alone

The wind howled against the camper van's metal shell, a relentless, mournful wail that seemed to come from every direction at once. Snowflakes tapped and scraped against the windows like tiny claws, their frenzy growing with each new gust. Inside, the heater clicked softly, its dull orange glow casting long shadows across the cluttered interior. The man sat in the driver's seat, hunched and silent, his gloved hands cradling a shotgun across his lap. His breath fogged the air in front of him despite the heater, a faint mist quickly swallowed by the dim warmth.

It had been two weeks. Two weeks of this fractured, upside-down place.

Through the frosted windshield, the road stretched out like a ghostly scar in the darkness. Pale beams of headlights pierced the swirling snow now and then, too far away to mean anything, but close enough to keep him on edge. Every so often, a vehicle passed—just a pair of glowing orbs cutting through the night, fleeting and featureless. The sound of their tires on the slush-crusted road was oddly muffled, dampened by the relentless hiss of the storm.

He adjusted his mask—a respirator pulled tight across his face, the cold rubber biting into his skin. The straps dug into the back of his head where they overlapped with the hood of his heavy coat. The mask wasn't just for the weather, though it helped. It was for them. The deer. Their strange, uncanny eyes. Their soft, delicate faces and unnervingly human expressions. He'd encountered a few when he first arrived. One look at him without the mask had been enough.

Fear wasn't the right word for how they'd reacted. It was something deeper, something primal. He remembered the way their eyes widened, the sharp flaring of their nostrils, the quick, jerky movements of their limbs as they bolted without a sound. The memory stuck with him more than the face of any person he'd ever met. He wasn't sure why.

The heater sputtered, and for a moment, the wind outside seemed louder, as if the storm were creeping closer. He tensed, his fingers tightening around the shotgun's grip. He'd turned off most of the van's lights to stay inconspicuous, leaving the interior in a patchwork of deep shadows. The camper was nestled among the skeletal trees just off the road, barely visible beneath the dense snow piling onto its roof and sides. The forest stretched out in every direction, its bare branches tangled against the gray-white haze of the storm.

The woods here were sickly, more so than the ones back home. The trees seemed to lean too far, their trunks split with frostbite or sagging under the weight of withered limbs. The underbrush was sparse, clawing at the snow in brittle patches. He'd walked through those woods once during a brief lull in the weather. The air had smelled of decay, the wet, sour tang of things long rotted and left to freeze.

A creak from the van's frame snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned his head sharply, scanning the interior. The storm made everything sound closer, and the warped echoes played tricks on him. He adjusted the shotgun's weight, its cold steel reassuring in his hands. He glanced at the pistol holstered on his hip, then at the rifle secured beside the driver's seat. Too much noise. Too much risk. The shotgun was enough.

His stomach growled, the ache sharp and insistent. The vending machine haul wasn't going to last. He'd already gone through most of the candy bars—those had been easy, their flimsy wrappers crumpling in his fist as he stuffed them down during the first few nights of hunger. Chips were harder. He hated how loud they were, how every crunch seemed to echo like a gunshot inside the van.

And the drinks—an energy drink and a cola—those were reserved for emergencies. He didn't trust the water here. Even the snow tasted off.

He reached for a half-eaten bag of chips resting on the dash. The movement felt too loud, his jacket brushing against the fabric of the seat, the crinkle of the bag grating against the silence inside the van. He froze for a moment, listening. Outside, the wind screamed. Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of another car passed by, the sound fading quickly into the storm. He popped a chip into his mouth, chewing slowly, the salt stinging his chapped lips.

The lights came again, spearing through the dark, catching on the edges of the trees. He stiffened, leaning forward just enough to peek past the windshield's edge. Another car. The headlights carved a narrow path through the snow, illuminating nothing but the endless road and the swirling chaos around it. He held his breath, watching as the car crept past, its taillights flickering faintly before disappearing entirely.

He exhaled, the fog of his breath momentarily obscuring his view. The shotgun rested heavier in his lap now, his fingers brushing over the cool metal of the trigger guard. There was something about the way those cars moved. Slow. Purposeful. Too quiet.

The deer he'd seen in town drove cars. They walked upright, dressed in layered clothes to ward off the cold, their hooves muffled by boots. Their faces were strikingly human—too human. But their movements betrayed them, sharp and deliberate, like prey constantly on edge. They never lingered in one place too long. Never made eye contact for more than a fleeting moment. Even with the mask, they'd kept their distance from him, their suspicion palpable.

He shifted in his seat, his knees brushing against the clutter of tools and supplies stashed near the floor. The camper was packed with everything he'd salvaged before crossing into this place—engineering tools, carpentry equipment, a chainsaw, spare clothes, boxes of ammo. It had all seemed so useful before, back when he thought he could survive on logic and preparation. But nothing could have prepared him for this.

This place wasn't just strange. It was wrong.

The wind rattled the van, and he felt the cold creep in through the edges of the poorly sealed door. He adjusted his position, trying to ignore the ache in his back. The heater kept the worst of the chill at bay, but the air inside was still damp, heavy with the scent of wet fabric and faint traces of oil from the chainsaw. He hadn't dared to use it yet. Too loud.

The storm had started hours ago, and there was no telling when it would end. The darkness outside was suffocating, pressing in against the van like a living thing. Even the headlights, when they came, didn't seem to pierce far enough into the storm. It was as if the world had shrunk, leaving nothing beyond the immediate reach of his senses.

He thought about the next steps. He'd have to venture out again soon. The vending machine haul wouldn't last much longer, and the deer in town had seemed oddly territorial about their food sources. He'd noticed the way they'd gathered near the stores, their postures wary but firm, as if daring anyone to challenge them. They hadn't spoken to him. He wasn't sure if they spoke at all.

The mask would have to stay on. It was the only thing keeping them from bolting at the sight of him. But even with it, the tension was palpable. They knew he wasn't one of them. Maybe it was the way he moved, or the way he stood too still, his posture too rigid. Whatever it was, they saw through him, even if they didn't fully understand.

Another car passed, and his grip on the shotgun tightened. The vehicle was larger this time, its headlights brighter, cutting through the storm in harsh, unnatural beams. The sound of its engine was deeper, a low rumble that lingered even after the car had disappeared from sight. He stayed still, his heart pounding in his ears, waiting for the sound to fade completely.

The woods around the van were restless, their branches creaking and groaning under the weight of the storm. Snow fell in heavy clumps, occasionally thudding against the roof. The sound was unnervingly loud in the stillness, each impact making him flinch. He glanced toward the trees, their dark silhouettes barely visible through the frosted windows.

There was no movement. No sound other than the wind and the occasional crack of ice splitting under the weight of the cold. But the feeling lingered—the sense that he wasn't alone. That something was watching from the shadows, just out of sight.

He checked the shotgun again, his thumb brushing over the safety. Loaded. Ready. He knew better than to let his guard down, even for a moment. This place didn't care about logic or reason. It didn't care about survival. It was a predator, circling him slowly, waiting for him to slip.

The storm raged on, the night dragging endlessly forward. He stayed in the driver's seat, his eyes flicking between the road and the woods, his mind replaying every encounter, every glimpse of those too-human faces and the dread they carried with them.

Tomorrow, he would have to move. He would have to venture into town, into their world, and find a way to survive just a little longer. But for now, he waited.