《The World of Jennel - Volume 1》


 1 - The Survivors

    Night was falling quickly, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Alan came to a halt on a rocky ridge, scanning the horizon. The distant lights of the group glowed faintly, flickering like fireflies on the verge of extinction.


    He opened his bag and unfolded the inflatable tent. Within seconds, the small shelter stood on the uneven ground, emitting a soft hiss as it pressurized. Alan quickly adjusted the vents to maintain airflow. The barely faded memory of the stench of corpses in the houses still haunted him. The Survivors, himself included, had learned to prefer the uncertainty of the outdoors to the putrid stench of abandoned interiors.


    He sat in front of the tent, observing the landscape suffocated by silence. Since the nanite attack, the nocturnal cries of animals had gradually dwindled. This silence was a constant reminder of life''s erosion, yet Alan found a certain peace in this solitude.


    His gaze turned toward the Specters. The intentions of the group members were visible even from this distance, a constellation of about thirty colors and shifting shapes. Shades of gold and green conveyed hope and cooperation. Occasionally, a pulse of red emerged, reflecting momentary tensions.


    He had to decide. Rejoin the group, or continue alone?


    The prospect of regaining social stability had undeniable appeal. Relying on others, exchanging ideas, breaking the oppressive isolation, these thoughts warmed his mind. Yet, it also meant losing autonomy. Every decision, every movement would be subject to the group''s tacit or explicit approval. Alan wondered if he could tolerate that kind of constraint, having survived on his own until now.


    He took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the dance of colors in the distance. The decision was not an easy one.


    He entered the tent, closing the opening with a secure motion. One more night alone wouldn¡¯t hurt him. But the dilemma continued to linger in his mind, weighing like a stone in his pocket.


    The next morning, Alan woke to the muffled sound of a light wind, each awakening marked by a slight apprehension. Although he knew the nanites did not attack Survivors, their constant and imperceptible presence served as a silent reminder of their grip on the world. He ate a cold meal, the remains of a compacted ration. The bland taste and grainy texture only reinforced his thoughts about joining the group, where he might have access to more varied food and a semblance of human warmth.


    He quickly packed up the tent, adjusted his backpack, and then descended along the path, far from the settlements.


    The cities and villages seemed frozen in a morbid eternity. The deserted streets were lined with houses with half-closed shutters, behind which silence lay heavy like a shroud. The dead, too numerous to be buried and with no one left to do it, lay everywhere, marking the remnants of a vanished civilization with their rotting presence. The air was thick, laden with the faint, insidious scent of decay that never entirely disappeared.


    Alan remembered a day when he had passed through an abandoned village. He had pushed open the door of a bakery to take shelter. Behind the counter, a man sat, his head tilted to the side. The baker¡¯s corpse, probably. His hands, still stained with flour, rested on his knees, frozen in eternity. The bread oven had been left open, with charred loaves still inside. But that wasn¡¯t what had struck Alan. It was the small sign placed on the counter:


    "Smile, this is the house of happiness."


    He had left without a word.


    In the countryside, things were less oppressive, but another reality took hold, animals were dying too. Their bodies piled up in fields, on roads, under trees. Birds, once merely scarce, now seemed almost nonexistent. The ground was littered with carcasses of rabbits, deer, even stray dogs that had ceased to be a threat.


    Once, Alan had come across a dead horse, lying on its side at the edge of a stream. Its empty eyes stared at the sky, and its hooves sank slightly into the damp earth. The water continued to flow, indifferent, while the blades of grass nearby had already begun to wither.


    But the most striking thing was the trees. More and more of them showed dead treetops, their leaves yellowing prematurely, as if burned by an invisible poison.


    Alan particularly remembered a majestic oak he had observed from the top of a hill. Its lower branches were still green, but its crown was entirely scorched. A stark contrast. He had the impression of watching a dying giant.


    The Nanites. These infinitely small objects, invisible to the naked eye, were everywhere. They floated in the air, settled on surfaces, and infiltrated living organisms. They had destroyed the world as it once was, reducing humanity to a handful of Survivors. But they were not mere destructive machines. Their behavior suggested something else. A form of intelligence, perhaps a collective consciousness.


