5 - Highway

The rest of the room was a puzzle of shadows and broken shelving. Eli moved slow, keeping his flashlight low. Dust swirled in the beam, disturbed for the first time in years, and the smell of old cardboard and mildew thickened the air. He crouched near a set of plastic crates stacked against the wall. Most were empty, but one at the bottom clinked when nudged.

He tugged it out. Bottled water—half a case, still sealed. The labels had warped and the plastic was dimpled with age, but the caps were intact. He set them aside with careful hands. Next to them, another crate: a half-used first aid kit and a cracked bottle of antiseptic. The gauze had yellowed. The tape was stiff. But the antiseptic still sloshed.

"Not bad," he murmured, voice swallowed by the room. "Better than nothing."

The ceiling gave another warning groan, this one sharper. More urgent. He paused, tilting his head like he could read the structure through sound alone. Still no collapse. Just pressure. Like the building was trying to hold its breath.

He moved to the last corner—where an old computer sat dead on a desk, screen dark and rimmed with a spiderweb of cracks. Nearby, a corkboard hung askew, thumbtacks rusted in place. A few papers clung to it—shift schedules, emergency contacts, a faded employee-of-the-month photo from before everything ended.

The man in the picture looked young. Hopeful. Grinning like he hadn't yet realized the future had other plans.

Eli touched the edge of the frame. "Sorry, man," he muttered. "Bet you showed up on time every damn day."

He turned, ready to leave, but something caught his eye—low, near the base of the desk. A safe. Small, steel, half-hidden behind fallen binders. It was one of those cheap electronic kinds, the keypad crusted with grime. No power, obviously.

But the keyhole still worked.

Eli knelt, fishing in his jacket pocket for the ring of keys he'd taken from the front office earlier. He tried each one, slow, until the third clicked home.

The door creaked open.

Inside: a pistol. Semi-auto, black polymer grip. Holstered but clean. Next to it, a small box of ammo—light, but not empty. A folded map, edges crisp. And a notebook. Thick. Spiral-bound. The cover read "Daily Log – Manager Use Only."

He took the gun first, checked the slide, then the mag. Loaded. Safety on. He holstered it and slipped the ammo into his pack, then unfolded the map.

It was a state highway map, but someone had marked it up heavily—routes circled, others crossed out. One town had a question mark next to it. Another was underlined twice. In the bottom corner, a scrawled note read:

"Best bet for fuel: Gorham. Heard they've got a generator. Stay off 302—washed out past the junction."

He traced the line toward Gorham. It wasn't far. Maybe six miles, two hours on foot if the roads were clear. But if the dogs didn't move, it might as well be a continent.

Last, he picked up the notebook. The first entries were boring—inventory notes, complaints about staffing, supplier delays. Then:

March 18 – No shipment this week. That's three missed. Radio says it's just logistics. I'm not convinced.

March 22 – Some folks showed up asking about gas. Weren't from here. Didn't like their tone. Sent them away.

March 28 – CB chatter's bad. Talk about troops heading north, roadblocks, closed routes. Linda said someone's daughter got taken. No one believes it, but no one's arguing either.

April 2 – Last day open. Told the staff not to come in tomorrow. Something's happening. People are spooked. Can't say I blame them.

The last entry was a single line:

April 3 – Locked the safe. If someone finds this—sorry we didn't do more.

Eli stared at the words for a long time.

Then he closed the notebook and slipped it into his bag.

Back in the main store, the light was dying. The sun had dipped lower, dragging the world into a cooler gray that softened the edges of everything. The dogs were still outside. Two of them now stood pressed to the glass, fogging it with breath. One pawed gently at the door, more curious than angry.

"Still waiting, huh?" Eli murmured. "Not even bored?"

He crouched behind the counter again, this time with the pistol laid out beside him. Not pointing at anything. Just there. Just in case.

His eyes went back to the pamphlet from earlier. Gateway to the North.

What a joke.

