reverence that made Ethan uneasy. People who put you on a pedestal tended to fall apart when you proved human.
Riley scanned the treeline, then spoke softly to Ethan without stepping closer. "If those guys took my trailer, they'll have food. Tools. Maybe a radio."
Ethan didn't look up from the water. "Maybe."
Riley's voice tightened. "We could take it back."
Grace's head lifted at that.
Ethan finally looked at Riley. "Not today."
Riley's eyes flashed. "So they just win?"
Ethan's voice stayed calm. "They win that pile of stuff. We win breathing."
Riley's mouth opened, then closed. She looked furious and ashamed of being furious. Then she nodded, once, hard, like she was swallowing something sharp.
Grace didn't argue this time. She watched Ethan with a different expression now—one that carried the weight of the question he'd asked and the answer she'd given.
Not romance. Not softness.
A future that suddenly felt like a liability and a reason to keep going at the same time.
Far off, somewhere toward the road, a single gunshot cracked through the morning.
The sound rolled through the trees and died.
Hannah flinched violently. Riley went still. Grace's hand went to her stomach again without permission.
Ethan didn't flinch. He just listened to what followed.
Another shot.
Then nothing.
Ethan rose slowly from the creek bank and looked down the line of trees like he could see through miles of woods.
"We're not the only ones making choices," he said quietly.
And then he pointed down the creek and started walking, because standing still was how the world caught up to you.