5. The Cabin
Five
The Cabin
They moved slowly down the back roads; the tires bumping over frost-hardened ruts.
The deeper they went, the wilder the world around them became; trees leaning over the road like sentinels on guard, brush thick and tangled, the air carrying that sharp, damp scent of late fall.
Addy had long stopped asking what Sawyer was looking for.
Every few minutes, he’d slow, squint toward a side trail or an old signpost, then mutter a quiet, “No, not that one,” before driving on.
To her, the cabins they’d already passed looked fine, better than fine, honestly.
Most were small, sturdy-looking places tucked into the trees, their porches sagging but intact.
She would’ve been happy to take any of them, but each time she’d start to say so, Sawyer would shake his head and press forward.
By the time they’d passed the third one, Addy’s patience had worn thin. “They all look the same to me,” she muttered. “What exactly are we looking for?”
Sawyer didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, scanning. “I’ll know when we find it,” he said finally. “Something defensible. Off the line of sight from the road. If we can see it easily, someone else can too.”
She sighed and leaned her head against the cold window.
The forest outside had grown denser, trees packed tight together, their branches woven overhead like ribs.
Fallen leaves matted the ground in dull golds and browns, hiding the old ruts of forgotten driveways.
It seemed like they were driving straight into nowhere.
Then, without warning, Sawyer slowed and turned the wheel sharply onto what barely counted as a road. Two narrow tire tracks wound through the brush, disappearing into the trees.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Addy said. “That doesn’t even look like a path.”
He gave her a half-smile. “Trust me.”
The truck lurched and bumped along, branches scraping against the sides.
The track twisted deeper and deeper into the woods, winding back so far that Addy started to wonder if they’d have to turn around.
Her stomach tightened; she was about to say something when the trees thinned, and suddenly the cabin came into view.
It stood a little above the ground, perched on thick wooden stilts that had darkened with age.
Moss crept up the base, and the steps leading to the front porch leaned slightly to one side.
The roof was tin and rust-streaked, but intact.
Beyond it, a small lake shimmered pale and still beneath the gray sky, ringed with reeds and cattails.
The air carried the scent of water and pine, and cold earth.
Addy blinked. After miles of nothing, the sight of it seemed almost unreal. It was small and worn, but in this world, it looked like safety.
Sawyer let out a low whistle. “This,” he said, his voice threaded with satisfaction, “is it.”
“You know this place?” Addy asked, surprised by the hint of recognition in his tone.
He nodded, cutting the engine and stepping out.
“Sort of. I remember spotting it from the lake a few years back when I was fishing. Always thought it was smart, built off the ground, good visibility from all sides. Harder for animals or people to sneak up on. Didn’t know exactly where it was, though. Guess I do now.”
He walked around to the back of the truck and swung open the tailgate, pulling out his worn duffel bag; and to Addy’s surprise, he reached in and lifted out a rifle—sleek, black, and well cared for.
Addy froze, her pulse jumping. She hadn’t realized he had a gun. She supposed she should have expected it; Sawyer seemed like the type, but seeing it in his hands still startled her. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what to say.
Sawyer must have sensed her hesitation. “Relax,” he said, checking the chamber before slinging the rifle over his shoulder. “I’m not planning to use it unless we have to. But I’d rather have it and not need it than the other way around.”
She nodded slowly. The logic made sense, and honestly, the sight of the weapon, though unsettling, made her feel safer. There was something about the way he handled it: calm, practiced, controlled. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Stay here,” he said, moving toward the porch. “I’ll check it first. Make sure we’re alone.”
Addy stayed by the truck, watching as he disappeared through the cabin’s open doorway.
The sound of his boots echoed inside, followed by the creak of floorboards and the faint thud of doors being opened and shut.
The lake behind her rippled in the breeze, quiet except for the whisper of water lapping at the shore.
A minute later, Sawyer reappeared in the doorway. “Clear,” he called out.
Addy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way toward the cabin, the old steps groaning beneath her feet.
It wasn’t much, she could tell that even from the porch, but it was something. A roof. Four walls. A small piece of safety.
