Nightmare Fuel #23: The Storm Chapter 3: ANEEW
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Welcome to another edition of Nightmare Fuel, creeps and peepers. The first of 2025. Hope you've had a good holiday season. I'm Dan Cummins and I'll be sharing another original short story of the fictional horror variety. Highly recommend noise cancellation headphones for the best experience. I'm Dan Cummins and I'll be sharing another original short story of the fictional horror variety.

Today's story is a continuation of the previous two Nightmare Fuels. Thank you for all the feedback and encouragement. Will there be even more storm episodes down the road? You'll have to listen to find out. Hope you enjoy this new nightmare. Time now for the tale of the storm, Chapter 3, Anew. Rent's been driving their stolen lifted Tundra south on Highway 95 for almost an hour.

He's begrudgingly and reluctantly accepted that their incredibly strange and terrifying detour into the Ark was ultimately a good thing. If they hadn't had their Range Rover wrecked by Noah's spike strip, they'd probably all be dead by now. In all his preparation for his family's do-or-die trip to Whitebird, Brent couldn't believe he hadn't thought of how important it would be for them to disguise their vehicle and make it look like something one of the Red Eyes would drive.

Just like they had their own vernacular that they used to help identify who else was one of them and who wasn't, they also had various visual identifiers. It was the way they dressed, so consistently strapped up, so frequently covered in tactical gear and sometimes also going for Mad Max apocalyptic look. And their vehicles were spray painted with We Are the Storm and I Am the Lion type messages or adorned with various conspiratorial slash revolutionary flags or both.

To be driving a truck that belonged to one of the Red Eyes whom Noah had killed had allowed Brent, his wife, kids, and Rhiannon, Noah's former hostage and teen bride, to travel from Noah's Ark doomsday compound outside of Plummer to where he was now, about to enter Moscow, unstopped and unscathed.

Brent had been a bit worried when they first resumed their journey south that looking like a red-eye could be real problematic if they ran into any military or law enforcement, whom he assumed would be operating on a shoot-first, ask-questions-later principle. But they hadn't seen any military or law enforcement. At least, not any who were still alive. About 20 minutes back at Potlatch Junction, where Highway 95 and Highway 6 converge, they'd driven past a lot of dead soldiers scattered around what had previously been a big roadblock.

Two massive armored personnel carriers were still positioned diagonally across the highway.

Behind and flanking those personnel carriers to the north were a few tanks, artillery guns, numerous sandbag bunkers, a loudspeaker system and digital signs that Brent guessed had been warning everyone to stop their vehicles, set down their weapons and proved that their eyes weren't red, etc. There were also a bunch of tents, what looked like a medical station, a command station, some little sniper tree stands out in the surrounding woods, and lots and lots of dead bodies.

Hundreds, if not a thousand or more. Maybe even two thousand or more. Most of the dead looked to be red eyes based on how they were dressed and the hundred plus shot to shit burnout vehicles marked with spray painted messages and various flags. But at least a few hundred people in actual US military uniforms were also dead. A true battle had taken place and the red eyes had won. Of course they had. They were just so fucking aggressive.

so reckless and singularly focused. It's hard to defeat an enemy that truly doesn't care if they live or die. One that would consistently rather run into gunfire than surrender. An enemy whose numbers grow exponentially as the infection that pushes them towards war spreads. One that can kill you with a sneeze in addition to a bullet. An enemy that literally infects your ranks and turns you into your enemy in just a single day's time. Rint silently thanked God that the battle had ended before they'd arrived.

He'd been privately thanking God a lot lately, praying the most he'd prayed since he'd stopped going to church decades earlier. He kept vacillating between rage towards God for letting the world become what it had become, to thinking that the new state of the world was further proof that there was no God, and never was. Because what kind of God would ever allow something like this to happen? To thinking that God was not only real, but that he was watching out for he and his family. And when this was all over, Brent would have to do whatever God wanted him to do.

His thoughts were racing, fleeting, all over the place. Everything that had happened over the past two months was so outlandish it didn't feel real.

It felt like a never-ending fever dream, and a part of him still held out a bit of hope that he'd eventually wake up and it would all be over. Things would be like they once were, and he'd be overjoyed that the biggest problems he had to worry about were things like inflation, paying for the kids to go to college, funding his retirement, that extra 20 pounds around his midsection he just couldn't ever seem to shake, and where he and Lori were going to start spending their winters once they were empty nesters.

Currently, despite feeling lucky and grateful, it felt like it was also impossible to enjoy those feelings. It was hard not to believe that true happiness was permanently out of reach. Even if they did make it to Whitebird, Brent wondered, what then? What kind of world would they be living in if they somehow outlasted this pandemic?

Would it be one no longer full of the infected, but full of different versions of Noah? People who justified their evil with horrific interpretations of this or that religion's scripture? Or other people who didn't even bother trying to rationalize their actions with religion? People who just did evil shit they knew was evil because they wanted to, and because there was no one left to stop them? Brent wondered if he'd ever be free from feeling almost paralyzed with constant worry.

Brent was mainly worried about Cam at the moment. It had been roughly an hour since his son had gotten infected blood on him from that red eye he'd stabbed. Cam hadn't started coughing yet or complained of not feeling well, but Brent was convinced that at any second he'd start showing symptoms. And then what? The awful, gut-wrenching choice he'd be faced with wasn't one he could handle thinking about. Brent was at least no longer worried about himself.

From everything he'd heard or read, if the red eye who had hung on to the door of the Range Rover had infected him, he should have felt symptoms by now. It had been around three hours, but he felt fine. Well, he didn't feel fine, exactly. He felt a long, long fucking ways from fine. His busted ribs still ached and he was dehydrated and hungry and exhausted and beyond stressed and anxious. But at least he didn't feel infected. He was alive. And so were his kids and his wife.

Next to Cam, he worried the most about Lori. It didn't seem like she was at risk of dying from her head wound now, but she certainly wasn't well. His wife hadn't said much since they'd hit the road again and resumed their strange and terrible odyssey south. She still didn't really know what had even went on back at the Ark. She was pale and drifting in and out of sleep.

Dina, before she had died, had thankfully given her some painkillers in addition to administering the blood transfusion and sewing up her wound. But Brent forgot to grab any medicine or more painkillers in their mad dash to escape from the compound, and he worried about how she'd feel once the ones she had taken had worn off. He also worried that her wound might be getting infected, or that she might have internal bleeding or some other problem they didn't know about. And what then? It's not like he could take her to a hospital or an urgent care.

Brent was also worried, of course, about being ambushed at any moment by some red eyes. But the red eyes were far from his only concerns. There was so much to worry about, it was dizzying. Rosie, at least, seemed to be doing pretty well. They'd shared a few knowing, "'Thank God we're all still alive, and thanks for trying to kill Noah, Dad,' smiles in the rearview mirror. Rhi was, understandably, not doing well at all. She hadn't said anything since they'd left the compound. Literally not a single word."

