The Journal of David Harper

September 4, 2031, Footsteps in the Shadows

The air was colder this morning, like the world itself was sighing under the weight of all that's happened. Martha and I got just enough sleep to keep the nightmares at bay. Lizzie and Gracie, our dogs, stayed close, sensing our unease. The sun barely pierced the thick clouds when I finally dragged myself out of bed. Martha was already up, whispering her morning prayers, clutching the wooden cross around her neck like it was a lifeline. Maybe it was.

I started my own prayer, thanking God for another night of safety, but it was hard to concentrate. Too many racing thoughts. Too many what-ifs. The Zeeks were quiet last night, but sometimes the silence is worse. The world feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for something. We haven't seen anyone in days. Could be that people are hiding, or... well, I don't want to think about the other option.

As I prayed, a verse from Psalm 32 echoed in my mind: "You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance." I repeated it, trying to calm my nerves. It was easier to find peace in moments like this, where the silence made space for whispers of God's presence, the same presence that filled the garden before Adam and Eve were deceived. I thought of that moment, when God called to them, asking, "Where are you?" Even in their disobedience, He sought them out, and I wondered if He still sought us in the midst of this broken world.

We ate breakfast in silence. Martha managed to make some oatmeal with the camp stove we keep for emergencies. It was bland but warm. I thanked God for it anyway. When I looked up, I saw Martha standing by our backyard window, staring at something beyond the trees near Fontenelle Forest.

"What is it?" I asked, moving to stand beside her.

"Not sure," she replied quietly. "I thought I saw someone. A man."

I strained my eyes but saw only shadows through the brush.

"Maybe it was my imagination," she added, though her gaze didn't waver.

A knot tightened in my stomach. If it was someone, maybe they were like us—just trying to survive. But we couldn't be too trusting. I grabbed the shotgun by the door. Martha frowned but didn't protest. She knew it was necessary.

We decided to check the tree line, the dogs following, their tails low. Every step into the woods deepened the shade, the crunch of leaves and snap of branches echoing in the quiet. Then I saw it—footprints. Fresh ones, leading toward the house.

"Martha," I whispered, "we're not alone."

We didn't have to look long. A man stumbled out of the brush, hands raised. Tall, mid-thirties, with a scruffy beard and hollow cheeks, he was clearly in bad shape.

"Please, don't shoot!" he rasped. "I'm not one of them."

I kept the shotgun ready. Martha, always softer in moments like this, stepped closer.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Jacob," he said, voice trembling. "I've been running for days. They... they got my wife and son." His voice cracked. "I just need a place to rest."

Martha turned to me, her eyes full of compassion. "David, he's not a threat."

I wasn't so sure, but his eyes darted around like he was expecting a Zeek to jump out at any second. I lowered the gun but kept it close.

"You can stay for now," I said. "But if you bring trouble—"

"I won't," Jacob interrupted, shaking his head. "I swear."

Back at the house, we gave him some water and a blanket. Martha watched over him while I kept my distance, my gut uneasy. His story didn't add up, but Martha trusted her heart more than her head. I sighed, wishing I could have that kind of faith—the kind that saw beyond the immediate, like Jesus when He said, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life." Martha lived by that truth every day, and even now, in the middle of all this madness, she held on to it like it was the only thing keeping her afloat.

By midday, the tension in the house was thick. Jacob slept on the couch, his breathing heavy and labored. I kept checking the windows, scanning the tree line.

That's when I heard it. A whisper. Barely audible, but clear.

"You have to go," the voice said.

I turned to Martha, who stood by the door, her eyes wide.

"Did you hear that?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Hear what?"

Before I could explain, Jacob stirred on the couch, clutching his chest.

"They're coming," he gasped. "The Zeeks."

I hurried to the window. A low growl echoed from down the street, followed by the shuffling of countless feet. The air thickened with dread as the eerie chorus of moans rose—a haunting symphony of hunger closing in.

We had to leave. Now.

We grabbed the go-bags I'd packed after the initial chaos. The dogs barked, sensing the danger. As we rushed out the back door into the cold air, I whispered a prayer, gripping my cross tightly. "Lord, guide us. Protect us."

At that moment, the clouds parted slightly, a beam of sunlight breaking through. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Enough to remind me of the truth I'd felt earlier—that in His closeness, we are safe. We weren't alone, even as the darkness closed in. Together, Martha, Jacob, and I would push back the shadows, trusting that God's light would lead us through.