    Alan often wondered what controlled them. An unknown force? An external entity? Or had they evolved on their own, becoming something else, something incomprehensible?


    What troubled him the most was the question of the Survivors. Why them? Why had some been spared while billions perished in just a few hours? There was no apparent logic. And even more unsettling: why did the nanites seem to have altered those who remained?


    Alan noticed it more and more each day. He himself, like the other Survivors he encountered, had grown younger. His body had been restored to that of a man in his thirties. His reflexes, strength, even his endurance had improved. Some might have even developed new mental abilities, just as he had with his ability to perceive the intentions of others.


    It made no sense.


    "Why improve us?" he often wondered. "Why not just let us die?"


    It was a question without an answer, and it haunted him. If the nanites were capable of wiping out all life on Earth, why leave these few Survivors alive¡­ and why make them better?


    This thought followed him as he traveled along deserted roads, each human or animal corpse reinforcing the absurdity of the situation. There was no apparent logic. Just an overwhelming mystery.


    Alan moved forward day after day, counting his supplies, adapting to his environment. He never knew what the next day would bring, but one thing was certain, he would keep going.


    His journey had taken him through valleys and mountains, along roads that were once bustling but were now frozen in oppressive stillness. He had to survive, keep moving, find sustenance without lingering in uncertain places.


    He set his bag on the ground and rummaged through a side pocket, pulling out a small pouch of dried meat. He chewed it slowly, savoring every salty fiber as it unraveled between his teeth. His supplies were running low, and he knew he would soon have to replenish them.


    Back on the road, he gradually increased his pace to close the distance between himself and the rear of the group. The day was beautiful, a clear sky and a gentle breeze caressed the Mediterranean vegetation that covered this mid-mountain region. The scent of pine and thyme occasionally tickled his nostrils, contrasting with the heavy atmosphere of his thoughts.


    After his meager midday meal, he finally spotted the last members of the group. Four people, visibly armed, formed a sort of protective barrier at the rear. Their faces were calm, their Specters non-threatening. Alan slowed his pace slightly, observing their movements. They seemed well-organized but not oppressive. This sight reassured him somewhat.


    The rest of the group was moving further down the road. Likely toward the Beacon. At least, he hoped so, because that was his path as well.


    Alan remembered perfectly the first time he had seen the Beacon.


    It was two months after the Wave, in the suffocating silence of his house. Alone. The days had become an indistinguishable sequence of wanderings and efforts to survive. He moved from room to room, often avoiding those that were too filled with memories, his marital bedroom, the playroom of his children. Those doors remained closed, as if to contain the pain they held.


    The garden had become a forbidden zone. At the far end, beneath the accumulated dead leaves, his family rested. Alan had buried them himself, unable to leave them farther away. Every time he considered going there, the impulse was cut short by a weight in his chest, an exhausting certainty that seeing them again, even in his thoughts, would break him.


    He only went outside for practical reasons: to check the bicycle and trailer he used to search for supplies in the lifeless towns nearby.


    Inside the house, the hallway mirror had become an almost obsessive stop. His reflection changed daily, and the transformation was now undeniable. His features sharpened, his wrinkles faded. The weary face of a sixty-four-year-old man had transformed into that of someone in his thirties. This rejuvenation, far from reassuring him, filled him with dread. He didn¡¯t understand. Each glance in the mirror fueled more unanswered questions.


    "What is real?" he wondered. "Is any of this real?"


    His meals were erratic, sparse. He survived more than he lived, his mind barely aware of the passage of time. Until one night, an unexpected light interrupted his daze.


    While in the kitchen, a faint halo appeared in the corner of the room. Power returning? No, the ceiling light remained off.


    He squinted, searching for an explanation. The glow seemed to have its own source. It shone in a precise direction, as if pointing at something. When he turned away, it disappeared. Intrigued, Alan searched the house, but the phenomenon repeated itself in every room. Outside, it was the same. The light always pointed in the same direction, steady and unwavering.