She'd mostly just looked out the window and silently cried, which was somehow worse than some loud and vocal display of grief. She looked broken, borderline catatonic. Although they just helped her escape from the clutches of a psychopath who had raved, beaten, and psychologically abused her, her mom had also just been murdered right in front of her. And just a few weeks earlier, her dad and brother had been murdered, and she was never given a chance to grieve them.

After all that, she was hurried into a truck with a family she had just met, one that hadn't experienced all the death and trauma she had, heading to a place she'd never been before in a world that was now unrecognizable, leaving the only area she'd probably ever known. And there was a good chance that all of her extended family and every friend she'd ever had was either dead or infected. Brent couldn't imagine what she was feeling. He hoped he'd never have to. Do you ever recover from something like that?

Could you ever recover from something like that? To anyone still listening, this is Mark Slater, and this will be the last time you'll hear me, at least on this channel. Brent's so shocked by the sudden sound of Mark's voice that he accidentally jerks the steering wheel, swerves the truck past the rumble strip, and onto the edge of the asphalt before correcting. He then finds the volume button as quick as he can and turns it up several clicks. He's had the radio on ever since they'd made it back to the highway, hoping to catch an update about the current state of the world.

The voice he hears belongs to the same man they'd been listening to when they had driven from Coeur d'Alene to Plummer earlier in the day. Whoever had this truck had an active SiriusXM subscription, another thing Brent is grateful for. The current time is 6.23 p.m. Eastern, 3.53 p.m. Pacific time. I should be taking my family to a more remote location right now, and I will be in a few minutes. But I wouldn't have felt right leaving before I shared some information I just received that I feel is very important, necessary or crucial even.

to share with whoever can still hear it, if any of us are, to entertain even the slightest bit of hope in rebuilding some semblance of civilization someday from the ashes of this red plague. I've been texting with Dr. Gordon Phillips, a friend of our former medical correspondent, Dr. Susan Blackwell. And if you're wondering how I'm still able to text anyone at all, I know that the entire cellular network is now either completely down or almost down. I still have limited internet access, thanks to the Starlink satellite system.

It seems as if satellite Wi-Fi will be our last long-distance communication option, if it isn't already. Not sure how much of the internet will soon be left for anyone to access, though, as more and more servers are being destroyed. Now for that important information. Dr. Phillips says that he and a team of other doctors and medical researchers have conclusively discovered that one of the most extreme conspiratorial rumors about the pandemic, a rumor the U.S. government and other world governments consistently strongly denied before they fell, is true.

that this pandemic was in fact engineered. And moreover, that it is not being spread by any natural biological pathogen. But instead, the pandemic is the result of man-made nanoid robotics, a.k.a. nanobots. No fucking way! Cam snorts in disbelief. Bullshit! Just listen, son! Brent firmly interjects, turning the volume up further.

Lori still sleeps in the back seat. Rosie leans forward, listening intently. Ree gives no reaction at all, still staring blankly out the window. It's hard to accept, Mark Slater continues, at least for me that this technology is real. And Dr. Phillips said he and his fellow investigators were also shocked. This level of tech was thought to be a decade away from being a reality, at least. Some thought it would never be a reality.

In layman's terms, Dr. Phillips tells me that the pathogens are microscopic, roughly the size of a virus, and are able to invade cells and replicate just as any virus would. These nanobots are programmed to initially mimic the symptoms of a viral upper respiratory infection and spread like one of those infections spreads, sneezing, coughing, etc.,

Eventually, Dr. Phillips says that the virus, and he's admittedly theorizing a bit here, but he feels as certain as he can be with what limited time and access to testing equipment he and the rest of the researchers working with him have had, but eventually, they're pretty certain that these nanobots infect the victim's brain, giving the hippocampus a type of hard reset, wiping away most of the infected person's memory. And this is where it gets really fucking crazy. Excuse my language, but really, does anyone give a shit at this point about profanity?

These nanobots are able to install code at the cellular level, essentially giving the victim new memories. They can also alter neural pathways and reprogram the frontal lobe, changing the infected person's personality and behavior drastically. I hope I'm getting this right, but I think that's the gist. Fucking crazy, right?

This is what accounts for all of these red eyes, as we've come to call them. This is what accounts for their consistency in the sense that they all act the same. The same paranoia, the same feeling of being on an all-important mission, uttering the same strange phrases, their shared sense of purpose, their consistently violent behavior, behavior directed, at least initially, only at the non-infected.

Brent's mouth hangs open, and he feels a simmering rage boiling inside of him as he shares a "who the fuck would do this and why" look with his son and daughter. Strangest of all, Dr. Phillips said that they found evidence that these incredibly small nanobots, these unfathomably tiny computers,

are somehow linked to the same satellites, the same Starlink technology that is allowing me to communicate with Dr. Phillips. The same kind of technology that is allowing anyone listening to hear this. I fucking told you! Elon Musk was a part of this, Cam fumes. Just listen! Brent barks, silencing Cam before he can extend his sentence into a rant. And what that means is that the code being downloaded by these nanobots into our brains could theoretically...

be altered according to a hacker identifying themselves only as Veritas. Someone could hack into whatever server is theoretically linked to the self-replicated nanobots, a server obviously likely controlled and operated by the same people who created this pandemic, and either take the pandemic in an entirely new direction by essentially controlling and/or modifying the behavior of an army of zombies,

or they could activate some sort of kill switch that powers the nanobots down, possibly curing whoever is infected or at least transforming them into someone no longer intent on killing and destroying and ending the pandemic in an instant. A little bit fucking late for that, Cam snipes. Shut the fuck up, Cam! Rosie hisses from the back seat. We need to hear this! Cam nods, annoyed, tossing up his hands in an okay, okay gesture.

I'm gonna play an audio message I received from Veritas less than 30 minutes ago. And I will not be here any longer when this message is done playing. I'm going into hiding with my family. But I hope this is not goodbye. And that I see you down the road. If the information I'm sharing is correct, and on a gut level, I truly think it is, then this all is even worse, much worse, than I previously thought. This was no accident. This was not the fault of nature.

Instead, a small, powerful group of people did this to us. People who chose to kill most of the world so, I don't know, they can control what little will be left and remake Earth into their own personal playground, I guess. And we should find them. We should make them answer for committing the greatest atrocity the world has literally ever known. We should make them fucking pay. Godspeed and good luck. To paraphrase Veritas, if they are the storm, let us be the sun that shines through the storm and destroys it.

We are the sun. I love that, Cam muses. Brent quiets the sun again with a look Cam knows all too well. While the world has changed, Cam's pretty much the same kid. He just can't help himself. He can't stay quiet. He, Rosie, and Laura used to joke that Hollywood couldn't make a movie compelling enough for him to not at least ruin at least a few scenes with unwanted commentary. Veritas' message starts to play as Brent begins to drive into the college town of Moscow, or rather, the former college town.

