The outskirts of Jackson Township stretched out like a forgotten battlefield, where the remnants of suburbia bled into wild slowly. I'd been slipping out here every morning for the past month, long before the first light cracked the horizon, leaving the house while the others were still wrapped in whatever fragile sleep they could snatch. The air was always crisp at this hour, carrying the faint scent of dew-soaked grass mixed with the metallic tang of rust from abandoned cars. The roads—once smooth arteries connecting quiet neighborhoods—were now fractured veins of cracked asphalt, overgrown with weeds that pushed through every fissure like nature's slow revenge. Scattered houses dotted the landscape, their windows shattered or boarded up, roofs sagging under the weight of neglect. Some still had faded American flags hanging limp from porches.

This particular stretch, the eastern approach to the township, was my domain. I'd transformed it into a gauntlet of death, one painstaking spike at a time. It all started after we'd scouted the old radio station and glimpsed the horror waiting inside—the Screamer. That thing wasn't just another alien weapon; it was a living nightmare, capable of unleashing wails that could shatter eardrums and summon hordes of infected from miles around. One full-throated scream from it, and Jackson Township would be overrun. Our house, with its makeshift fortifications and the group I wanted to protect, would be the first to fall. The Municipal Office community—our best allies—wouldn't stand a chance either. We couldn't risk going after it until the defenses were ironclad. So, every dawn, while Rachel and the others slept, I came out here to build them. It was my penance, my purpose, the only way I could move forward.

The main road was my crowning achievement, a deadly maze I'd carved into the concrete over countless mornings. I'd started with basic pitfalls—shallow trenches filled with sharpened rebar scavenged from construction sites—but that wasn't enough. Using pickaxes I'd looted from abandoned hardware stores and crowbars reinforced with scrap metal, I'd dug deep into the roadbed, breaking through layers of asphalt and gravel that fought back like they knew what I was doing.

The spikes were a brutal assortment: steel rods I'd hammered to razor points in Mark's improvised forge at the Municipal Office, wooden stakes I'd carved from fallen oaks and fire-hardened until they could punch through bone. I drove them into the ground at calculated angles—low ones to snag feet and ankles, mid-height to impale torsos, tall ones wrapped in coils of razor wire I'd stripped from old chain-link fences. The spacing was precise: just wide enough for a skilled driver to zigzag through in a car if they knew the pattern, but a deathtrap for anything without a brain. Infected didn't think; they shambled straight ahead, drawn by some primal instinct toward noise or scent or the promise of flesh. They'd charge in, get snagged on a wire, impaled on a spike, and either bleed out in agony or thrash until I came to end it.

I'd extended the traps to every major entry point around the township—north, south, west, and east. The northern road, winding through what used to be farmland, now had pits lined with upward-pointing stakes, camouflaged with debris to catch the unwary. The southern approach, flanked by derelict strip malls, featured tripwires connected to dangling blades that would swing down like pendulums. It was exhausting work, my mornings filled with the grind of digging, hammering, and testing. My hands were callused maps of scars now, but the Dullahan Virus made it bearable—hell, it made me stronger. The virus hummed in my veins, amplifying my endurance, letting me work for hours without fatigue. But it wasn't just physical; it sharpened my senses, turned every movement into something efficient.

This morning, like all the others, I walked the eastern road slowly, my boots crunching on loose gravel. The sun was just peeking over the distant tree line, casting long shadows that made the spikes look like jagged teeth rising from the earth. I checked my work methodically—testing a wire here, straightening a bent rod there. One spike had warped from a larger infected's impact yesterday; I hammered it back into shape with a few precise strikes, the virus lending my arms unnatural power. No breaches. No weak points. Satisfied, I headed to my spot: a faded green velvet armchair I'd dragged from a nearby abandoned house weeks ago. It was torn in places, stuffing poking out like white foam, but it was comfortable enough. I positioned it right behind the first line of spikes, giving me a front-row view of the road while keeping me safely out of reach. Settling in, I propped my feet on a rusted crate and waited.

Waiting was part of the ritual now. It gave me space to think, to sift through the chaos in my head. But thinking wasn't always kind. It stirred up memories I'd rather bury—the responsibilities, the fractures in our group, the virus that had turned me into something more than human. I wasn't panicked about it; panic was a luxury I couldn't afford anymore. It was just... there, a constant undercurrent, like the low hum of the virus itself. Calm wasn't something I forced; it was what survived after everything else burned away.

