The Hunted

The morning air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. Chris stood at the edge of the clearing, his eyes scanning the treeline where Mike had disappeared the night before. The fire had long since died, leaving only a thin trail of smoke that curled into the gray sky like a ghost. He clenched his jaw, the weight of the decision pressing down on his shoulders.

“We can’t let him get away,” Trey said, his voice low and hard. He stood beside Chris, a crowbar clutched in his hands. “He knows where we are. He’ll come back with more of them.”

Chris nodded slowly, his mind racing. Mike had been the one to suggest the route through the woods, the one who always volunteered for watch duty, the one who seemed too calm when the dead shambled near. Now it all made sense. The disappearances, the whispers, the way supplies went missing. Mike had been playing them from the start.