4. The Road
Four
The Road
By early afternoon, the horizon opened into wide, flat country.
The edge of town had gave way to stretches of farmland, fields that hadn’t been tended in weeks.
Rows of corn stood half-harvested, the stalks bowed under frost, their yellowed leaves whispering faintly in the wind.
A plastic bag fluttered along a wire fence, snapping like a warning flag.
The houses they passed were caught somewhere between life and ruin, porches still lined with empty chairs, toys scattered in yards.
Curtains fluttered in cracked windows as though they still remembered the people who used to pull them closed at night.
Nothing had collapsed yet. Everything looked as if it had simply paused—stuck in the moment when the world decided to stop turning.
A hand-painted sign leaned crooked in the ditch ahead, half-covered in frost: Haven Ridge, 4 Miles. Someone had spray-painted a crude skull over the town’s name.
“Used to come this way for hunting,” Sawyer muttered, eyes scanning the fields as the truck rolled past the edge of town. His voice was quiet, almost reverently, as if he were speaking to ghosts. “Whitetail everywhere. You’d see them cutting through that corn come sunrise.”
Addy followed his gaze. The landscape stretched out for long, cold miles, fields dulled to gray and pale gold, the color of a world holding its breath. The corn stood half-rotted, stalks bowed and brittle. A rusted tractor sat crooked in the distance, its wheels swallowed halfway by frozen mud.
“It looks… empty,” she said softly. Before she could stop herself, the question slipped out. “Do you think they’re all dead?”
Sawyer didn’t answer right away. His hands stayed steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The only sound was the low rumble of the engine and the faint rattle of loose debris caught in the wind. Finally, he said, “Most, yeah. Some probably ran. Though not many places left to run to.”
Addy looked out at the horizon again. The fields, the houses, the empty barns, they all looked frozen mid-breath, as if the people who’d lived here had… ceased. Like the world had shut its eyes and never opened them again.
They turned onto a narrow bridge that arched over what had once been a small river. Now it was barely moving, a sluggish vein of dark water threading through mud and dead reeds. The wind picked up, carrying a faint odor that made Addy’s stomach twist—sweet and sour, the unmistakable scent of decay.
Halfway across, Sawyer slowed the truck. “Damn,” he murmured.
Up ahead, a cluster of vehicles blocked the road, three cars and a delivery van, turned sideways as if they’d skidded to a stop in panic.
The doors hung open, windows covered with frost. A shopping bag lay torn in the middle of the road, its contents — cans, a box of crackers — scattered and half-frozen.
Addy’s breath hitched as she spotted movement off to the side. Not movement, she realized, shapes. Bodies.
They lay tangled on the riverbank below the bridge, half-hidden in the reeds. At first, she thought they were burned, but she saw the truth: blackened from rot, skin split and warped by the cold. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a cry as bile rose in her throat.
Sawyer reached across the seat, his hand brushing her shoulder, steady, warm even through their layers of fabric.
“Don’t look,” he said quietly.
But she already had. The image burned behind her eyelids no matter how tightly she shut them. Families—travelers who thought this bridge was their way out.
Sawyer’s hand lingered a second longer than it needed to, grounding her. The warmth of that touch, real, human, cut through the cold in a way that startled her. It had been so long since she’d experienced that. So long since she’d been reminded she wasn’t completely alone.
When he pulled his hand back, the absence of it ached.
He shifted the truck into park and scanned the cars ahead, eyes narrowing. “Stay here,” he said, his voice low. “Let me check it out first.”
Addy nodded, swallowing hard, trying to focus on the sound of the river below them instead of the silence of the bodies. She wanted to ask him how he could be so calm, how he was able to look at death and not flinch, but perhaps that was the only way to survive now.
Maybe calm was all that was left when fear had burned itself out.
Addy closed her eyes, pressing her palms against her knees to stop their trembling. The warmth from Sawyer’s hand lingered longer than it should have, spreading through her like an echo of something she hadn’t realized she’d been starving for.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced genuine human warmth, someone’s touch offered not out of fear or necessity, but simple, grounding connection. It had been years, if she was being honest.
Her mind drifted to Evan.
He’d been a quiet man, steady in that unassuming way that small-town people often were.
An accountant who kept to himself, always smelling faintly of paper and coffee.