The first infected appeared about twenty minutes later, as the sun fully crested and bathed the road in warm light. It was a lone wanderer, what might have been a farmer once, clad in shredded overalls caked with dirt and old blood. No hesitation in its step—just that relentless shuffle forward, milky eyes fixed on nothing. I watched impassively as it hit the outer spikes. The low steel point caught its shin, tearing through decayed flesh with a wet rip. It stumbled, pitching into a cluster of mid-height stakes. One impaled its thigh, another snagged its arm on razor wire, slicing deep gashes that oozed black ichor. It didn't scream—most didn't anymore, their vocal cords rotted to uselessness—but it flailed, managing to drive its free hand onto another spike. The thing was stuck good, thrashing uselessly as its own weight drove the points deeper.

It didn't faze me. I'd seen hundreds like this over the month. The nonchalance wasn't bravado; it was efficiency. Get emotional over every kill, and you'd break. I'd learned that early, back when we first arrived in Jackson Township after fleeing New York. The search results from my mind's eye—those fragmented memories of our escape—played like an old film. The motorcycle's hum as we left the city's decay, the fresh air of the countryside, the sign for Jackson Township with "DEAD" spray-painted over the population. We'd scavenged that grocery store, fought infected, discovered powers awakening in Rachel after... after what I'd had to do to save her. Her superhuman strength hurling that infected woman across the store, the realization of the Dullahan Virus spreading. It all started there in Jackson Township, in those early days of survival.

More infected trickled in—a group of three, then two stragglers. They charged the traps like moths to flame, getting tangled in wires, skewered on points. One, a woman with half her jaw missing, weaved drunkenly through a gap at first, her decayed brain giving her just enough instinct to avoid the worst. But a low wire tripped her, sending her face-first into a bed of sharpened wood. The stakes punched through her chest and neck, and she twitched for a minute before going still. Blood pooled dark on the asphalt, the metallic scent cutting through the morning air.

I leaned back in the armchair, observing it all like a scientist watching an experiment. There was an eerie calm to it, sure, but from where I sat, it was just practical. The virus had changed me—made me numb to the gore in a way that let me function. It wasn't cold detachment; it was survival mode, honed over a month of this routine. The traps worked because I'd refined them through trial and error. Early versions had flaws—gaps too wide, spikes too brittle. Infected would break through, forcing me into close quarters fights that wasted energy and risked unnecessary wounds. But now? It was a well-oiled machine. Cars could navigate the zigzag path slowly, but infected? They were fodder.

One of the newer ones—a burly brute, maybe a former trucker, with muscles still bulging under rotting skin—actually put up a fight. It barreled into a steel spike, impaling its leg with a crunch that echoed down the road. It roared—a guttural, wet sound—and wrenched free, tearing flesh in chunks but limping onward. Impressive, in a twisted way. It dodged two more clusters, weaving like it had some spark of intelligence left, but a high wire snagged its neck. It face-planted into a row of wooden stakes, one driving clean through its eye socket. The body jerked once, then went limp.

I didn't react beyond a slight nod. Calm wasn't eerie to me; it was necessary. The virus demanded it—pushed me to see patterns, efficiencies, without the fog of emotion. A dozen were stuck now, some still flailing, others bleeding out in slow agony. Time to clean house.

I stood up feeling the virus surge like a second pulse. My body had evolved over the month—stronger, faster, more resilient. The Dullahan Virus wasn't just a curse; it was a tool I'd learned to wield. Control came easier now; I could channel its power without the draining backlash of those early days. Muscles rippled under my skin, enhanced beyond human limits, reflexes sharpened to a razor's edge.

My favourite weapon leaned against the armchair: a metal spike the size of a sword, its shaft wrapped in black leather for a secure grip, the point honed to a needle's sharpness. I'd forged it myself in Mark's workshop, balancing it perfectly for one-handed strikes. Grabbing it, I approached the traps with measured steps. The first infected—a skinny one pinned by wires—lunged at me, jaws snapping. But I was faster; the virus amplified my speed, turning my thrust into a blur. The spike punched through its forehead, bone giving way with a crack, brain matter splattering as it went limp. Efficient. Clean.

Next, a pair tangled together, their decayed limbs intertwined. One swiped at me, but I sidestepped effortlessly, the virus heightening my awareness—every twitch, every groan telegraphed like a warning. I stabbed the first in the eye, twisted to free the blade, then drove it into the second's temple. Blood sprayed, but I was already moving, untouched. The power wasn't raw force anymore; it was precision. I could feel the virus guiding me, making each kill a dance of death.