He turned it over, and for a moment, just sat in the quiet, listening to the weight of the roof and the steady hush of the wind outside. Then, low and sudden, came a new sound: a distant pop. Not thunder. Not collapse.

A report.

Gunfire.

One shot. Then two more, spaced out. Maybe half a mile off.

Eli stiffened. Not because it was close—but because it was human. Not wind. Not animals. Not the earth trying to eat itself. Actual people.

Alive.

And armed.

He moved to the window, careful to stay low. The dogs had frozen. One of them had its ears pricked, head turned toward the east. The sound hadn't come from town. It had come from beyond.

Another shot, further this time.

And then silence again.

Eli's stomach twisted. Not fear. Not hope. Just uncertainty. He wasn't sure which would be worse—other people, or the lack of them.

He backed away from the window.

He could make Gorham by nightfall if he pushed. Maybe sooner. If the dogs let him go. If the roof held long enough. If the people out there weren't the kind that shot first and searched pockets later.

He sat again. Pulled out the notebook. Flipped to the back. Blank pages.

He tore one free, uncapped the stub of a pen from his jacket.

If you find this, he wrote, the dogs don't bite unless they smell blood. The roof won't hold more than another storm. Gorham might have power, or it might have a graveyard. If you go, go quiet.

He paused.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. But it didn't end clean either. Don't trust the quiet. It lies.

He folded the note and tucked it under the register.

Then he gathered the bottles, the food, the pistol. Shouldered the pack. Pulled his hood up against the dust and the dusk.

Time to move.

He left through the back.

The alley smelled like rot and wet rust, but the dogs hadn't circled there yet. He climbed the fence slow, careful not to jostle loose the stack of metal scraps propped against it, then dropped into a narrow yard behind a shuttered laundromat. The sky was dimming fast—clouds rolling in, thick and bruised.

Thunder this time. Real thunder.

He stayed low, cutting between buildings, using overgrown lots and sagging fences as cover. The wind picked up. Cold and sharp, dragging leaves like brittle whispers across the ground. The air tasted electric. Charged.

He crossed the street half a block down. The dogs hadn't followed. Or hadn't seen him yet. Either way, he didn't run. Running made noise. Running drew eyes. He just moved, steady, quiet, like a ghost that had somewhere better to be.

By the time he reached the highway sign—bent, riddled with bullet holes—it was fully dark. The moon hung behind thick clouds, barely offering light. But the road was open. Straight and cracked, flecked with broken glass and weeds that clawed up through the asphalt.

Gorham lay south. The map said six miles.

He adjusted the pack on his shoulder and started walking.

Every sound felt sharper now. Every gust of wind sounded like a whisper. Every bush like movement. His hand hovered near the pistol's grip, though he didn't draw it. Not yet.

A mile out of town, he passed a burned-out van. Blackened frame. Melted rubber. No bodies, but the smell of ash still clung to it. Something inside had exploded—maybe the engine. Maybe something else.

He didn't linger.

Further down, he found a makeshift barricade—tires and wire, meant to stop cars. Old, abandoned. Spray paint marked the pavement:

STOP.

NO ENTRY.

CHECKPOINT 3B.

Beyond it, silence.

He made camp beneath a toppled billboard, using the twisted metal supports as shelter from the wind. Didn't light a fire. Didn't dare.

He chewed a protein bar from a salvaged pack, washed it down with lukewarm water, and watched the horizon until his eyes burned.

In the distance, faint—another gunshot.

Then nothing.

The road felt longer in the dark.

Every footstep landed with the hush of worn boots on old pavement, softened by time and overgrowth. Eli kept his flashlight stowed, relying on moonlight and memory. The stars were out now, sharp and cold overhead, but clouds still rolled at the edges—ready to reclaim the sky when they pleased.

He moved steady. Didn't rush. Rush got you noticed.

There was a rhythm to it. His breath. The creak of his pack straps. The occasional rustle in the woods to his right, where something small darted through brush. The highway cut east like a vein—wounded, broken, but still holding some trace of direction.

And all along it: the remains.