    At first, he thought it was an optical issue or a hallucination. But after several days, the light became a presence he could no longer ignore. It seemed to be guiding him. Gradually, an idea took root in his mind, this light was a purpose. A silent call that reawakened a flicker of willpower within him.


    He began preparing. Alan didn¡¯t know where the light would lead him, but he knew he had to leave. Staying still had become unbearable, and the Beacon, as he came to call it, represented a reason to keep going.


    The moment to make contact was approaching. With each step, Alan drew closer to a decision he could no longer postpone.


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    To be noticed without causing alarm, he followed the high ground overlooking the road. His gaze swept the surroundings, pausing on a shadow concealed beneath a bridge arch. A man was stationed there, short and stocky, but his movements lacked aggression.


    Alan crossed the bridge, his steps echoing lightly on the cracked asphalt. He knew the man had emerged from under the arch and was following him at a slow pace, but he did not turn around.


    As he neared the next bend, Alan spotted three figures standing motionless in the shadows. As he approached, they suddenly emerged. Two of them raised their weapons, but without much conviction.


    The first man, tall and lean, moved with measured, almost reassuring gestures. The second, a towering figure with a serious face, kept his weapon lowered, content to observe.


    The third, a young woman of Hispanic appearance, had an austere beauty. Her dark brown hair framed a determined face. She stood in a firing stance, a pistol firmly aimed at him, arms fully extended. Her piercing gaze was fixed on Alan, a blend of wariness and absolute focus, as if every fraction of a second could determine the outcome of this encounter.


    She wore a fitted black tank top and military camouflage pants.


    The man from under the bridge was still behind Alan, silent but present.


    "Raise your hands," the woman ordered in a firm voice.


    Alan complied without protest, his arms lifting slowly. He offered a faint smile, breaking the tension with a touch of irony.


    "Nice to see you too."


    The man behind him took his bag, unfastened his rifle and pistol. Alan didn¡¯t resist, keeping his eyes on the three in front of him.


    His gaze lingered on the young woman. Her stance was firm, almost rigid, but her Specter told a different story. Hues of uncertainty and turmoil pulsed around her, like a halo of worry hidden behind an impassive mask.


    For a brief moment, Alan studied her face. He found it striking, marked yet harmonious features, and deep eyes that seemed to carry the weight of unanswered questions.


    The apparent contradiction between her demeanor and her inner emotions fascinated him. He looked at her without hesitation, allowing himself to be drawn into this complexity.


    Everything hinged on this moment, this unexpected encounter. This was no longer just a decision to be made; it was a pivotal moment, one that would shape his future and perhaps something beyond himself. Every word, every gesture would seal a fate that was no longer entirely in his hands.


    The woman furrowed her brow slightly under his steady gaze.


    "I¡¯m Alan," he finally said, breaking the silence.


    The tall, lean man nodded with a subtle smile. "Robert," he said. "But everyone calls me Bob."


    The serious-looking giant shrugged. "Jean. Or Johnny, if you prefer."


    Alan turned slightly toward the man behind him, who had remained silent until now.


    "Ibrahim," he said simply.


    Alan returned his attention to the woman, who still hadn¡¯t spoken, her gaze fixed on him.


    A few more seconds passed before Bob spoke up.


    "Her name is Jennel."


    The name echoed in Alan¡¯s mind, vibrating like a taut string. He smiled slightly.


    "Beautiful name. An old one."


    The comment lingered in the air for a moment, but the woman did not react. Her gaze, however, darkened briefly, as if a fleeting thought had crossed her mind.


    They resumed their walk along the winding road. Bob walked beside Alan, slipping into conversation with natural ease.


    "Where are you headed?" Bob asked.


    Alan shrugged. "Toward the Beacon, the light, if you prefer. From what I¡¯ve observed, it seems to be your destination too?"