The burly one that had escaped earlier was still half-alive, pinned but snarling. It lunged as I neared, but I was ready. Time seemed to slow—the virus's gift—letting me pivot and bring the spike down in an arc that severed its head clean from its shoulders. The body slumped, headless, as the skull rolled away. No wasted energy, no close calls. I'd trained this out here, every morning, turning the traps into my personal arena. The virus had made me a weapon, body and mind honed for survival.

Twelve down, the road clear again. I wiped the spike on a rag from my pocket, the gore coming off in thick smears, then returned to the armchair. Stabbing the weapon into the soft earth beside it—the ground yielding easily—I settled back and reached into my jacket.

Cigarettes. I hadn't been a smoker before all this—hell, I'd hated the smell growing up, watching my mom cough through packs during her worst days. But coping changes when the world does. The Dullahan Virus, the endless responsibility, the awkward relationships in the group—it all piled up like a weight on my chest. Mark had noticed first, during one of our supply runs to the Municipal Office. "Kid, you look like hell," he'd grunted, offering me one from his pack. "This helps with the stress. No lectures—smoking kills, yeah, but so does being the host of that damn virus and everything you're carrying."

I appreciated that about Mark. No annoying sermons, no judgment. Just practical advice from a guy who'd seen his own share of apocalypse. He knew nothing about what I had—and he didn't push. "You're doing what needs doing," he'd say, clapping my shoulder. "Don't let it eat you alive." He'd even slipped me a fresh pack last week, no questions asked.

One cigarette, once a day, only out here. No one at home knew, and I wanted it that way—especially Rachel. She'd worry, lecture me about health in a world where infected bites were the real killer. But this was my secret ritual, a moment of calm in the storm. I lit it with a scavenged Zippo, inhaling deeply. The smoke burned my lungs, bitter and acrid, but it eased the knot in my chest. Exhaling slowly, I watched the plume curl into the air, drifting over the spikes like a ghost.

A month... it felt like a lifetime. After the Frost Walker mission, everything splintered. Christopher's departure hit hardest—he'd been a close friend since the beginning, back in New York, accepting my suicide quest to get that Short Waves Radio at Lexington Charter.

Christopher had been there since all and even after the revelation he stuck to my side among the firsts. But Cindy's cure—the necessity of it, the intimacy—broke him. He'd packed and left for the Municipal Office, integrating there like he'd always belonged. I hadn't spoken to him properly since; just tense nods during runs.

The guilt gnawed at me—had I destroyed the only true male friend I ever had?

Cindy had withdrawn into a shell, her laughter gone after what we'd done. Stabilizing her required more sessions—two over the weeks, each one mechanical and guilt-ridden. She was stronger now, the virus integrated, but emotionally she was clearly not feeling good. She wasn't even able to look properly at me.

Christopher's absence haunted her still clearly.

I couldn't tell to turn the page, it would be quite bastardly from me. I should just let her the time she needs.

Elena and Alisha were still there but after the Screamer is defeated they will leave, at least that was what Alisha told me.

Rebecca's resentment boiled over daily. She blamed me for the secrets, the dangers, the losses. "You're tearing us apart," she'd snapped one night, her eyes flashing. Rachel defended me, but it strained their bond. They shared a room so the sisterly could only have cooled down but the relation between me and Rebecca was only worsening.

Sydney... she'd been my anchor, her teasing a lifeline. That night in the basement—our first real connection, raw and intimate—had changed things. Waking up with her, the movie, the talks... it was a glimpse of normalcy. But even that carried weight; the virus meant complications, precautions, secrets.

The Screamer loomed over it all. We'd delayed the assault because of its power—two small screams in the past month had summoned groups we'd barely fended off. The first came a week after the Frost Walker: a wail echoing from the radio station, drawing dozens to the township edges. We'd fought them back, but it cost us supplies and sleep. The second, ten days ago, was worse—a herd that nearly breached the Municipal Office. Mark and his people held, unaware it was tied to me, to the alien device we were piecing together. How could I tell them? "Hey, I'm a walking beacon for horrors"? They'd think I was insane.

The virus had grown in me too—control absolute now. Wind blades sliced with pinpoint accuracy, time freezes lasted their full duration without exhaustion. My body healed faster, moved with lethal grace. Out here, killing infected was almost meditative.

I flicked the cigarette away, watching it arc into the spikes and smolder out. Enough dwelling. There was work left.

Standing up, I grabbed the spike from the ground—its silk-wrapped handle familiar in my palm—and slung my backpack over one shoulder. A two-story house on the horizon had caught my eye earlier: partially collapsed roof, but intact enough for scavenging. Might yield canned goods, tools, or even more wire for traps.

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