* * *
Sawyer dropped the tailgate with a dull thud, his breath fogging in the cold afternoon air.
“We should take stock of what’s here,” he said, scanning the cabin and its small porch.
“Check everything: windows, the wood stove, see if there’s any water access nearby.
Tomorrow, we’ll figure out how far the town is and scope it out.
See if we can scrounge up some supplies. ”
Addy nodded, trying to push through the fatigue that was beginning to drag at her.
The promise of warmth, of shelter, was almost enough to make her collapse right where she stood.
But Sawyer was already moving, efficient as always, and she found herself watching him with a strange mix of curiosity and awe.
He reached into the bed of the truck and pulled out two large plastic totes, gray and scuffed, each sealed tight with latches. Addy frowned. She hadn’t noticed them before, not through all the chaos of the last few days.
“What are those?” She asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
Sawyer hefted one of the totes easily, carrying it toward the porch.
“Insurance,” he said. “When things started going bad, before the comms dropped, I stocked up on some gear. Food, water filters, batteries. A few things that don’t expire.
” He set the first tote down with a solid thunk.
“Figured if I had to leave fast, I’d rather not do it empty-handed. ”
Addy blinked. Of course he had. The man was basically a walking survival manual. She folded her arms and watched as he returned for the second tote, his movements steady and unhurried.
“You really have everything, don’t you?” she said, a little laugh slipping out despite herself.
He smirked faintly without looking up. “Not everything. But enough to stay alive.”
She shook her head, smiling to herself. Stay alive. He made it sound so simple. As if survival were another task on a list to check off.
As she watched him haul the second tote up the steps, her mind wandered, an uninvited, treacherous drift. The way his shoulders moved under the faded green jacket. The low rasp of his voice when he spoke. The calm on his face, even when the world around them was chaos.
Her stomach tightened. She hadn’t thought about someone like that in… years. Not since Evan. And even that had been a comfort, a routine—nothing like the sudden heat curling under her skin now.
She wondered, for a second, what Sawyer would taste like if she leaned in close enough.
Her eyes widened, and she mentally slapped herself. God, Addy, get a grip.
She turned away, pretending to adjust her pack, cheeks warming under the cold air. It’s not an attraction, she told herself. It’s adrenaline. End of the world. He looks good because there’s literally no one else left.
Still… when she glanced back at him, lifting the heavy tote with effortless strength, the argument didn’t seem quite as convincing.
Sawyer caught her looking and raised an eyebrow. “You gonna stand there staring or help me check these supplies?”
Addy cleared her throat, forcing herself to move. “Right. Yeah. Supplies.”
“Good,” he said, that small, knowing smirk returning for a second. “Because if we’re going to stay here for a while, it’s going to take both of us to make this place work.”
She followed him inside, the floor creaking under their steps, the air thick with the scent of dust and old wood. Addy felt something almost normal, a strange flutter of hope tangled with nerves.
* * *
The cabin was definitely old, one of those places that looked as though time had just…
stopped. Dust mites drifted lazily through bands of evening light slipping through the cracked windowpanes.
It was one big, open room, simple but solid.
A massive stone fireplace dominated one corner, blackened from years of use, with a small love seat pushed in front of it.
To the left sat a narrow kitchen, if you could even call it that, with a stove straight out of Little House on the Prairie, a hand pump jutting from a chipped porcelain sink, and three warped cupboards that looked like they’d been holding on through sheer willpower.
On the far side of the room, a single bed rested under a slanted window. The plaid bedspread looked faded but clean enough; the mattress was surprisingly thick for a place this rustic. Addy’s eyes lingered on it a moment too long. One bed. Of course.
Great, she thought with a dry laugh. One bed and one couch. Guess that answers who’s getting the short straw.
She glanced at the love seat again, narrow, lumpy-looking, definitely not meant for sleeping.
But honestly, she didn’t care. Sleep. That was all she wanted.
Sleep without the stench of decay, without the groans of the sick echoing in the distance.
Sleep where she might actually feel safe for the first time in weeks.