    Bob nodded. "Yes. We¡¯ve been following it for weeks. A man in our group, Michel, can see it. He¡¯s the reason we¡¯ve been moving in the right direction."


    A silence followed.


    "But he¡¯s not the only one with special abilities." Bob cast a brief glance at Jennel. "The moment she sees someone, she can read their intentions."


    A wave of relief washed over Alan. He wasn¡¯t the only anomaly. Others had developed unusual gifts in this fractured world.


    Jennel suddenly broke her silence. Her voice was low but assured.


    "Not with you."


    Alan blinked. "What?"


    She held his gaze unwaveringly. "I don¡¯t see anything around you. Nothing. It¡¯s like¡­ you¡¯re invisible."


    Alan remained silent for a moment, absorbing the revelation. Invisible to someone who could read intentions? That was unsettling.


    He needed to be honest with them.


    "I see what I call Specters," he admitted. "Including yours, Jennel."


    Bob looked surprised, and Jennel turned her head slightly, listening intently.


    "How long?" Bob asked.


    "Three months after the Wave. But my range is much greater. I can see Specters from miles away, even without direct sight."


    Jennel studied him with an unreadable expression. Her gaze flickered between curiosity and suspicion.


    The road continued winding through the hills, but Alan slowed his pace. His eyes drifted toward the valley below, where a stream shimmered faintly between the trees.


    Without warning, he stopped abruptly and veered off the road, descending the slope. The group¡¯s faces registered surprise.


    "Stay with us," Jennel ordered firmly.


    Alan turned his head slightly, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips.


    "Follow me. You¡¯ll see."


    Jennel clenched her jaw, clearly irritated, but after a brief hesitation, she followed him. The others hesitated a moment longer before trailing behind at a cautious distance.


    At the valley¡¯s bottom, the stream meandered peacefully. Trees lined its banks, but Alan stopped in front of something disturbing.


    "Look, Jennel," he said, pointing at the tree canopies. All were scorched, as if burned by an invisible fire. "The nanites are attacking the trees too."


    Jennel narrowed her eyes, studying the dried-out leaves and weakened branches.


    "You believe in this theory, like Michel?" she asked, a hint of skepticism in her voice.


    Alan nodded slowly. "I learned about it online¡­ just moments before the Wave. Scientists had detected them everywhere for weeks, but it was classified information."


    Jennel¡¯s gaze softened, suspicion giving way to curiosity. She looked at Alan, visibly shaken by his words.


    Alan gave her a sad smile.


    "There were still answers¡­ or rather, questions, before everything collapsed."


    A silence settled between them, but something shifted in Jennel¡¯s eyes. As if a distant, happy memory had resurfaced, bringing back a spark of humanity she had nearly forgotten.


    Alan watched her, intrigued.


    The next stretch of the journey felt different, almost meditative. Silence reigned, but some of the tension had dissipated. Alan noticed that Jennel no longer walked behind him, but beside him.


    "How are we supposed to know your intentions?" she asked suddenly.


    Alan glanced at her briefly before turning his focus back to the path ahead.


    "The old-fashioned way. By trusting me."


    Jennel let out a short, almost incredulous chuckle.


    "Some people are dangerous."


    Alan shrugged. "Or just lost."


    They finally arrived at the group¡¯s new campsite. Tents, some makeshift, some sturdier, were arranged in a loose circle around a fire. The weary faces of the Survivors turned toward them, marked by the harsh life they led.


    A man approached, his sharp, alert eyes taking them in. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and worn clothes, but he carried himself with dignity.


    "Michel," Bob introduced the man to Alan.


    Alan nodded respectfully, extending his hand.


    "You¡¯re their guide. That¡¯s a vital task."


    Michel shook his hand firmly but studied him, trying to gauge the stranger in their midst.


    Alan felt the weight of the group¡¯s stares. He made sure not to come across as a threat, or a rival to Michel.


    "I¡¯m only here to help, for as long as I can," he added with a measured smile.


    Michel nodded slowly, his skepticism easing slightly.


