June 25, 2023
Dear Journal,
We left before dawn.
The sky was a bruised shade of gray, the kind that promises rain but rarely delivers anymore. Marcus and I packed light—just enough food for a day, water, the pistol, and our blades. Naomi handed us an old walkie-talkie, but it sputtered with static even inside the house. It hasn't worked since the battery started dying, but carrying it felt better than leaving it behind.
No one said goodbye. Just nods and the kind of silence that says everything louder than words.
We moved through the woods with caution. Every broken twig made our hearts race. Every gust of wind had us gripping our weapons tighter. The trees are thicker out here, tangled like they're trying to keep something in—or keep us out.
After about an hour, we spotted it again: smoke. Still faint, but steadier than before, trailing up into the sky like a signal. Marcus whispered, "It's not accidental." I nodded. Controlled fire. That meant intelligence. Intent.
We picked up the pace, slowing only when we saw movement ahead.
A shape. Then another. Human.
We dropped low behind a fallen tree and watched.
Three figures, all armed, circled a small camp. Two tents, a fire pit, and supplies stacked in crates. Real supplies—canned food, bottled water, even what looked like fuel. But what struck me most was how clean they looked. Not pristine, but definitely healthier than us. One of them even laughed. Laughed.
It didn't make sense.
"Military?" I whispered.
Marcus shook his head. "No uniforms. Not bandits either… too organized."
We watched for ten more minutes. Then something happened that made my blood run cold.
They pulled a man from one of the tents. His hands were bound. Eyes wild. He was gagged.
A prisoner.
The tallest of the group—the one with the machete—stepped forward and said something we couldn't hear. The prisoner thrashed. Then the machete came down.
We didn't stay to see the rest.
We ran.
Branches whipped our faces. Our feet pounded the dirt. Neither of us spoke until the farmhouse was in sight. Only then did we stop, gasping for breath, sweat pouring down our backs.
We told Naomi everything.
She didn't say a word. Just stared at us like we'd confirmed something she already suspected.
Whoever those people are—they're not friends. And they're too close.
We might have just painted a target on our backs.
So now we plan. Again.
Tomorrow, we start packing. Just the essentials. If they come looking, we won't be here. We can't afford another Sarah. We can't afford to trust smoke in the sky.
Hope isn't safe anymore.
Yours,
J.K.