The Hollers Go Quiet

The silence was the first thing that truly unsettled me. Not the quiet of a peaceful night, but a hollow, expectant hush that pressed in on all sides. For days, the world had been a cacophony of sirens, screams, and the guttural roars of the infected. Now, it was as if a giant hand had clamped over the mouth of the world.

“Anything?” Sarah’s voice, raspy from lack of sleep and too much worry, crackled over the walkie-talkie. We were holed up in the church basement, a motley crew of survivors clinging to each other like shipwrecked sailors. Jesse, bless his steady hands, had managed to get a few of the old radios working, but mostly, they just hissed static.

“Nothin’ but ghosts,” I replied, my own voice sounding alien in the sudden stillness. I was looking at a map spread across a rough-hewn table, tracing the thin lines that represented the roads leading out of Black Creek, out into the hollers. Those were the places where folks lived close to the land, where families had been for generations, tucked away in the folds of the Appalachian mountains. We’d lost contact with them hours ago, and the silence was a lead weight in my gut.