Chapter 5: The Quiet Before

June 26, 2023

Dear Journal,

We're packing now.

Naomi made the call early this morning. She didn't wait for another debate—not after what Marcus and I saw yesterday. We all felt it—the shift in the air, like the world's holding its breath again. Something's coming.

We agreed on a two-day deadline. By then, we'll be gone.

Our plan is to head west into the forest. It's dense, and the terrain is rough, but that's exactly why it might work. Fewer roads, fewer undead, and less chance of running into machete-wielding psychos who smile while they kill. Naomi says there's an old ranger station out there, marked on one of the maps we found in the attic. No clue if it's still standing, but it's better than waiting here to be found.

The hard part is deciding what to take.

Food, water, weapons—those are obvious. But we're limited to what we can carry on our backs. That means hard choices. Nora had to leave behind most of the baby clothes she'd been holding onto. I saw her folding them one by one, lips trembling. She didn't cry, though. No one really cries anymore. We just… go quiet.

I packed the journal, of course. It's strange—this battered notebook has become as important to me as my knife. Writing to you helps me remember who I am, who I was before all this. Before the world turned gray and bleeding.

I also took a photo. It's the last one I have—me and my sister, two summers ago, grinning like idiots at a barbecue. She's probably gone now. Most people are. But I can't let go of that hope completely.

While we gathered supplies, Marcus reinforced the barn door. "If they show up while we're gone, maybe they'll waste time checking in there," he said. I admire the guy—he always thinks ten steps ahead, even when everything's falling apart.

Naomi and I marked a meeting spot on the map: an old dry creek bed near the ranger trail. If we get separated, we regroup there. Simple. But nothing is simple anymore.

Tonight, we're double-posting the watch. I've got the first shift. The moon's out, thin and pale like a dying eye in the sky. The farmhouse creaks with every breeze, and the wind carries too many sounds—some real, some not.

Every shadow looks like movement now. Every silence feels loaded.

We're holding on, but barely.

Tomorrow we leave.

Yours sincerely,

J.K.