Oregon

The sun was unusually bright that morning—almost cruel in a world devoid of warmth. Mike and I stepped out of the old banker's shelter, our boots crunching the broken remains of a life that no longer existed. All around us, the echoes of the past lingered—in shattered glass, scorched walls, and the eerie stillness that had replaced the noise of normal life. It was too quiet. Not the peaceful kind of silence that brings rest, but the heavy, suffocating kind that reminds you everything is gone and not coming back.

The monsters had taken what they wanted. They came with a hunger that couldn't be reasoned with, stripped this town of its breath, and left it in ruins. Now, days later, we were still picking through the aftermath. Only one structure remained untouched: a small, green building at the end of the street, pristine like it had been airlifted from a different reality. It stood out, a quiet defiance in the middle of destruction. Neither of us dared go near it. Some things were better left unexplained.

Mike squinted toward the horizon, one hand raised against the glare. "Someone's coming," he said under his breath. "Military again."

I followed his gaze. Black armored trucks crawled down the fractured highway, engines low but heavy, a dust storm swirling behind them like a cloak. Soldiers in gray suits disembarked, scanning the remnants of homes with blank, unreadable expressions. They moved like they belonged to a different species—calculated, cold, methodical. No greetings, no questions. Just search and control.

"They've been around a lot lately," Mike murmured. "I heard they're taking civilians. No one knows where. No one comes back."

I didn't answer.

We slipped into a side street and walked in silence, passing the decaying shells of what used to be a community. Mailboxes full of unread letters. Storefronts with mannequins still smiling behind cracked glass. Rusted swings creaking in an empty park. A place once filled with life now reduced to a quiet grave under the sky.

"So," Mike finally asked, his voice softer now, "where are you planning to go?"

It was a cruel question, really. Everyone knew the world had run out of safe places. Some areas were drowning in contamination. Others were run by bandits, cults, or worse—things not even human anymore. Military lockdown zones were just sanitized prisons with better walls. Even the air tasted like it had given up. And yet… I looked up at the bleak sky and whispered, "Oregon."

Mike stopped walking for a beat. "Oregon?" He let out a short, joyless laugh. "You're dreaming. That place's a myth. People talk, sure—fresh bread, clean water, no guns, gardens… kids going to school. It's what people want to believe."

"That's exactly why I believe it," I said.

He shook his head. "You think they'll let someone like us in? You need poison to get past the gate."

"Poison?" I echoed.

"Not the kind we used to know—paper money, bank accounts. Those are worthless now. They want value. Gold. Ancient tech. Diamonds. Bloodlines. Your last name has to open doors, or you need to be rich enough to buy your own citizenship."

I stayed quiet. I didn't have diamonds or family power. I barely had a name worth remembering. But I had something harder to kill.

Hope.

"I met someone once," Mike said, voice distant. "Back when I was scavenging the Outskirts. He was bleeding out in an alley. Told me he saw Oregon with his own eyes. Gardens. Schools. People who didn't sleep with a gun under their pillow."

"And you believed him?" I asked.

"He died five minutes later," Mike said flatly. "Didn't get a chance to lie."

We continued walking, weaving through the skeleton of the town. Past a food truck clawed open like a tin can. Past a pair of shoes still tied, their owner long gone. Somewhere far off, a dog barked—faint, desperate, distant.

Mike slowed down, then stopped completely. "Do you really want to try?" he asked. "Head there? To Oregon?"

I looked him dead in the eye. "Do you have anything better?"

He didn't answer. But his expression changed—something flickered in it. Doubt? Regret? Guilt?

"You never told me," I said carefully, "how you survived the Red Zone."

He looked away.

"Luck," he said.

"Bullshit," I replied. "Nobody survives the Red Zone."

We stood in silence for a long beat. Then, without a word, Mike reached into his coat and pulled something out—wrapped in thick, dark cloth. He slowly unfolded it. Inside was a metallic chip, small but pulsing with a pale blue light. It looked fragile… and powerful.

"What is that?" I asked, heart pounding.

"Access pass," he said. "Black market tech. Taken from a dead soldier. They say if you have this… and the right voice code… the gates to Oregon open."

I stared at it. For the first time in weeks, my chest felt tight with something unfamiliar. A chance.

"But it only works for one person," Mike added quietly.

My eyes met his. "And you're telling me this now?"

He gave a half-shrug. "Didn't know if I could trust you."

A gust of wind swept through the empty street. Behind us, the low growl of trucks echoed again—military patrols were getting closer.

"We have to move," I said urgently.

But I didn't move.

I looked at the chip.

Then at him.

"Give it to me," I said.

Mike didn't respond immediately. He stared hard, weighing something in his mind. We'd known each other for years—fought monsters, ran from death, dug graves side by side. But this moment… this wasn't about friendship. This was something rawer.

I stepped forward, lowered my voice.

"You asked me where I want to go," I said. "Oregon isn't just a place. It's the last part of me that still believes this world can be saved."

Mike's gaze flicked between the chip and my face.

And then—he handed it over.

No words.

No ceremony.

Just a quiet surrender.

The chip was warm in my hand, as if it recognized the weight of the choice just made. My fingers closed around it tightly. My breath caught. For the first time in a long while, I felt something move inside me—something dangerous.

Hope.

Mike stepped back and looked away. "It's your shot now."

I swallowed hard. "What about you?"

"I'll find another way. Or I won't," he said, tone unreadable. "I've got things I still need to finish."

I wanted to ask what. To press. But something in his eyes said don't.

So instead I just nodded.

He turned to leave. Just like that. No goodbye. No handshake. Only a parting silence.

And I stood there, alone again, holding a future in the palm of my hand.