Whoever is still alive to hear this, listen carefully if you want to give yourself a chance to not only stay alive, but have freedom and maybe even happiness again someday in your future. This pandemic was no accident. It was planned in every sense of the word. A small group of people, some of whom have been incredibly vocal about stopping the spread of misinformation and baseless conspiracies online in recent years,

are in fact the same people who have been suppressing the most important information and masterminding the most diabolical conspiracy in history. The fabled Freemason satanic Jewish banker-based Illuminati of known conspiracy lore is nothing more than a myth, perpetuated as a smokescreen to distract us from the real enemy, the real Illuminati. Although that's not the name they go by. This Illuminati who have given themselves the sweet-sounding moniker of a noob.

authors of the Nirvana, an emergent and enlightened world. They've been planning this hostile, bloody takeover and mass extermination event for decades. When it became clear towards the end of the Cold War that there was no putting the nuclear genie back in the proverbial bottle, when scientists became capable of bioengineering highly fatal and infectious diseases, when the world's citizens overwhelmingly rejected mankind's role in climate change and refused to accept the increasingly probable possibility

that this change would soon become irreversible and lead directly to a mass extinction event unless big changes were made and made quickly. When a new wave of anti-intellectualism, combined with a global rise in the support of fascism and the increasing clash of different schools of medieval-minded religious extremism, combined with modern capabilities for war and terrorism, pointed towards the inevitable destruction of life on Earth as we know it,

the leadership of Anu, some of the world's wealthiest and most powerful people, some public facing, and others carefully hidden in the shadows. They decided to do something drastic, to engineer an apocalyptic plague that they could control, one that would eliminate over 95% of life on this planet.

and in the brave new world that a new envisions. The overwhelmingly majority of those who will remain will exist only as a slave class to serve their new earthbound gods. Evil opportunists who view themselves as noble guardians of the earth, able to so easily rationalize subjugating humankind for the good of the planet. But really, this is all about their own egos and deep narcissism. Mark Zuckerberg.

Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, Larry Ellison, Jensen Wong. These are just a few of the leaders of a new. Most of the names you wouldn't recognize. Many of them are people whose wealth and all the power that comes with it exceeds that of the supposed richest and most powerful people in the world. But they've never shown up on any internet lists because they are true masters of hiding in the shadows. Because they truly control the spread of information and disinformation.

But I guess who they are doesn't even really matter at this point, does it? What matters most is where they are, and how we might be able to stop them. Back in the early 2000s, Anu began to build a hidden, private, completely separate shadow internet. Not the dark web, but something entirely separate. A second internet that operates completely independently of the world wide web. Something similar to what Microsoft attempted to launch in '95 with MSN.

In fact, they hired some of the top engineers from that project to build their new web. And if you're wondering how I know all of this, it's because I was one of those engineers. Rather than mimic existing internet infrastructure and house backbone network server farm data centers in major strategically located metropolitan areas like San Francisco, Amsterdam, Tokyo, and Ashburn, Virginia, aka Data Center Alley just outside of Washington, D.C.,

They stayed hidden by going remote. Very remote. I helped build a massive data center on the outskirts of Reykjavik, Iceland. An area whose geothermal features allow for an incredible amount of power that'll never be dependent on the outside world. And its remote location makes it easier to defend in the instance of... well, exactly what we're now experiencing.

especially if you program the infected to subconsciously know where a new data centers are and not only to not attack them, but also to defend them. Brent slows down as he drives past a burnt out Sonic drive-in and turns into the parking lot of a Rosara's grocery that has been heavily vandalized and looted, but still stands. There don't seem to be any red eyes nearby. Actually, Moscow is eerily quiet. Brent's only noticed two red eye trucks and both were heading away from him and didn't seem to notice him.

As he parks his truck, Cam and Rosie don't even ask him what he's doing. They're too riveted by the hacker's information. When I worked on this project, I couldn't understand why the data center I worked on outside of Reykjavik and another in the mountains of Santiago Island in Cape Verde, not far from Praia, had zero fiber optic cables connecting them to the rest of the internet. Now I know. They didn't want to be connected to any infrastructure they planned on destroying.

They were preparing for technology that didn't yet exist. They were preparing for this apocalyptic takeover. In total, ANU built six different heavily fortified massive data centers, all easily defendable once all of the world's missile systems and militaries had been disabled, hijacked or destroyed. All in remote island locations across the ocean from any major population center bigger than Reykjavik.

All that only connect to a new satellite Wi-Fi system, utilizing satellites with a five-year shelf life, giving a new a full five years to transition from the current world, or what was recently the current world, to a new one.

Surrounding these data centers are huge doomsday complexes where the elite members of a true new world order will be able to live and live comfortably while they carry out their plan for the next phase of human existence. A plan I don't know the full details of, but what I do know is that unless you are a member of a new, it will be beyond bleak.

You and your children will exist only to serve the elite. The global elite who have programmed the infected to think they are attacking the very same elite who are in fact controlling their every move in both a cruel and twisted joke and a pretty genius way to add a tremendous amount to confusion as to the true cause of the pandemic. Confusion designed to buy them enough time to have the end goal of this pandemic become an inevitable reality.

but I digress. What I need you to know is that this is an SOS call to recruit anyone still not yet infected to become a part of the resistance. I am the spokesperson for a group of survivors who are currently commandeering a small fleet of ships, a band of pirates in this new deadly digital age, who are preparing to sail to one of these six destinations and attempt to take over one of ANU's command centers.

Dad, is this guy fucking crazy? Cam asks earnestly. Pirates? What the f- Shut up, Cam! Oh my god, just shut up and listen! Rosie chides her brother after smacking him in the back of the head. Okay, fuck! Cam growls. Lori stirs in the back and begins to wake up. Brent wants to ask how she's doing, but he needs to hear what this guy has to say. In full transparency...

I don't know if taking over one command center will be enough to reprogram the nanoviruses or not. If we are able to take over one, and the odds are heavily stacked against us, we may find that we have to take over another, some type of core center. Or worse, that we have to take over and control them all. In addition to Iceland and Cape Verde, there was a third center in Hawaii, a fourth in Bermuda,

a fifth on France's Reunion Island off the coast of Madagascar, and a final sixth on the Filipino island of Bataan, 120 miles south of Taiwan. It would be foolish for me to share which command center we plan to attack first, as I am sure members of ANU will hear this message. But what I must leak is this: We aimed to move our assembled fleet to Boston Harbor and began heading towards our first target on New Year's Day.

The revolution begins in Boston for both symbolic and strategic reasons. I hate sharing this, but the world's militaries are almost completely destroyed. And based on our intelligence, it doesn't appear that ANU has planned for the remote possibility of an organized naval attack at this stage in the pandemic.

