Mount Weather

My pack hit the floor with a thud.

For a second, neither of us moved. We just... stared. Then we both started laughing, breathless and shaking, jumping up and down like idiots.

"We did it," I said, almost choking on it.

"I told you we could," Murphy grinned.

We'd found it.

Mount Weather.

It didn't look like much from the outside. But inside? Inside, it was everything.

Blankets. Real clothes. Weapons. Rope. Tools. Canned food. Alcohol. Actual supplies. The kind of stuff that meant not just "survive the night," but "live."

He pulled me into his arms and held me tight. "I knew we could do it."

"Me too."

"Wanna eat?" he asked, and I laughed because God, yes.

He cracked open one of the crates. We dug out food — real food, sealed food, not leaves and desperation. We sat on the floor together and ate out of containers like it was a feast.

It tasted better than the 25 berries we'd stretched over weeks. Better than anything I remembered from the Ark.

For the first time in forever, I felt full.

I fell asleep fast after that, lulled by safety. By warmth. By him.

When I woke up smiling, he was gone.

The smile died instantly.

"John?" My voice echoed.

No answer.

I checked the room. Then the next. My heart started to pound.

One of the rifles was missing. So was some rope. And one of those folding camp stools.

"Oh, no," I whispered.

I grabbed my spear — the one with his knife tied to it — and ran.

I'd drawn a map on our way here, every landmark between the camp and Mount Weather. I shoved it in my belt and pushed through the trees, running hard, not stopping, not thinking.

And the whole way I just kept thinking: please, not this. Not again.