The Journal of David Harper

September 5, 2031, Whispers in the Wilderness

The morning fog clung to the forest, heavy and thick, smothering every sound around us. Even Lizzie and Gracie, our usually energetic dogs, were unnaturally quiet. As we packed up camp, Jacob rubbed his leg, his limp worse than yesterday. Martha, ever the caregiver, suggested we stop and rest.

"We can't," I muttered, keeping my gaze fixed on the trees. "They're close."

Martha's hand settled on my shoulder, her cross swaying gently with the motion. "David, have faith. The Lord will guide us."

I wanted to believe her, but fear gnawed at my resolve. The Zeeks were near—those infected, mindless creatures. They didn't care about our prayers, and Jacob certainly didn't. He grimaced as he stood, leaning heavily on his makeshift crutch.

"Faith is fine, but we need more than that. Those things—Zeeks, or whatever we call them—they don't care about our prayers," Jacob snapped bitterly, his voice betraying his doubt. His words stung, casting doubt over my own faith.

As we trudged through the dense undergrowth, I found myself whispering Psalm 23:4, hoping its familiar words would offer comfort: "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..." But today, even Scripture felt distant.

Then, in a moment of clarity, I recalled Jesus' promise: "I am with you always." I felt an undeniable presence around me—something familiar and steadying. It was as though every word was imbued with authority and love. In that moment, I felt Him with us, walking through the darkness, His hand a gentle guide. The realization settled over me like a balm. It wasn't just any voice; it was His.

Self-reliance, I realized, had been creeping in. I was trying to control our escape, plan every step—relying on myself rather than God. It was subtle, the way it slithered into my heart, a feeling that I had to take charge. Closing my eyes briefly, I prayed, Lord, help me depend on You. Apart from You, I can do nothing.

A low growl snapped me from my thoughts—the dogs were tense, their ears pricked forward. I froze, tightening my grip on the shotgun. In the clearing ahead, a figure emerged from the mist. This time, it wasn't a fleeting apparition. A man, tall and disheveled, with ragged clothes smeared in dried mud, stood motionless. His wild eyes—hollow and desperate—met mine, stirring the same unsettling feeling as the presence from the night before.

Jacob stepped back cautiously. "Who's there?" His voice shook.

The man cocked his head, stepping forward slowly. "They're coming," he rasped. "The Zeeks... they follow me."

Panic gripped my chest as I positioned myself between the man and Martha. "Why? What do they want with you?"

"They think... they think I'm one of them," he croaked, lifting his hand. His pale, almost translucent skin bore a jagged scar running along his wrist. "They can smell the infection."

Martha gasped, pulling Jacob away. "David, he's infected."

A chill raced through me as the man stepped closer, locking eyes with me. Fear and desperation flickered within them. He fumbled in his jacket and pulled out a small, rusted cross. "I'm not... I'm not like them," he pleaded. "Help me."

Before I could respond, a piercing shriek tore through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of branches snapping. The Zeeks were closing in.

"We have to move," Jacob hissed, his knuckles white around his branch. The man stumbled toward us, breath ragged. "I know a place... a place they won't follow." Against my better judgment, I nodded. "Lead the way."