At the time of this recording, I have already gathered a core group of nearly 200 survivors, most of whom I've been communicating with in secret for years, as we grew more and more alarmed at the possibility of our current dystopian reality. The odds are stacked against us, heavily, but we have a chance. We will never be able to restore the world to what it once was, but maybe we can give ourselves, and our children, a new Nirvana.

instead of being slaves to a new evil corrupted and distorted vision of one. Maybe we really can be the sun that shines through this storm. I hope to see you in Boston. I hope to, if nothing else, die fighting instead of dying hiding, or even worse, to live in perpetual subjugation. I know this was a lot. I know you might not believe me. In fact, I imagine you probably do not believe me. So I will leave you with this. When deciding whether or not to try and join me,

Ask yourself three questions. What other narrative gives you more hope than this one to survive this living hell? What better explanation for this madness have you heard? And don't you at least want to believe that maybe you can strike back at those who have caused you all this pain? And with that, Veritas' message ends and the radio returns to silence. And before we find out how Brent and company react to this shocking news,

Time for our mid-show sponsor break. If you don't want to hear these ads anymore, please become a Robert or Annabelle on the Scared to Death Patreon and get these Nightmare Fuel stories and all other Scared to Death episodes ad-free and more. Thank you for hearing out our sponsors. And now let's return to Moscow, Idaho, where Brent has just pulled over in a grocery store parking lot after hearing from a supposed hacker and revolutionary named Veritas.

at least who identifies as Veritas, that the Red Plague was allegedly engineered by an Illuminati-type group of rich, powerful, and nefarious people who planned it for decades. Do you believe him, Dad? Cam asks. After a contemplative pause, it's so, so much to take in. Brent muses, I don't know, maybe? I do. Rosie interjects, I do believe him. I think we should go to Boston and fuck these bitches up.

Rosie's always had a little extra fire inside of her And her brief experience with Noah Plus his new horrifying information Seems to have thrown a bunch of gasoline on it Brent is about to tell his hot-headed daughter One thing at a time His wife Lori interrupts Brent! She croaks Brent, I need some water Brent turns most of the way around and faces the back seat Gently taking his wife's hand in his own Okay baby, I can try and get you some water And maybe some aspirin too, how's your head? It hurts She winces

It hurts pretty bad, but I'll be okay. Where are we? What happened to my car? Brent keeps forgetting how much his wife missed following the crash. In a way, she was so lucky to get hurt like she did. It's a long story, baby. We're in Moscow, two hours from Wipeford. It's getting dark, Lori says groggily. How long was I out? A couple of hours. And yeah, it is getting dark. We should try and get some water now and some food. Brent does a quick inventory of what they have in the truck.

No food. No water. But they do have a few boxes of 5.56x45mm bullets for the AR-15 Cam grabbed off the red eye who had bled on him, plus two fully loaded 30-round magazines. Brent still has the FNX-45 tactical handgun with the suppressor that Dina gave him, and they found a dozen or so boxes of .45 ACP rounds for it, and the Glock .45 in the glove box that Rosie now holds that can use the same bullets.

They also have multiple boxes of other ammo they can't use with the only three guns they currently have. All right, Brent says, shifting into the tone of a military leader commanding his troops. Cam, you're coming with me into the store. Why not me? Rosie protests. Because I'm a fucking girl. Why do you always pick Cam for this shit? Not now, Rosie. Please, urges Brent.

He's been telling Rosie for nearly her whole life that he only lets Cam do certain things he doesn't let her do because he's older. Not because he's a boy, but she never seems to accept this explanation. Their sibling rivalry is real. And being the little sister has left Rosie with a chip on her shoulder you could see from space. You need to stay here and watch over Lori and Ree, Brent continues. If you see some red eyes headed your way, fire two quick shots out of the window up into the air and Cam and I will come running.

Fine, Rosie sulks. Hopefully Cam and I can find bottled water, some food, a first aid kit, or at least some first aid kit supplies, bottles of aspirin, some caffeine, and we can do all of that in five minutes or less. With this cloud cover, it's going to look like midnight in about 20 minutes, Brent continues. Please, please be so careful, Lori begs. Always, Brent answers firmly, looking into his wife's eyes just long enough to reassure her, but not long enough to get emotional himself.

He doesn't know if he could keep leading the kids if she died. Now we have to go, he continues as he lets go of his wife's hand and looks at his son. Ready? Cam looks nervous as hell, but also eager to help. Ready? He repeats as confidently as he can muster. Let's move, Brent commands, and then he kills the engine and pops out into the parking lot along with Cam and they begin jogging towards the busted open doors that previously guarded the front entrance.

Inside the store, Brent and Cam swivel their heads around, taking in a chaotic scene of tipped over shelves, smashed registers, broken bottles and spilled beverages on the floor, potato chips, cookies, baked goods, and more have been scattered everywhere. However, there's still a surprising amount of unopened goods on either the floor or on the shelves that haven't been opened and spoiled. All right, Brent says quietly as he points ahead and to his left. Let's grab some bags and head over there and see what drinks we can find.

"Shouldn't we spread out?" Cam asks. "We need to stay together," Brent dismissively replies. "But aren't we trying to hurry?" his son implores. "Fuck." Brent hates the idea of them separating, but Cam's right. It's not just about keeping Cam safe. The two of them need to get back to the girls as fast as possible to keep them safe as well. "Yeah, you're right," he begrudgingly admits. "Grab some bags and look for drinks, first aid supplies, food, good food, not sugary shit, and big bottles of aspirin and other painkillers."

Cam's already moving to the right side of the store when Brent finishes and tosses back a, "'Got it, Dad. I'll come find you as soon as I've scoped out this area,' Brent tells him as he moves towards the aisles to his left. "'Sounds good,' says Cam as he disappears down an aisle. Brent so badly wants to follow him, to never let him out of his sight, to always keep him safe or die trying. But he's got to stay focused and find what they need as fast as he can. "'Who are you?' Lori asks the young woman in the Amish-type dress and bonnet with bruises on her neck who sits to her left."

She has no idea who she is or why she's sitting next to her. Her banged up brain is still quite a ways from operating anywhere near peak performance. Rhi doesn't acknowledge her question in any way and continues to stare out the window forlornly while a silent tear rolls down her cheek. Lori, Rosie says softly, that's Rhiannon. She's been through a lot, like a lot, a lot. I can talk to you about it later. Right now, we should just leave her alone. What happened?

When I was out, Lori asks, bewildered. Still speaking gently, Rosie tells her, a psycho, someone worse than the red eyes, took us to his doomsday compound after he wrecked our ride. But then Rhiannon's mom saved your life. Why isn't her mom with us? Lori now asks, looking around as if another person is hiding in the cab with him somehow. Rosie moves her pointing finger across her neck in the universal sign for dead. Lori winces and nods.

and then Rosie sees a truck slowly enter the other side of the parking lot and her eyes grow wide with alarm. "'Red eyes,' she says and points towards them. Four militarized young men and a driver who looks to be about 70 are creeping towards the grocery store's front entrance in an old Ford Bronco with two massive flags waving off the back. "'Don't tread on me, and we are the storm.'" The red eyes aren't real original or creative, but they are consistent."

