9. The After #2
Addy stood, brushing her hands on her jeans. “All right, then. We hunker down. I can check the perimeter in the mornings, make sure nothing’s gotten too close. You can work on… whatever it is you do with the maps and plans.”
“Deal,” he said, pulling his gloves back on. Then, with a softer tone, “You don’t have to go out alone, though.”
“I can handle it,” she said, but her smile undercut the stubbornness. “I’ll holler if I see any bears, or an infected.”
Sawyer’s mouth twitched into that small, rare grin she’d started to recognize. “You do that.”
They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, stacking the last of the firewood near the door. The cabin seemed sturdier now, less like a temporary refuge and more like a place that could hold out against the winter.
As Addy closed the shutters for the night, she caught sight of Sawyer standing near the window, staring out into the gray treeline. The muscles in his jaw were tight; his expression unreadable.
“Something’s wrong?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly. “No. Just… thinking about what’s out there.”
Addy followed his gaze. The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, cold and still, hiding whatever was left of the world.
“Whatever it is,” she said softly, “we’ll face it when it comes.”
He turned to her, eyes meeting hers in the dim light. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “We will.”
* * *
The cold came early that morning, sharper than the day before.
Addy’s breath fogged in front of her face as she stepped out onto the porch, rifle slung over her shoulder, and the world still muted with frost. The lake glimmered, and the air carried that hollow stillness that always came before snow.
She’d told Sawyer she’d check the perimeter, and he hadn’t argued. He’d only handed her a spare radio and said, “Call if you see anything.” Then he’d gone back to the truck, checking the engine like he always did, needing to stay busy, needing control.
Addy descended the steps slowly, boots crunching against the frozen ground. The woods beyond the clearing were quiet except for the occasional groan of tree limbs shifting in the wind. A squirrel darted through the underbrush somewhere nearby, the only real sign of life she’d seen in days.
She moved along the edge of the treeline, eyes scanning for movement. Everything looked the same: the cabin, the truck, the wide stretch of lake, until something small broke the pattern.
Tracks.
They started near the far side of the cabin — faint impressions pressed into the thin layer of frost. Too large to be an animal, too deep to be Sawyer’s. The shape was wrong too; uneven, dragging slightly on one side.
Addy crouched, heart thudding. The prints weren’t fresh, definitely a few hours old, but they hadn’t been there yesterday.
She followed them a few paces before they disappeared into the shadow of the trees; the frost disturbed, but not enough to tell in which direction the person, if it was a person, had gone.
A shiver crawled up her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
She raised the radio. “Sawyer,” she said quietly. “You copy?”
Static crackled for a moment before his voice came through, steady as ever. “Yeah, go ahead.”
“There’s… something you should see.”
He was there within minutes, moving quickly but quietly, eyes scanning as she pointed toward the ground. He crouched beside her, studying the tracks, jaw tightening.
“Not mine,” he said finally.
“I figured,” she replied.
He traced the outline of one print with his gloved hand. Perhaps it was a passerby. Could be more than one.”
Addy swallowed, looking toward the trees. “Do you think they saw the cabin?”
“Hard to say.” He stood, scanning the treeline again. “But if they did, they’ll be back.”
Her stomach turned. “You think it’s the sick?”
He didn’t answer right away. “Possibly,” he said. “Or not. Either way, we’re not alone out here.”
The wind picked up, carrying the faint creak of branches from deeper in the forest. The sound made Addy’s skin prickle.
“What do we do?” she asked.
Sawyer looked back toward the cabin, eyes narrowing. “We stay sharp. Check the windows; keep the fire low tonight. And Addy—”
“Yeah?”
“If anything seems off, anything at all, don’t hesitate. You understand?”
She nodded, her fingers tightening around the rifle strap. “I understand.”
They walked back toward the cabin together, the crunch of frost beneath their boots sounding far too loud in the silence that followed.
Behind them, the woods stood still, but Addy couldn’t shake the feeling that something in there was watching.
* * *
Back inside, Addy sat on the edge of the sofa, trying to warm her hands near the low fire Sawyer had started. The room was quiet except for the faint crackle of burning wood and the distant moan of the wind outside.
She should’ve felt safe, the cabin solid, the door barred, Sawyer moving somewhere nearby with that calm, capable energy of his — but her mind wouldn’t settle.
The image of those footprints out in the frost replayed over and over, each print a reminder that their fragile peace could be shattered at any moment.
Her mind went to the night before, lying beside him in that narrow bed, both of them pretending to be asleep longer than they actually were. Every time she shifted, every time the blankets rustled, she sensed the awareness between them, a pulse that neither of them dared to acknowledge.
And now, after seeing those tracks, that small flicker of comfort seemed almost dangerous. Because what if Sawyer was right? What if things had really fallen that far, where people would kill for food, for warmth, for the illusion of safety?
Her stomach twisted as the thought deepened. What if they weren’t just strangers out there? What if they were desperate? And what if Sawyer’s warning about women, about how unsafe things had become, wasn’t just talk?
She shuddered, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
The world used to have laws, neighbors, police — all the invisible things that made people think they were safe. Now there were just the two of them, and luck, and whatever courage they could scrape together.
She glanced toward the door where Sawyer had gone silent. Addy knew where he’d gone. He’d been talking about setting traps since yesterday, a mix of practicality and habit, the kind of thing a man like him didn’t need to think twice about.
She’d watched him from the porch as he moved through the clearing, methodical as always.
He’d carried a small pack slung over one shoulder, coils of wire, and a handful of snares he’d made the night before using scraps of line from his emergency packs.
It fascinated her how easily he turned ordinary junk into something useful.