    Jennel, still silent, pointed out a spot for Alan to set up his tent. The nearby Survivors, despite their evident fatigue, were cordial, offering quiet greetings.


    The food they shared was no better than the rations Alan had eaten alone in recent days. But he accepted it without complaint, seated on a fallen log, slightly apart from the others.


    The number of people around him unsettled Alan. Too many bodies, too much movement. He was no longer used to crowds.


    He approached the central fire, where a few Survivors had gathered. Their faces, etched with fatigue and distrust, turned toward him briefly before looking away. The atmosphere was heavy, as if every spoken word was a calculated risk.


    He returned to the tree stump, slightly apart from the others. The conversations around him were hushed, almost whispered. A woman, busy heating a canned meal, exchanged quick words with a man fidgeting with a map folded in four. Another man stared into the flames with an unsettling intensity, his trembling hands resting on his knees.


    Michel approached, holding out a metal cup filled with a lukewarm liquid. "Coffee, if you can still call it that."


    Alan nodded in thanks and brought the cup to his lips. The bitterness of the brew was barely masked by a faint burnt aroma. But he wasn¡¯t here to enjoy luxuries.


    "Ever wonder how we all manage to stay together?" Michel asked, sitting beside him.


    Alan shrugged. "Necessity, I suppose. People don¡¯t have many options."


    Michel gave a tired smile. "True. But it¡¯s more fragile than it looks. Resources, tensions, distrust¡­ It¡¯s a delicate balance."


    With a subtle gesture, he pointed toward a small scene a few meters away: two men were quietly arguing over the distribution of rations. Their voices were rising slightly, but the wary glances of the others in the group kept the tension contained.


    "These small disputes are sparks," Michel continued. "Sometimes, all it takes is one to make the whole group explode."


    Alan observed in silence, noticing details he hadn¡¯t perceived before, the quick, darting glances, the defensive hand movements, as if everyone was expecting to protect themselves at any moment. He thought about the solitude he had clung to before joining this group. And about what he had been running from.


    "You seem to handle it well," he finally said.


    Michel shook his head lightly. "Not always. But I¡¯ve learned one thing: it¡¯s the small gestures that matter. A reassuring word, a look that says we¡¯re here for each other. Without that, everything falls apart."


    Alan nodded slowly. He took another sip from his cup, contemplating Michel¡¯s words.


    A sudden cry rang out at the edge of the camp. A woman, visibly exhausted, stood with her voice trembling in anger.


    "Why him? Why does he always get the best portions?"


    The camp¡¯s attention turned to her. The man in question¡ªa towering figure with a hardened expression¡ªcrossed his arms, his muscles tensing beneath his worn-out shirt.


    "Because I fight for this group. Every single day."


    Murmurs rose, threatening to spiral into chaos. Alan felt a surge of anxiety creeping up, but Michel stood up calmly, raising a hand.


    "Listen to me," he said, his voice firm but measured. "We are all exhausted. We all have our limits. But if we start tearing each other apart, we won¡¯t last the week."


    The murmurs faded, the tension slowly dissipating. Alan watched Michel, impressed by how he had defused the situation. He wasn¡¯t a leader, not officially. But he carried a burden few could bear.


    Michel sat back down beside Alan, his shoulders slightly slumped.


    "Now do you see what I mean?"


    Alan nodded. He now understood the fragile dynamics holding this group together. But he also saw how easy it would be to break them.

 2 - Jennel and Alan

    Lost in his thoughts, he didn¡¯t hear Jennel approach.


    Jennel sat down on the tree trunk, arms crossed over her knees. Unlike earlier, she was no longer wearing her worn military pants. That evening, she wore a short denim skirt that revealed her lean, toned legs. She crossed them, and Alan couldn¡¯t help but notice how beautiful they were.


    He quickly averted his gaze, but it was too late. He had seen them. And he couldn¡¯t deny what he felt.


    Jennel was beautiful. Not in an obvious way, but with a quiet, almost elusive beauty that was undeniably real. Her dark hair fell in messy strands around her face, and her deep, worried eyes always seemed to analyze the world with silent intensity.