All four of the younger men hold assault rifles of some kind in their hands. They're on the hunt. They're always on the hunt. Everyone stay quiet and get down, Rosie whispers. She and Lori slink down so that the red eyes won't be able to spot them unless they walk directly up to the truck and look down and directly into the cab's windows. Ree finally snaps out of her strange trance and slowly turns her head to look towards the Bronco. Ree, Rosie whispers. Please, get down before they see us.

Ree doesn't acknowledge Rosie or what she's just said in the slightest. Instead, she opens the door and starts to step outside. Bingo! Brent says softly and happily to himself as he finds half a dozen bottles of great Pedialyte full of electrolytes to help them get rehydrated. Further down the aisle, he spots a few big liter bottles of water and starts to move towards them as he adds a quiet jackpot. But then his small sequence of satisfied moments comes to an end when he hears a man yell, Put the fucking gun down now!

from across the store. And it's not his son yelling. It never ends. Brent sets the Pedialyte down, chambers a bullet into his FNX-45, and move towards the sound as quietly and quickly as he can. Cam, a grocery bag hanging off of his forearm, full of bottles of aspirin, rubbing alcohol, bandages, tampons he's proud of himself for thinking of and grabbing, sees the little girl, a dirty, ratty-haired, feral, and frightened-looking thing no more than six or seven years old, before he sees the man with the gun.

Can you please help us? She asks with a trembling lip. Before he can answer, the man steps out from around the aisle to his right and points a handgun at him. And then he tells Cam to do what his dad will hear the man yell. Put the fucking gun down now! When Cam turns to face him, rifle in hand, he happens to be pointed at the guy and he has a chance to fire on him. But the thought to do so doesn't even cross his mind. Whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm on your side, he says instead, still holding the rifle.

The man staring him down looks like he's lost his mind. He probably has. Wearing a navy blue wool sweater, brown corduroy pants, leather slip-on loafers with a thick full beard, mop of unkempt curly salt and pepper hair and wire-framed eyeglasses, he looks like he might have been a professor in his recent but previous life. In this new life, he looks mostly scared and lost, like most of the uninfected. "'Shut up!' the man screams. "'Don't talk!'

Just put the fucking gun down and run away. Don't make me shoot you in front of my daughter. Daddy, don't. The little girl yells and then starts to cry. Okay, says Cam softly, doing his best not to upset the man further. I'm going to slowly set this down. And then run the fuck out of here, the man shouts. If I see you again, I'll fucking shoot you, he stammers. Okay, I got it. I'm on your side, but I got it.

Cam acknowledges, still trying to defuse the situation as he gently places the rifle on the floor. He's worried that there won't be much running away, that this guy will shoot him right after he turns and starts to run. But maybe not, he tells himself. Maybe the guy isn't a killer. He's just someone else who's scared. Someone doing what they think they have to do to keep their daughter alive.

Cam still refuses to believe that in the current climate, the majority of the uninfected would quickly kill him if they thought for a moment it would even slightly increase their own chance to live another day. He and his dad have long disagreed as to whether or not humankind is, at its core, fundamentally extremely selfish, or if most people do in fact consider the needs of others almost as strongly as they consider their own.

as he lets go of his rifle as he considers telling this guy that he's not alone that he's with others others who can help him and his daughter cam sees his father quietly appear behind the man gun drawn and pointed at the guy's head suddenly worried more about the life of the man who might have been seconds away from killing him than he is about his own life cam can't help but to yell out dad no what the fuck are you doing rosie hisses at riannon as she steps out of the truck

Oh my god, no! Rosie says as she, without even realizing she's doing it, starts to crawl over Lori so she can chase after Rhi.

Rosie, stop! Lori insists as she grabs Rosie around the wrist of the hand she holds the gun in, with a surprising amount of strength for someone still so wounded. I have to try and help her! Rosie protests as Lori slides across the seat, reaches out and grabs the handle of the open door and softly closes it while Ree continues to walk across the parking lot. The fuck you do? Lori huffs. She's not our responsibility. How can you say that? asks Rosie, shocked and disappointed. Because this isn't a movie! Lori reminds her.

Rosie's disgust and frustration with her stepmom's perceived heartlessness is cut short by a battle cry from one of the red eyes in the Bronco.

The cries followed by the rev of the Bronco's engine and the squeal of tires on asphalt as the red-eyes now speed towards Rhiannon, who continues to just walk across the parking lot as if the world around her is in almost nothing but danger. She's never going to make it, Rosie whimpers. No, baby, she won't, Lori sadly agrees. And if you would have chased after her, neither would you. Brent listens as some man, a man who's clearly armed and dangerous but not a red-eye, yells at his son Cam.

He peeks his head around the aisle for a second and immediately pulls it back. After finding himself in the field of vision of the guy, with a handgun pointed at his son, he doesn't notice the little girl as he quickly moves back down the aisle. He's just walked up. So he can move down and around and head back up the aisle behind the shooter. Halfway to where he needs to be, he hears the little girl start to cry. Fuck, he thinks. He was hoping this guy was alone. That would make what he needs to do so much easier. But it still needs to be done.

Soon, walking fast, he's right where he needs to be. And when he pops out into view, the gunman who's turned away from him and focused on Cam doesn't hear him. But Brent does see the little girl as he raises his own gun. Immediately after his son cries out and tries to stop him, right before the little girl whose eyes are widening starts to scream, Brent pulls the trigger and puts a bullet in the back of the man's head. Blood splatters out of the exit wound in the man's face, some of it spraying on Cam, and his body falls limply to the ground.

He's dead before he hits the floor. The little girl now shrieks wildly and starts running in shock towards the front of the store.

Dad, what the fuck? Cam screams, outraged. You just killed her fucking dad in front of her. I just saved her fucking life. Brent shouts back. You don't know that. Cam protests. Yes, I do. Brent counters indignantly, but chooses not to explain himself further. There's no time for this debate. He quickly scans the contents of his son's shopping bag. Glad he got most of what they needed before he ran into the guy he just had to kill. Come with me to grab a bit of food and some water I found and let's get the fuck out of here.

What about the girl? Cam asks, with even more disappointment for his father and his voice. Leave her! Brent yells. She's not our problem. Fuck are you? I don't even know you! Cam shouts. Cam! Brent roars back. God damn it, we don't have time for this. Just do what I fucking tell you! Cam glares at his father. He hates his dad in this moment. But he also does as he's told. He's in that strange space where he feels like an adult most of the time. Technically is an adult all of the time.

But when his dad yells at him, when he speaks in that specific authoritarian tone, the dad voice, he and Rosie have jokingly called it for years, he still regresses to being a little boy afraid of getting in trouble.