They’d dated for almost four years, comfortable, predictable years.
He wasn’t the kind of man who set her heart racing, but he’d been kind. Safe.
She could still picture the little things: him reading on her couch, glasses slipping down his nose; the way he’d hum absentmindedly when balancing his books; the faint snore she used to nudge him for when he fell asleep halfway through a movie.
But over time, the spark had gone out quietly, like a candle in another room. No big fight, no betrayal—a slow drift into silence until there was nothing left to talk about. When they finally split, it had been mutual, easy even. She’d told herself it was for the best.
After that, she’d thrown herself into work, into lesson plans and late nights, into the steady comfort of solitude. Friends filled the gaps: wine nights, trivia at the local bar, weekend hikes. It wasn’t loneliness, she’d told herself. It was independence.
But sitting here now, staring out at a world that had gone still, she realized what she’d really been: isolated. Safe, but separate.
And all those faces that once made up her life, Evan, her coworkers, the friends who texted her memes late at night, they were gone.
The thought hit her like a blow to the chest. She drew a shaky breath, blinking hard, trying to push back the tears that threatened to blur her vision.
The driver’s side door creaked open, snapping her back to the present. Sawyer climbed in, the cold air rushing with him, biting at her cheeks.
“I think we can move the van,” he said, brushing frost from his jacket. His voice was steady, practical, but there was something softer under it, something that made her look up. “It’s wedged a little, but if we push together, we can make enough space to pass.”
Addy nodded quickly, swallowing the lump in her throat before she could speak. “Okay.” Her voice was hoarse, but she forced a small smile. “Just tell me what to do.”
Sawyer gave her a brief, assessing glance, his expression unreadable beneath the edge of his hood. “Stick close,” he said finally. “And watch your footing. It’s slick out there.”
As he climbed back out, Addy pulled her coat tighter, the ghost of warmth from his earlier touch still clinging to her skin. She opened the door and followed, her boots hitting the cold asphalt with a hollow sound.
Whatever came next—whatever waited beyond this bridge, she wasn’t facing it alone. Not anymore.
The wind cut sharply as Addy stepped out, biting through the layers of her coat. The bridge creaked faintly beneath their boots, the sound echoing into the empty air. She shoved her hands into her pockets as Sawyer rounded the front of the truck, squinting at the tangle of vehicles ahead.
The van sat crooked across the road, its nose angled into a rusted sedan. The driver’s door hung open. Sawyer walked over and gave it a shove; it didn’t budge.
“Jammed,” he muttered, glancing back at her. “We’ll push from the rear, enough to get one side clear. You ready?”
Addy nodded, though her stomach fluttered with nerves. “Yeah,” she said. “Ready.”
They moved together to the back of the van. The metal was icy against her gloves as she braced her palms against it. Sawyer crouched beside her, boots planted firmly, his breath a faint cloud in the cold air.
“On three,” he said.
She nodded, watching the side of his face—the sharp angle of his jaw, the faint scar near his temple, the way his dark hair stuck out from under his beanie. He looked carved from something tougher than the world they stood in.
“One… two… three.”
They shoved. The van groaned but didn’t move. Addy gritted her teeth and pushed harder, sensing the strain in her arms. Her boots slipped on the thin layer of ice beneath her, and she stumbled forward.
Before she could fall, Sawyer caught her by the elbow, steadying her with one quick motion. His grip was firm but careful, and for a heartbeat, their eyes met.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, breathless. “Yeah… didn’t expect the road to be this slick.”
He gave a short nod, eyes flicking briefly to her boots before returning to the van. “Try digging your feet in a little more. Use your weight, not your arms.”
They tried again. This time, the van shifted an inch, followed by another. The sound of ice cracking beneath the tires echoed across the bridge. Sawyer grunted, muscles straining under his jacket. Addy matched his rhythm, pushing until her arms trembled.
Finally, with a dull crunch, the van rolled a few feet to the side, enough for their truck to pass.
Sawyer exhaled hard, leaning against the door frame for a moment. “Good,” he said between breaths. “That should do it.”
Addy wiped her gloved hand across her forehead, though it did little to stop the sweat freezing on her skin. “I can’t believe that worked.”
He gave a faint smirk, small but real. “Teamwork.”
She smiled back, the word strange but good on her tongue. “Yeah. Teamwork.”