Chapter 3 - Charles

As his truck lumbered down the gravel path, Charles watched the home he’d shared with Katherine for over a decade dwindle in the rearview mirror, swallowed quickly by the pines and other trees that enveloped the winding path leading down the mountain and away from their secluded sanctuary. As he rumbled down the glorified driveway, he could hear the sounds of work echoing through the forest surrounding their mountaintop home.

Remote as it was, he still had what could loosely pass as neighbors dotting the mountain. When the “pandemic” broke out—and even the news broadcasts had given up hiding the fact that large cities were falling—he and his neighbors formed a council of sorts to decide what to do next. Their decision was happening all around him now. The small group—what they were now calling a community—had pooled their resources, including an excavator and a sizeable earth mover, to clear the area around their homes and use the felled trees to build a makeshift wall. Scaling the mountainside itself would be difficult enough, but the wall would help even more.

The only real weak point was the path Charles was currently trundling down. They had improvised a barrier out of a flatbed tow truck, piling concrete bags on it and spraying them down so they’d harden. It allowed them to station a guard there and move it when needed. Something more permanent would eventually be required, but for now it worked. Even though they were far out of the way—roughly ten miles from the nearest small country town—they still attracted the occasional straggling undead, especially with all the noise from the fortification efforts.

When Charles reached the bottom of the path that normally led to the town road, he saw the tow‑truck blockade exactly where he expected. Sitting atop it, completely at ease with an old hunting rifle across his lap, was a tall, lanky man named Jimmy. He was someone’s nephew or cousin who had happened to be visiting when the world decided all the graves were full. He certainly wasn’t the brightest, but he was a deadly shot with that rifle—something proven by the number of bodies strewn across the road at roughly the same distance from his tow‑truck perch.

Jimmy lowered the binoculars he’d been using to peer down the road and nodded as Charles put the truck in park and stepped out to approach the blockade. In one lithe motion, Jimmy hopped down from the truck’s roof and swaggered over to meet him halfway. He smirked as he looked Charles over, clearly not impressed.

“Headin’ out?” Jimmy asked, his southern drawl thick. His wide mouth showed off the prominently missing tooth he sported.

“Yeah,” Charles replied, fidgeting with the straps on his MOLLE carrier.

“Ya know when you’ll be back dis’ way?”

“No, not really. Could be a long time.” How long, he had no idea.

“Well, a’ight then. Let’s get you outta here.” Jimmy chuckled as he turned back to the tow truck, fishing the keys from his pocket. Charles caught him mutter something under his breath—something he wasn’t meant to hear. “Gonna be a damn shame to lose all that nice stuff.”

Charles squeezed back into his truck and pulled forward once the behemoth of a mobile gate was out of the way. As he passed, Jimmy was already backing it into place again. With the windows down, Charles heard him scramble back up to his shooter’s perch.

He straightened out the truck and was just starting to go when he caught sight of something: a lone walking corpse trying to climb the steep hillside toward the workers operating the machinery far above. It managed only a few feet before inevitably losing its footing and sliding back into the drainage ditch along the road, where it clawed around before righting itself and trying again.

Charles put the truck in park and stepped out. He glanced back at Jimmy, who was lining up a shot.

“Let me take care of that one,” Charles said, his voice tight. Not out of confidence—out of a need to prove to himself that he could.

Jimmy relaxed as Charles turned back toward the undead man failing to climb the natural barrier. Charles strode purposefully toward it, trying to wear as much confidence as he could. At about fifty yards, he stopped, took a firing stance, and drew his sidearm. It was a clone of the one he’d given Katherine: a CZ‑P10F, a large Czech handgun chambered in 9mm—accurate and reliable. He’d done his homework years ago and bought one for himself and one for her so they could share parts and holsters. She hated the thing.

That was when the corpse noticed him. It lurched upright again and started in his direction. Not slow, not fast—just determined, with singular purpose.

Charles could see it clearly now, and bile rose in his throat. The man had been through hell before dying. His blue button‑down shirt was missing several buttons, exposing ravaged flesh beneath. The skin and meat of one arm looked filleted, hanging on by little more than hope. A large portion of his scalp was a bloody mess, as though ripped away by force.

Remembering his practice, Charles set his grip and stance. He had time to make this count. Mastering his breathing, he centered his sight picture and snapped off a shot.

He’d forgotten how loud a firearm was without hearing protection. His ears rang instantly, his head feeling stuffed with cotton. But his aim was true. The corpse shuddered slightly as the round punched through its center chest.

Charles’s brief smile fell. The shot had done nothing to slow it.

All that training, all that muscle memory—and he’d forgotten what the early reports had said.

“Reports are coming in that only significant damage to the brain or spinal column will stop them…” the stunned news anchor had said from their living room TV, only a day after the world had ended.

Charles raised his aim, but his hands were shaking. Panic was settling in. And panic led to mistakes.

The thing was around twenty‑five yards away now—a distance he was normally confident at, having practiced countless hours on 8‑inch steel targets. He reset himself and fired again… and missed completely.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breathing quickened. He chased the corpse’s methodically swaying head with his reticle and fired several more shots, praying something would land. Most didn’t. One clipped its shoulder. Another shattered its jaw, sending the head spinning and staggering the creature sideways for a moment.

It bought him just enough time to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and release the panic.

Shoot where it’s going to be, he told himself.

When he opened his eyes, he did exactly that. He set his aim, let the zombie’s swaying motion carry its head into his point of aim, and pulled the trigger cleanly.

He knew it hit the moment the striker fell. Sometimes you just knew.

The corpse’s head snapped back. Its whole body rocked, threatening to fall backward before pitching forward and collapsing like discarded meat—only ten yards away.

Now was his chance. He could turn back, admit he wasn’t cut out for what he’d set out to do. He knew he’d see far worse than this out there, while relative safety and comfort sat behind him. His feet shifted unconsciously as fear and doubt tumbled through his mind.

But with a tightening of his jaw and the realization settling in, he knew that even if he died out there, he had found something worth living for.

He risked a glance back at Jimmy, who was shaking his head in amusement. Maybe it was a good thing Charles couldn’t hear anything at the moment as he climbed back into his truck and headed in the general direction of Texas.