As the girl runs screaming out into the parking lot, Brent grabs the water and Pedialyte he'd found, and then he and a scowling Cam quickly grab a few boxes of pre-made peanut butter and rich cracker sandwich bites, a few boxes of protein bars in the same aisle, and are about to run to the bakery when they hear the, woo woo, battle cry from the parking lot in exchange of very concerned glance. Follow me, Brent yells and starts to hustle towards the front of the store as he adds, do not go outside unless I tell you.

Seconds later, Brent and Cam are staring out the window and watching a Bronco speed across the parking lot to their left towards their tundra. The little girl who ran out of the store is running across the same parking lot, but to their right and towards a different corner of it. Dad, they're going to see her! Cam says about the little girl, his voice bursting with worry. We have to do something to help her. No, Brent says firmly. I'm sorry, son, but we don't.

We have to- Cam interrupts his dad by trying to run past him, but Brent drops his shoulder and slams his son hard into the chest, bouncing him up against a wall. Think of your fucking sister! Brent rages. He can't handle Cam's moral crisis and might get them all killed. Who do you want to save? Her and Lori or that little girl? Because you can't save both, Cam! Cam groans in frustration and despair. His eyes fill up with tears of rage and frustration, and he won't let his gaze match his father's.

Brent looks away from his son and sees the Bronco drive right on past the tundra. This is their moment. "Now!" he orders. "Run towards the truck as fast as you can!" As the Bronco races towards Rhiannon, Rosie steals a glance back towards the store and sees a distraught, screaming little girl racing out of the front entrance. "Oh my god!" she gasps, causing Lori to also look towards the store as she wonders, "Where's she going? And where's Cam and your dad?" Lori asks.

Thanks to the suppressor on Brent's gun combined with the sounds of the Bronco and the red eyes, Rosie and Lori never heard Brent shoot the girl's father. Rosie looks back and forth between the little girl, Rhiannon, and the infected maniacs about to kill them both. Rhiannon has made it to the street. The red eyes are only about 50 feet away from her.

Instead of continuing to run, instead of trying to duck into a building or weave in and out of parked or wrecked cars or climb a fence and start running through backyards where her bloodthirsty pursuers at least no longer have the advantage of a vehicle as they chase her, Rhiannon inexplicably turns and stops. And she starts grinning. Oh my god, what the fuck is she doing? Rosie asks, alarmed.

Rhiannon is staring at the man in the bronco. Her arms are outstretched in front of her, parallel to the ground, and she's clasped her hands together in the form of a kid pretending to hold a gun. Pew! Are her nonsensical, mocking final words. She's seen and been through too much, and just wants it all to end. Suicide by Red Gang. We are the storm! One of the red eyes screams as another leans out the passenger side and lights Rhiannon up with semi-automatic fire. Woo-woo!

A red eye whoops as they now run over Rhiannon's dead or dying body, grinning and laughing as they do so. And then one of them points at the still running, still screaming little girl. No! Rosie moans, her stomach sinking, sick with despair. No, no, no! The red eyes rev the engine as they start to drive towards her.

Oh my god! Cam yells out, shocked and horrified, as he sees Rhiannon get shot while sprinting towards the tundra. Brent, running behind him, yells, Get in the fucking truck! When Cam slows down, seemingly forgetting what he was supposed to be doing, overwhelmed with the sight of yet another senseless murder. Cam starts to run again as his dad nudges him from behind. They're almost to the truck when the Bronco begins to head towards the still-running little girl. Brent opens Cam's door first. Get in! He frantically urges his son. Go, go, go!

Cam, looking anguished and outraged, but still managing to hold his rifle and bags of supplies, climbs in and his dad slams the door shut immediately behind him, and then runs around the front to climb in himself.

The red eyes are so focused on their next kill and so programmed to just not give a fuck about the chaos around them, they don't notice the Collins family. Dad! Rosie shouts as Brent jumps in and shuts his own door. Dad, they killed Rhiannon! I know, baby. Brent acknowledges as he puts the truck in drive and begins to pull forward and turn away from the girl. Dad! Rosie shouts again. They're gonna kill that girl! We have to help her! No! No, we fucking don't! Brent shouts back. No one is doing shit! You'll fucking kill us all if you try and help!

Rosie ignores her dad and tries to roll her window down so she can shoot at the red eyes who are, to her surprise, not shooting at the girl but instead have stopped behind her as she still runs and are revving their engine, whooping and laughing. Rosie, no! Lori cries out while she pulls her stepdaughter's hand away from the button to roll down the window. Meanwhile, Brent has found the power lock button to keep anyone else from controlling their window and he pushes it as he speeds away.

He also looks in his rearview window just in time to see the red-eye driving the Bronco, slam on the gas, and send his SUV lurching forward and running over the little girl while one of them screams, I'm the lion! Followed by all of them whooping and cheering. Brent continues to glance into the rearview mirror, not because he's mesmerized by the heartless violence, but because he wants to see if they're going to follow them or not. He feels immense relief when they turn and head in the opposite direction. Thank God, he sighs.

Thank God, Dad. Really? Cam Mox? That little girl? That little girl whose dad you fucking murdered gets run over right after we watch Rhiannon die? And you literally say, thank God?

Brent yells, I'm thankful they're not going to kill us too, you stupid fucking asshole. While Rosie accusatorily asks, you murdered her father? I saved your brother's life. Brent corrects and then quickly adds, there's water, Pedialyte, crackers, aspirin, and more in the bags. You're welcome. He looks away from Rosie's glare and torches equally disgusted with him son and says, take what you need and hand it back. While Lori reaches forward and gives him a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder.

Lori then guzzles some Pedialyte while Cam looks out the window away from his dad and unscrews the cap off of a water bottle while Rosie breaks down into sobs. Despite the tension between he and his kids being so thick and palpable, he feels like he can actually taste it. A metallic, blood-like taste in the back of his throat. Brent actually has to fight a smile from spreading across his face. It was beyond horrible what happened to that little girl, but he didn't kill her.

He never forced her dad to threaten his son's life, and he certainly never told Rhiannon to take off running. What he did do was keep his family alive, get the supplies they needed, and get them back on the road to Whitebird. And that was a win. A huge fucking win. So despite both his kids currently thinking their father is a cold-blooded monster, Brent holds his head up high, focuses on the road ahead, and dreams of what might lie beyond Whitebird.

A trip across the country to Boston? The possibility of bringing the misery and carnage of the world to the bougie island bunkers of the evil authors who set the world on fire certainly held some appeal. Nearly two hours later, the Collins family is approaching the outskirts of Whitebird. They still have no idea if Brent's mom and stepdad are alive or not. The batteries of all of their phones are now dead. And even if they weren't, as Mark said on the radio, it was likely that the cellular network was down anyway.

The tundra had nearly a full tank of gas when they started driving, and they'd been able to make the journey from Moscow without stopping, outside of one quick bathroom break near the top of Lewiston Hill that Brent was adamantly against. But Lori and Rosie weren't exactly able to piss in used water bottles as easily as he and Cam could, and understandably didn't think sitting in their own piss would be good for family morale.