A rusted sedan with its hood up and a bird's nest tangled in the engine block. A toppled phone pole, its wires slack and low to the ground like forgotten nooses. A pair of boots left on the roadside, side by side, no footprints nearby.

He didn't look too long at any of it. Not anymore.

Somewhere around mile five, the clouds closed in again. The stars blinked out. Darkness pressed in closer, and with it, the world shrank. The woods to either side felt tighter. The silence, deeper.

He stopped at a gas station that had half-collapsed into itself—one of those places that never really mattered until they were the last place standing. The sign above was missing half its letters. G ___ Y'S FILL-UP & MINI MA__. The windows were gone, replaced by ivy and shattered glass. The pumps were stripped, hoses limp like drained arteries.

But the back door was still there. Still closed.

Eli tried the handle. Locked. He paused, listening—no sound but wind.

He slipped the crowbar from his pack and wedged it under the knob. A quick jerk. Wood splintered, the door gave.

Inside, the stink hit first—oil, rot, and something sour beneath it. He stepped into a narrow hallway, flashlight sweeping along grimy walls. Behind the counter lay old lottery tickets, faded magazines, and a register that'd been gutted clean.

The aisles were bones—shelves stripped, cans rolled underfoot. But behind the cooler, tucked low, he found a narrow hatch in the floor. Cellar access.

He hesitated.

Then opened it.

The space below was shallow—maybe eight feet by ten, just enough for storage. Shelves lined the walls, most picked over. But one corner held boxes marked with faded hazard tape. Road flares. Batteries. A few packs of freeze-dried meals in weatherproof bags.

Eli smiled, tired.

He ate in silence down there, letting the wind pass over the building above. Let the dark do its work outside while he filled his belly in the quiet.

When he left an hour later, he took only what he could carry—three meal packs, the flares, and one brick of batteries. Left the rest. Someone else might need it.

If there were still people left to need anything.

Just before dawn, the rain came.

It started as mist, then thickened into a steady drizzle that turned the road slick and the air sharp. Eli pulled his hood tighter. His clothes weren't made for this kind of wet anymore—no one's were. Synthetic fibers only lasted so long, and most rain now came with a chemical tang that stung the skin if it lingered.

He didn't stop. Just kept moving.

The land began to change as he neared the edge of Gorham's outskirts. The trees thinned. The road widened. Signs appeared—bent metal, sun-bleached, pointing to schools, diners, forgotten attractions. The mountains loomed softer here, like they were watching instead of warning.

At the edge of a clearing, he saw a house.

Not a ruin. Not a wreck. Just a house—weathered but whole. Shutters drawn. Chimney crumbled, but the roof still intact. No lights. No smoke. A fence out front, more decorative than functional, though most of it had fallen to one side.

He crouched behind a fallen tree and watched.

Five minutes. Ten.

No movement.

He crept closer, boots soundless on the wet earth. Checked the windows—boarded from the inside. Porch creaked beneath his weight as he stepped up and tried the door.

It opened.

Slow. Grating.

Inside, the smell was different.

Dust, sure. But not rot. No mildew. No wet wood stink. It was dry. Still. Lived-in, once.

He moved through the front room—couch under a sheet, coffee table stacked with yellowed newspapers. A calendar on the wall still turned to April. Of which year, he wasn't sure.

He found the bedroom down the hall. The bed made. A photo still on the dresser—two people, arms around each other, laughing in some forgotten summer. He stared at them a moment. Then turned away.

The kitchen held more useful things. A drawer full of rusted utensils. A ceramic bowl with a few shriveled cloves of garlic. And a cupboard that, miraculously, held two sealed cans of beans.

He pocketed them. Left one behind. Habit.

He'd rest here a while. Long enough to dry off. To let the sun climb.

Maybe catch some sleep.

He sat in the old armchair by the front window, peeled off his damp boots, and let the silence hold him.

Somewhere to the south, beyond the hills, Gorham proper waited. Or what was left of it.

He'd go soon. Just not yet.

The chair was warm, the house dry, and for the first time in days, Eli let his eyes fall closed.