The world smelled like wet rot.
Mud clung to Jake's boots as he trudged through the trees, each step making a soft sucking noise. The storm had passed sometime before dawn, but the damage was everywhere. Fallen limbs, half-uprooted saplings, puddles the size of small ponds.
His shelter was gone.
One trap washed out.
His bowstring slack with water.
Everything he had left was in his jacket pockets and this half-ruined backpack.
Jake's stomach hadn't stopped aching since yesterday. Hunger was starting to move past sharp and settle into something dull and empty. A strange, hollow pressure under his ribs, like his body was slowly forgetting what it was supposed to do.
He wasn't sure if that was better or worse.
By mid-morning, his hands were raw again, scraped from pushing aside wet branches and fallen debris. The cold bit into the cuts like tiny needles. Every step sent a jolt through his blistered feet. The new boots weren't breaking in easy. They pinched. Rubbed his ankles raw. But they were dry, and that was worth bleeding for.
Jake followed the slope of the land without thinking. Instinct. Downhill meant water. Water meant maybe food. Or danger. Didn't matter anymore.
A thin ribbon of stream wound between the trees ahead. The water was fast, cloudy with mud. He crouched by it, cupping a handful and drinking. It tasted like dirt and old leaves. His throat burned on the way down.
Better than nothing.
He stayed like that for a while, watching the water. His reflection shimmered in the current — pale, hollow-eyed, hair matted to his head. He looked like a ghost. A ghost with a knife in one hand and a bow that barely worked in the other.
His father wouldn't recognize him.
His mother wouldn't want to.
Jake's fingers brushed over the frayed bowstring, testing it. Still wet. Weak. Would snap if he pulled too hard. No good for hunting today.
A sigh escaped him, white in the cold air.
He was about to move on when something caught his eye — a break in the treeline ahead. The ground dipped slightly. A mound half buried in snow and debris. Not natural.
A shape.
Jake crept closer, scanning for walkers. Nothing moved. The world was still.
It was a shack. Or what used to be one.
Half-collapsed, sunken into the earth, walls canted at an angle. The roof was long gone, beams broken and blackened by rot. But one side had held up — a narrow, dark hollow beneath the leaning structure.
He crouched low, peering inside.
The space was cramped, barely big enough for him to crawl into. The floor was packed dirt and old leaves, some dry, some slick with water. A matted pile of animal bones sat in one corner, gnawed clean. Raccoons, maybe. Or something else.
Jake's stomach tightened.
Could've been worse.
Could've been a body.
He slipped inside.
It wasn't warm. But it was dry. Mostly. The air smelled of dust and mold, but the ground wasn't waterlogged. He could stretch out without his head or feet getting wet.
Better than the hollow tree.
Better than nothing.
He dropped his bag and started digging through the mess in the corner. Old tools rusted to uselessness. A coil of wire. Broken bottles. A rusted shovel blade with no handle.
And a bundle of long, straight branches tied together with rotten twine.
Jake blinked.
Staves.
Maybe they'd been meant for fence posts.
Or old tent poles.
Didn't matter. They were dry. Straight. Long enough for arrows. A few thin enough for a proper bowstring if he unwound them.
It felt like a miracle.
Jake sat cross-legged in the dirt, carefully testing each piece. Three good shafts. Two cracked but maybe usable. The splinters bit into his fingers, but he didn't care.
For the first time in days, his pulse quickened.
A reason to do something besides endure.
He grabbed the dull knife and started working. Peeling bark. Scraping points. Shaving the ends to a rough taper. His hands shook, half from cold, half from hunger.
"Dad would've known how to make these," Jake muttered.
His voice sounded strange in the hollow.
He chewed his lip, forced the thought away.
Didn't matter now.
No one to show him the right way.
No one to say if it was good enough.
Just him.
By the time dusk settled in, he had three new arrows leaning against the wall. Rough. No fletching. But straight. Strong enough to stab through soft meat if he got close.
He even managed to unravel a length of old wire from the coil. Stiff but better than twine. He re-strung the bow carefully, testing the draw. It held. For now.
The hollow had a corner dry enough for a small fire.
Jake built it slow.
Gathered dry leaves. Thin twigs. Fed the spark carefully.
When the flame caught, it was the first real warmth he'd felt in days.
He leaned close, eyes half-lidded against the smoke, and let the heat soak into his skin. His stomach cramped again. The last half of the protein bar sat in his pocket.
He ate it slowly.
One small bite at a time.
Tasting nothing.
Feeling it hit his stomach like a stone.
But it was food.
It was survival.
The fire snapped softly, and for a moment, the hollow felt like a place people might've once called home.
Jake sat against the wall, the bow resting in his lap, and stared at the flames.
"Still here."
His voice was a low rasp.
No one answered.
Didn't matter.
He stayed like that, long after the fire died down to coals.
And when the wind howled outside, he didn't flinch.