Also, as she so bluntly put it, Rosie had to take a shit and would rather just go ahead and die than shit herself and then sit in that stink with her family. Fair. Thankfully, the bathroom break was drama-free. No shots fired. No red-eye interrogations or confrontations. The last two hours had been almost entirely free of additional drama. Between the midnight darkness of the early evening around them and the look of their truck, no red eyes had hassled them.

One red gang with a caravan of cars did surround them at one point, but Brent was able to roll the windows down just enough while leaving the cab dark to point their guns out of the windows and fire into the air while yelling the typical red-eye stupid shit. And that was enough for the gang to keep moving right on past them and continue hunting whatever they were hunting. They hadn't, to the kid's surprise, seen any more fellow survivors. Brent assumed that if any survivors saw them approaching, they just hid.

thinking that they were yet another truck of murderous, infected assholes. They'd been driving mostly in silence. No more news transmissions, although the SiriusXM satellite still functioned, and they were able to listen to a variety of music stations that must have defaulted to repeating some sort of pre-programmed playlists. It was pretty surreal hearing happy songs like Love Shack by the B-52s on an 80s station, while the world literally burned around them.

Cam and Rosie, while not quite as outwardly mad, still seemed to think their dad was a heartless monster. Brent had tried to defend his actions a few times, but each time his defense escalated into a screaming match and Lori, still of course feeling horrible, begged he and the kids to agree to disagree until they made it safely to Whitebird and could hash it out away from her.

And speaking of Whitebird, as Brent and crew drove down the final stretch of the steep grade of Whitebird Hill towards the town, and Papa Jim and Grandma Kathy's big property just beyond it, the town was disturbingly dark. Based on how dark Cottonwood and Grangeville were before it, Brent guessed the entire area's power grid must have been taken out, which didn't really surprise him. But Papa Jim's house and shop being dark did, considering all the diesel they had and their generators.

Brent tried to convince himself that they were just intentionally keeping all the lights off to make any red eyes in the area less likely to pay them a visit. But deep down, as reasonable as that guess was, he didn't believe it. Also, Cam had just started to cough. Not a lot, but enough obviously under the circumstances to worry them all. He'd immediately lifted up his t-shirt to cover his mouth and nose, holding it there with his fingers. He said he wasn't worried, that overall he felt fine.

But Brent could see in his eyes that he was extremely worried. And so was Brent. Please, God. He silently prayed to a God he still wasn't sold on even existing. Please, anything but that. Let me be the one to get sick. Let him die suddenly from a red-eyes bullet. Let him have anything happen to him other than to be infected. Don't make me sacrifice my only son. It'll break me. No red eyes. And the shop's still standing. It doesn't even look burnt.

Brent quietly says to his wife and kids as they slowly creep with their headlights turned off down along a gravel driveway before it turns and winds up the mountainside towards Papa Jim and Grandma Kathy's house. Doesn't even look like they have any candles lit. Cam observes as he stares up the hill. Maybe they had to leave? He wonders. No, I don't think so, says Brent as he too scans the area around his mom and stepdad's house. For better or for worse, I think they're here. What does that mean? Asks an irritated Rosie. You think they're dead, don't you?

No, says Brent, not sure if he's lying or not. No, I don't think that, Rosie. I don't know what's going on. I think that we should park the truck halfway up the hill, turn it off, and walk the rest of the way, staying very alert and being ready for anything. Whatever you say, curtly replies Rosie. Okay, Cam says. Sounds like a great idea, baby, adds Lori, again rubbing her husband's shoulder to let him know that she understands that he's doing his best to keep them all alive. Lori's doing a lot better.

Since rehydrating, eating some protein bars, and sleeping a bit more, a lot of the color has returned to her face. Her strength continues to come back and her brain doesn't appear to be as foggy. Another little thing to be thankful for. Brent kills the engine and now he and the rest begin to walk straight up the hill, leaving the driveway behind and walking on either cheat grass or little patches of lawn, past sagebrush, small outcroppings of rock, and some fruit trees in a straight line between the truck and the house. "'Do you smell that?' he asks the others."

A strong, acrid, sulfurous, smoky, nauseating aroma hangs in the air. Yeah, that's nasty. What is that? Rosie asks. Cam, whose shirt is no longer covering his mouth since they're no longer trapped inside together, sharing the same air, scrunches up his face in disgust. Lori does the same and says, Ugh, oh my god, that's awful. Smells like it's coming from their house, Brent says, and he tries not to think about what it might be.

After about two minutes of walking, Papa Jim and Grandma Kathy's house is only about a hundred feet further ahead. The stench has grown stronger, strong enough to make Lori gag a few times and cover her nose with her hand. The house remains completely dark and eerily quiet.

Shit. Motion detector floodlights have popped on and left Brent and his family dangerously lit up and unable to see anything in the darkness that surrounds them. They're completely helpless. If anyone has taken over Papa Jim's home and is nearby waiting for them, they couldn't ask for better, more defenseless targets. Cam whispers, what do we do? Just don't move and stay real quiet for a few moments. Brent answers as calmly as he can. Let's see if we can hear anything around us. They hear nothing. Not at first.

But then they all hear the creak of a door slowly opening, followed by a raspy, congested-sounding voice none of them recognize, asking them, Why shouldn't I leave you all dead? Whoever was speaking to them sounded sick, infected, Brent thinks before answering. My name is Brent Collins, he says. This is my wife and kids. We came here to check on my mother, Kathy, and my stepdad, Jim. Do you know them?

Rather than answer right away, the person speaking to them from the darkness starts violently coughing, and then gagging, and then from the sounds of it nearly throwing up from all of their coughing. Brent? The voice finally rasps. No. It's not right. No. Brent is dead. Has to be. Everyone's dead. Not everyone. There's a storm. There's a storm coming.

I'm a storm. We have to fight. There's a plan. Do you know it? We have to save the children. Unspeakable things have to fight. Oh my God, Brent thinks. He realizes that they are speaking to his stepfather and that Jim is obviously infected. Infected but not yet completely transformed.

It's like he's stuck in between who he was and what he's becoming. He sounds like a toy breaking down as all those evil little robots, those nanobots, make him sick and reprogram his mind. Rosie! Jim continues. Still a child. I have to save no more. We don't have to let it happen anymore. Save them. We have to save them. Then he breaks into another terrible coughing fit.

"Papa Jim?" Cam calls out, realizing now what his father already figured out. "Is that you?" After the current coughing fit finishes running its course, Jim answers, sounding almost like his old self for a moment. "Yes! Cam! Cam is that-" And then he's racked with another coughing fit, one that sounds like it nearly drops him to the ground. While he coughs, Brent and his family all stare around at each other, wondering the same thing. "What now?"

