Chapter 6: Departure

June 27, 2023

Dear Journal,

We left the farmhouse today.

It doesn't feel real. That place was never truly home, not in the way "home" used to mean—but for the past two months, it was our shelter, our constant. Now it's just another empty building we've burned into memory and left behind.

The sun was just beginning to rise when we stepped off the porch, packs strapped tight and nerves fraying like the laces on my boots. Naomi took point with the map, Marcus brought up the rear. Nora carried the baby—still quiet, almost too quiet—and I stayed in the middle, my eyes flicking to every sound, every shadow.

The last thing we did before we left was bury what we couldn't carry. We found a hollow beneath the floorboards in the pantry and sealed a box inside: spare clothing, an emergency medkit, a knife, and a note. If anyone stumbles on that farmhouse, I want them to find something useful. Maybe even hope.

"Please don't come looking for us," the note ends. "But if you're alive, keep going. That's all that's left now."

We traveled west through the woods for hours, the ground damp with last night's dew. Branches snagged on our clothes, and the silence between us stretched longer than the trail ahead. None of us had the energy for small talk. We were conserving everything—breath, strength, courage.

The plan was simple: make it to the creek bed by nightfall and then head northwest along the slope toward the ranger station. According to the old map, the station was marked just beyond a patch of elevation Naomi dubbed "Ridgeback Hill." We don't know if it's still standing, but it's the closest thing we have to a destination.

Around midday, we stopped to rest near the creek. It was dry, just like we expected—nothing but gravel and ancient driftwood bleached by the sun. Marcus built a makeshift barrier of branches and rocks around our break spot, and I took a short perimeter check while the others sat and ate. Jerky, crackers, a few spoonfuls of canned peaches. It wasn't much, but it tasted better than fear.

That's when I saw it.

Bootprints.

Fresh.

Not ours—too wide, too deep. Maybe four sets. They led eastward, toward where we'd come from. Some crossed over each other, like whoever they belonged to wasn't worried about stealth.

I returned to the group slowly, keeping my voice low as I pulled Naomi aside. She read my face before I spoke.

"They're tracking," she said. Not a question.

I nodded. "Or patrolling. Either way, they're close."

We made the decision to keep moving. No more long rests. We couldn't risk stopping—not if someone was behind us. Or worse, circling ahead.

By early afternoon, the trail narrowed into a steep incline. The slope wasn't marked on the map, which made things harder. The baby started crying then—not loud, just soft, pitiful whimpers that tore right through Nora. She tried to hush her, rocking her gently, murmuring the same song she always does. I've never asked what it is. It sounds like a lullaby from a life we can't reach anymore.

Naomi called a halt before the crest of the hill. We crouched low, listening. I held my breath and strained my ears.

Voices.

Distant, but clear enough to catch on the wind. Male, maybe two or three of them. Laughing. Talking like they owned the woods.

We backed down the hill slowly, keeping to the trees. Naomi pointed toward a detour that would take us around the ridge. It would cost us time, but we all agreed—better late than dead.

That was the moment I realized something about Naomi. She's not just cautious—she's used to losing people. She watches all of us like she's already mourning us. Like she's just waiting for the moment when we don't come back from a supply run or scream loud enough for help. And yet, she never falters. She's always the one moving forward, even when we're too scared to take the next step.

I don't know what she went through before we met. I'm not sure she'll ever tell me. But I think the scars she carries are deeper than anything we've seen together.

The detour worked. We didn't run into the voices again. By the time dusk began falling, we'd put enough distance between us and that hill to finally breathe again. Still, we kept walking until the trees opened into a narrow ravine lined with mossy rocks and ferns.

We made camp there.

No fire.

Just a quiet corner where we could rest our legs and keep watch. Marcus took first shift, and I volunteered for second. I can't sleep easily anymore—not without dreaming of the machete man or the sound Sarah made when she fell.

As I sit here writing, everyone else is asleep. The baby stirs now and then, and Nora hums her lullaby through her dreams. Naomi's curled up against her pack like it's armor, and Marcus sits just out of sight, scanning the woods with the rifle across his lap.

It's not safe out here. But we knew that going in.

Still, something about today feels different.

It's not just the threat of being followed or the weight of leaving the farmhouse. It's the uncertainty of where we're going. That ranger station could be gone. Or worse—occupied. We don't have another plan yet. We're walking blind.

But we're walking.

And sometimes, that's the most defiant thing we can do.

Yours sincerely,

J.K.