Love is Dead

A Cabin in the Woods

The morning broke with a sky painted in muted grays, streaked with hints of pale gold that did little to warm the earth below. Carmen adjusted the strap of her pack and pulled her jacket tighter against the cold, glancing over at Logan. He was already moving, taking the lead, his uneven gait steady and unhurried. He always moved that way—calm, deliberate, like the world's weight wasn't pressing down on him the way it did on her.

"You sure this is the right way?" Carmen asked, trying to match his pace as they walked down the overgrown road.

Logan didn't look back at her, his mismatched eyes scanning the path ahead. His voice came low and gravelly when he spoke. "It is. Been there before."

She caught a glimpse of his profile, the way his eyes darted between the trees and the cracked road beneath them. He moved with a quiet confidence, the same way he had when he'd led them through the wreckage of cities and across barren fields.

There was no map in his hands. He didn't need one. Logan had an instinct for finding places—old ones, forgotten ones. He knew where the base was because he'd been out here long enough to learn the land, long enough to survive when others would've given up. And despite everything—despite what he had become—he still moved like a man who knew his world.

Carmen kept her thoughts to herself, watching him as he led them through the wilderness. He wasn't human anymore—not fully—but the way he held himself, the way he carried himself, made her forget that for a moment.

The base, if it even existed, was their last hope. A safe haven. But they had no guarantees. Only Logan's word—and that was enough for her, despite the unease still twisting in her stomach.

By midday, they had made good progress. The trees began to thin out, and the road stretched ahead, cracked and overgrown but still passable. Logan's steps never faltered, and Carmen followed behind him, trying to ignore the tightening in her chest.

They came to a patch of abandoned vehicles, half-buried in dirt and moss. Logan slowed, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area.

"Tracks," he muttered.

"People?" Carmen asked, instinctively reaching for the rusty pole she carried.

"Maybe," Logan said, crouching to examine the ground. "Could've passed through here days ago, but we keep moving."

His tone was calm, almost detached like he wasn't concerned at all. But Carmen knew better than to think he wasn't keeping track of every rustling leaf, every creaking branch, and every whisper of movement in the air.

She nodded, but the unease lingered. They kept walking, and Logan led them farther along the road, his pace unwavering.

The sound of rushing water filled the air a few hours later, and the river came into view, cutting through the trees like a jagged scar. Carmen knelt to refill their canteens while Logan kept watch, his posture as alert as ever.

"You sure this is the fastest way?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Logan glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "Fastest? No. But it's the safest."

She didn't press him on it. She'd learned not to. When Logan said something was safer, it usually was.

The water was freezing, but they made quick work of crossing, each step cautious on the slick rocks beneath the surface. As they climbed up the opposite bank, Carmen couldn't help but notice how easy it was for Logan to navigate the uneven ground, his injured leg barely slowing him down.