When Jim speaks again, his tone is darker than it was before. And he no longer sounds like who he was, but instead like who he soon will be. As he asks, "The storm is coming. Do you fear it?" Jim is nearly completely gone. And now Brent comes to the painful realization that his mom is almost certainly dead. And that leads him to thinking about the burnt smell in the air. No. Oh fuck no. Have they all been smelling what remains of her?

Brent feels like he's at his breaking point. They've been through so, so much to make it here. They fought. They've killed, or at least he's killed, both Red Eyes and the Uninfected. They've seen so much horror, but they made it through it all alive. And it happened in part because they continued to hold out hope that things might be better if they could just make it to Wipebert. And now, now this.

With a voice wavering with emotion and eyes yet again full of tears, Brent answers with his equally scared and sad children and his wife watching him. Fears for the sheep. I am the lion and we are the storm. After a long tense pause and after a few more deep rattling coughs, what was once Papa Jim says coldly, No, no you're not. And then they all hear the distinct sound of Jim chambering around into his rifle.

"Run!" Brent screams. And then time slows down. Rosie and Lori break to the left and right respectively, running towards the edges of the floodlights. Brent begins running up the hill, just to the right of where he assumes his stepfather still stands, towards a big shed and carport that he still can't see but he knows exactly where it is from countless visits over the years. He figures correctly that Jim's still on the small concrete landing outside the front door.

Cam stands frozen. He can't believe his grandpa is infected. How would he still know his grandkids' names if he were a red-eye? Cam irrationally, naively hopes that his stepdad is just confused somehow. Maybe he's just making sure that they aren't infected. They'll be able to reason with him. They can... His confused conjectures come to an abrupt end when he simultaneously hears the fire of a rifle and feels the bullet enter his chest. Papa Jim's always been a good shot.

has had his own private range for years and everything. And even sick, even standing, he still puts one through the heart of his grandson. Cam hears his father scream with rage and start returning fire as he drops to his knees. He hears his stepmother wail and his sister cry out in shock. Good thing he grabbed that first aid kit, he thinks. He tells himself that his dad will know how to stop the bleeding as he falls forward, face first onto the ground.

Why don't his arms work? He wonders. He'll have to remember to tell his dad that his arms aren't working. Why can't he? Why can't... Cam isn't able to finish his final thought as the world around him fades to black.

Brent roars with primal rage as he runs up the hill and unloads his FNX-45 in the direction of the rifle blast he just saw. He knows his son has been shot. He just doesn't know where yet. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He screams as he continues shooting. After the fourth or fifth shot, he hears the pained grunt that confirms the bullet made it to its target. And he keeps firing, firing, and running.

By the time he makes it past the brightest glow of the floodlights to where he can actually see his mother and stepfather's house, he sees Jim's dead body lying still across the concrete steps leading from the ground to the front door landing. And also, his eyes find the source of the stink in the air, the burnt remains of his mother's body, about ten feet away from Jim's. He doesn't look long. His attention is pulled away by the wails and screams of his wife and daughter below. And by the silence of his son, he knows that nothing...

Nothing will ever be the same after this. Don't touch him! Brent yells, even though it breaks his heart to speak those words as he now runs back down the hill towards where Cam was shot.

Cam was almost certainly infected. Brent knew it, but didn't want to accept it. And now he has to keep Rosie and Lori from infecting themselves as well. Dad! Dad, do something! Rosie shrieks, careful not to step in any of the blood beginning to pool around his son's body. Brent reaches down and grabs his hand. He lifts it up a bit as he bends over and feels his wrist for the pulse he knows he won't have. He's gone, baby, he says, pushing down all of his pain to do so. He's gone, and so is Papa Jim.

So is Grandma Kathy. No! Rosie screams and collapses onto the ground, overcome with all the grief and exhaustion. Lori falls to her knees, sobbing, and Brent stares out into the darkness beyond them. He wants to let go and break down, but he's afraid that if he does, he won't ever be able to pull himself back together again. He wants to lay down and just die, to cease to be, to no longer be capable of experiencing so much loss and violence, to not be able to feel this kind of pain again.

He thinks of what he prayed to God for not more than 30 minutes earlier. How he would rather have Cam be taken by a red-eye's bullet rather than to be turned into a red-eye and have to be killed by his father. "Were you listening, God?" he wonders. "Were you listening, you heartless motherfucker? You monster no better than the red-eyes who've overrun your finest creation? Fuck you!" he thinks. "Fuck you! Fuck the devil! And most of all, fuck whoever designed this plague!"

A part of Brent knows that despite the pain he's feeling, despite the despair that he and Lori and Rosie are drowning in, that he'll still get everyone locked inside the house tonight. Another small thing to be grateful for, he begrudgingly admits, was his stepdad at least taking his mom's infected body out of the house and burning it, and then dying outside the house himself.

Yes, he'll get everyone inside. And they'll sleep, despite everything that just happened. In guest rooms never used by his mother or stepdad. Rooms that will be free from infection. They'll clean the house. They'll burn the dead. They'll heal as much as one can from something like this. And they'll grieve. And they'll train to keep fighting with the arsenal Jim has undoubtedly left behind. And then, then they'll travel towards Boston.

The journey will be dangerous, much more dangerous than if they were to remain where they are in all likelihood. But the journey east will give them the only thing left worth living for, a chance at revenge. And that's it for this Nightmare Fuel. Thank you for encouraging me to complete this three-chapter-slash-episode arc with today's tale of the Storm, Chapter 3, Anew.

Clearly, there is a lot more to explore with this world. Those new motherfuckers can't just win, right? They can't just get away with causing this much death and pain, can they? Don't the deaths of Cam, Dina, Rhiannon, so many others need to be avenged? These three episodes feel like nothing more than a prelude to a much bigger story. An introduction to a great big fallen dystopian world. Not sure when I'll jump back into it to explore more of it and continue with Brent, Lori, and Rosie's journey

Rest in peace, Cam Collins. Might sound weird to say since I wrote it, but his death actually messed me up a bit. Someday I really hope to create a whole series out of this world. Not sure that the Nightmare Fuel banner will be right for it, though. I don't know. I feel like I'm incubating a few new worlds here, and someday some of them will possibly have their own podcast feeds or their own book or books or graphic novels. Time will tell, I guess.

I hope my creative future at some point becomes more and more full of this sort of fiction creation, and I have time to really immerse myself in it and fully flesh out big new worlds and characters. For now, I got pages of new monsters, new ideas to at least introduce to you. Thanks for coming along on this ride with me. So excited to see where we're going to go in 2025. Today's tale was written by me, Dan Cummins, scored by Logan Keith.

If you enjoyed this story, check out the rest of the Bad Magic Productions catalog. Time Suck every Monday at noon Pacific time with little short sucks on some Fridays. And these nightmare fuel episodes on some Fridays as well. And new episodes of the long-running paranormal podcast Scared to Death every Tuesday at midnight. Please go to badmagicproductions.com for all your bad magic needs, including all show-related merch, and stay scared. Bad Magic Productions.