CHAPTER 41: 41: A WORLD FILLED WITH THOUGHTS

Winter adjusted the strap of his rifle as he trudged through the snow-covered streets of the inner district. The cold gnawed at his exposed skin, but he barely noticed. His breath puffed in visible clouds as he moved, his eyes constantly scanning the eerily quiet surroundings.

He thought of his squad. By now, they should have reached City H, if everything had gone according to plan. If. The word weighed heavily on his mind. Plans rarely went as intended in this new world. Still, he held onto a sliver of hope that they were safe. Felix would keep them in line, and Ima—his lips twitched involuntarily—Ima would be fine. She always found a way to adapt.

Winter adjusted his grip on his rifle, his gloved fingers flexing against the metal as he glanced up at the heavy grey clouds. Snowflakes drifted lazily down, their serene descent at odds with the tension knotting his shoulders. He wasn’t used to this quiet; it set his teeth on edge.

Lost in thought, Winter didn’t notice the group of men until they were too close.

"Hey!" a voice barked, sharp and unfriendly.

Winter’s hand instinctively tightened on his rifle as he looked up. Three men stood blocking his path, their faces hard and hostile. Behind them, two more lingered in the shadows, clearly ready to back their friends up if things got messy.

"Evenin’, stranger," the leader said, his face partially obscured by a tattered scarf. A jagged scar ran from his jawline to his temple, giving him a permanent sneer. "

"You lost or somethin’?" another man in front snarled, his hand resting on a crowbar slung over his shoulder.

Winter sighed inwardly, his sharp gaze assessing them in a single glance. Their clothes were patched and dirty, their weapons scavenged and crude. They weren’t well-fed, and they certainly weren’t trained fighters. No guns. Good. That evened the odds, at least a little.

The leader tilted his head. "Not much of a talker, huh? That’s fine."

Winter didn’t know if they had any hidden powers but trusted his own speed and skills.

He could take them.

"I’m just passing through," Winter said, his voice calm but edged with warning. "No need to make this your problem."

The leader of the group sneered, stepping closer. "Passing through, huh? Pretty fancy gear for someone just ’passing through.’ Hand it over, and maybe we’ll let you keep walkin’."

Winter shifted his stance, his grip tightening around the rifle. "I’ve got a counteroffer," he said, his voice low and steady. "Walk away, and I won’t break your faces."

The leader blinked, surprised at his words before he burst into laughter. His men followed soon after, their annoying cackles filled the air.

Winter’s jaw tightened. He was too close to the cache to waste time on idiots like these. Still, the way they spread out in a semi-proper formation suggested this wasn’t their first attempt at shaking someone down.

"Last warning," Winter said, his voice dropping a notch. "Walk away."

The leader chuckled darkly. "Nah, I don’t think so."

The first man lunged, swinging his crowbar. Winter sidestepped smoothly.

He grabbed the man’s wrist mid-swing and yanked, sending him stumbling forward. A sharp knee to the gut folded him in half, and Winter followed with an elbow to the back of his neck. The man crumpled into the snow.

The second attacker came at him from the side, brandishing a rusted machete. Winter pivoted, his rifle coming up like a staff. The butt of the weapon caught the man under the chin with a sickening crack, and he went down in a spray of blood and broken teeth.

The third hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Winter closed the distance, twisting the man’s arm behind his back and slamming him face-first into a nearby wall. The crunch of bone echoed in the cold air, and the man slid to the ground, unconscious.

The remaining two men backed off, their confidence evaporating. One of them spat on the ground, glaring at Winter. "You’re dead meat," he snarled. "Raphael will hear about this, and he’ll deal with the likes of you."

Winter considered them for a moment, his hand twitching toward the trigger of his rifle. He could end this here and eliminate the threat before it becomes something more. But then he sighed and lowered the barrel. Wasting ammunition on cowards wasn’t worth it.

"Raphael, huh?" Winter murmured, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Sounds like a real charmer. Tell him I said hi."

The men scrambled away, their footsteps crunching in the snow as they fled. Winter watched them disappear into the ruins, his mind turning over the name. Raphael. It wasn’t familiar, but that didn’t mean much. The apocalypse had spawned a thousand little warlords, each more brutal and desperate than the last. Best to avoid any unnecessary entanglements.

Adjusting his rifle, Winter resumed his trek northward, the bitter cold biting at his face. The snow-covered streets were oddly quiet, devoid of the shambling figures that usually haunted the ruins. Since the snow had started, the Mist—the smoke-like phenomenon that turned people into zombies—seemed to have vanished. The weather was one more thing the apocalypse had twisted beyond recognition. The heat was unbearable, and the snow seemed never-ending.

Not to mention the hail and acid rain that started at unexpected moments.

But the Mist being gone didn’t mean the world was safe. People were worse than zombies these days.

Which is why the moan that rose behind him caught him off guard.

He turned sharply, just in time to see the zombie lurching toward him from behind a burned-out car. Its flesh was mottled and grey, its eyes a cloudy white that gleamed with unnatural hunger.

"Shit," Winter muttered, raising his rifle.

He spun, his rifle snapping to his shoulder, but the zombie was already too close. Its rotting face loomed in his vision as he fired, the recoil slamming against his shoulder. The bullet tore through its skull, and it crumpled into the snow.

He barely had time to breathe before another lunged at him from the side. Winter pivoted, smashing the butt of his rifle into its temple. It stumbled, and he fired again, point-blank.

The third caught him off guard, its claws tearing into his arm just as he swung the rifle around. Pain flared white-hot, making him hiss through clenched teeth. He shoved the creature back, freeing a hand to draw his knife. The blade gleamed in the pale light as he drove it straight into the zombie’s skull. With a wet, sickening thud, it collapsed at his feet.

Winter slumped against a wall, his chest heaving as he stared at the crimson streaks on his sleeve. He pulled the fabric back, revealing the jagged cuts across his forearm. The bleeding wasn’t too bad, but the skin was already swelling.

Ignore it, he told himself. His metabolism would handle it, like always. He’d dealt with worse.

But then, out of nowhere, Zara’s face flashed in his mind, her sharp eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. "You idiot. That could get infected. What were you thinking?!"

Winter exhaled, the sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. He could almost hear her voice, the way she’d scold him without actually saying she cared.

"Alright, alright," he muttered to no one, shaking his head.

He found a sheltered corner in a partially collapsed storefront, the roof sagging just enough to shield him from the snow. Sitting with his back against the wall, he pulled his pack open, fishing out a roll of bandages.

He poured antiseptic over the cut, gritting his teeth against the sting, and began wrapping it with a bandage.

"Fuck."

As he cleaned the wound, his mind drifted to her again. What shenanigans was she up to?

The truth was, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since she left. He told himself it was just concern—she had been his travel "acquaintance" for a few days and seemed to be carrying—but that explanation felt hollow. There was something else, something he couldn’t quite put into words. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on tying off the bandage.

When he finished, he tied off the bandage, flexing his fingers experimentally before pulling his sleeve back down. The bleeding had stopped, but the ache lingered.

His eyes drifted to the snowy street beyond the window. The world was quiet again, save for the occasional whisper of the wind. For a moment, he let himself remember the life he’d had before all of this—before the Mist, before the chaos. It felt like a lifetime ago, and yet the ache of it was still fresh.

Somedays were better than most and other days the memories simply wanted to make him curl into a hole and die.

With a sigh, Winter stood, adjusting the strap of his rifle. He had to keep moving. The cache was still ahead, and he couldn’t afford any more distractions.