    Alan bit the inside of his cheek. He scolded himself for letting his thoughts wander in that direction. This was neither the time nor the place. How could he think about this when the world was collapsing around them?


    And yet, the thought persisted.


    He straightened slightly, slipping his hands into his pockets in an attempt to mask his unease. But the feeling remained, embedded deep within him. A feeling he hadn¡¯t experienced in years.


    Love might be a victory over death¡­ but he wasn¡¯t sure he was ready to accept it.


    Jennel broke the silence.


    "Sorry about my attitude," she said after a while. "I was thrown off by this whole ¡®Specter¡¯ thing, as you call it."


    Alan gave a small shrug, an amused smile playing on his lips.


    "No problem. I like your grumpy look."


    Jennel smirked, tight but genuine.


    "It¡¯s not a grumpy look."


    "It is."


    "No, it¡¯s not."


    "Yes, it is."


    They both burst into laughter, breaking the lingering tension.


    Jennel¡¯s eyes sparkled as she tilted her head slightly.


    "You got younger, didn¡¯t you?"


    Alan nodded. "Started at sixty-four."


    Jennel¡¯s eyes widened in playful surprise.


    "A grandpa!" she teased.


    "The elder of the group," she added with a grin.


    Alan shrugged.


    "Me, twenty-seven."


    A brief silence. Alan remained expressionless, then smirked.


    "You know, old men like younger women."


    Jennel laughed out loud.


    "Hold on, let me call the cops."


    Their laughter echoed into the quiet night, dissolving the last remnants of the day¡¯s tension.


    Then, without quite knowing how, laughter turned into quiet confessions.


    At first, their words were hesitant. Neither dared to talk about the early days¡ªit was still too heavy, too painful. The images of their lost loved ones, the empty streets, the oppressive silence¡­ all of it was buried in a dark corner of their minds, a place they weren¡¯t ready to open. So they stayed on the surface, sharing only the memories they could bear.


    After a long pause, Alan finally spoke.


    "It was on the steps of the cathedral."


    Jennel turned her head toward him, attentive, her gaze an unspoken invitation to continue.


    "He was insane. Ranting about prophecies. Saying incomprehensible things about the end of the world, about divine signs¡­ He had a rusty kitchen knife."


    He paused, his eyes lost in a memory still too vivid.


    "He was coming at me. I¡­ I saw him too late. Back then, I couldn¡¯t see Specters. He threatened me. I had a weapon, a rifle, an old one¡­ and I shot."


    Alan ran a hand over his face, as if wiping away an invisible shiver.


    "The gunshot echoed through the entire district. But the silence that followed¡­ that was worse. Like the city itself was holding its breath."


    Jennel said nothing, but her eyes remained locked on Alan¡¯s, offering silent comfort. Words came more easily now.


    "Then there was this woman. She was completely lost. Crying, screaming¡­ She said the dead would come back, that they shouldn¡¯t be left out in the open. So I dug. I buried the bodies. Some were already decomposing. The smell¡­"


    He shook his head, his expression twisting slightly.


    "It clung to me for days. No matter how many times I washed, I could still smell it. Like it had become a part of me."


    A few moments of silence passed before Jennel took a trembling breath and began her own story.


    She lowered her eyes, as if the memories were resurfacing right before her.


    "It was at the very beginning¡­" she murmured. "I was looking for food in a supermarket. I was alone. I thought no one would come..."


    She paused, her hands clenching slightly around her knees.


    "Then he appeared. I didn¡¯t hear him coming. He lunged at me without a word. I fought back¡­ I remember the sound of shelves crashing down, cans rolling across the floor. And then¡­ the knife."


    Alan stayed silent, waiting for her to continue.


    "I don¡¯t even know where I found it. On the floor, probably. Everything was a blur. But I stabbed him. Once, twice¡­ again and again. The blood¡­ It was everywhere. On my hands, on my clothes."


    Her voice broke slightly, and she rubbed her palms over her thighs, as if she could still feel the stickiness of the blood.


    "I couldn¡¯t move. I just sat there, in the middle of it all. He was dead¡­ and I didn¡¯t even know if I should cry or throw up."


    Instinctively, Alan placed a hand over hers. She didn¡¯t pull away. Her gaze remained fixed on the ground, but the contact seemed to anchor her to the present.


    "After leaving the supermarket¡­ I was in shock, I think. I still had the knife in my hand. The man I had¡­ the man I had to kill didn¡¯t even know my name. He just wanted¡­ he wanted to rob me, or worse. I found myself outside, stumbling like an idiot with that bloody knife. I had no idea where to go, what to do. Then Rose appeared. She approached me cautiously. She saw the blood, she saw the weapon. But she didn¡¯t run away."


    Jennel gave a sad smile.


    "Instead, she reached out her hand. ''Come with me,'' she said. She took me to a fountain, where the water was still flowing. She helped me wash my hands, clean the blood away. She had fresh clothes in her bag and told me to change. I think¡­ I think that was the first time I felt safe in a long time."


    She paused, trying to steady her emotions.


    "We decided to leave together. We didn¡¯t really know where to go, but we thought Paris would be a good idea. That¡¯s where Survivors would gather¡­ at least, that was our theory. Just an idea to give purpose to our journey."


    Alan nodded, encouraging her to continue.


    "Along the way, we met Michel and Bob. We were approaching a village when we heard them. They were making a racket, not with a radio or anything electronic, since none of that works anymore. No, they were banging on pots, barrels, anything that made noise. It was like some absurd parade."


    Jennel let out a short, almost bitter laugh.


    "Rose and I thought they were crazy. Or desperately lonely. Maybe both. But they weren¡¯t dangerous. Michel, especially, seemed like a good guy. When we asked what they were doing, he told us they were looking for other Survivors. That they didn¡¯t want to be alone for too long."


    She shrugged.


    "But they weren¡¯t heading to Paris. Michel had another idea. He had seen the Beacon, too. Southeast. He was convinced that was where we needed to go. So they asked us to come along."


    Alan watched her carefully. There was something fragile in her voice, something hesitant¡ªan invisible barrier she wasn¡¯t ready to let down completely.


    She fell silent, her eyes reflecting the distant glow of the fire. Alan hesitated for a moment, then spoke in a quiet voice.


    "Talking about it helps."


    Jennel nodded slowly. "Yeah¡­ it does."


    The last traces of sunlight faded, leaving only the embers of twilight.


    Then, in the heavy silence, Jennel asked a question that carried far more weight than it seemed.


    "Do you ever have strange dreams? Dreams that feel¡­ too real?"


    Alan raised an eyebrow, surprised by the question.


    "Nightmares, often¡­ unfortunately."


    Jennel shook her head.


    "No. I¡¯m talking about dreams¡­ very, very real ones. The kind that don¡¯t feel any different from reality."


    Alan narrowed his eyes, trying to understand. But nothing she was saying resonated with him.


    "I don¡¯t see what you mean," he admitted honestly.


    Jennel hesitated, struggling to find the right words. It was difficult for her to confess that she had them. She lowered her gaze, fidgeting with a small twig between her fingers.


    "I have them," she finally said. "Some are unclear¡­ but others are vivid. As clear as reality."


    Alan tilted his head slightly, intrigued.


    "A lot?"


    Jennel slowly lifted her eyes to him. It took her a few seconds to respond, as if she were fighting the urge to stay silent.


    "Almost every night¡­ for a month now."


    Alan hesitated for a moment, wanting to ask more questions but holding back. Something in Jennel¡¯s tone suggested she didn¡¯t want to delve too deeply into the subject. Yet, he took the risk of asking:


    "Do you know what it might mean?"


    Jennel gave a slight shrug, an unreadable expression passing over her face.


    "My friend Rose knows about them," she murmured. "She tells me I should be more open to others, more receptive to their feelings¡­ But I can¡¯t. It¡¯s my way of coping with all of this."


    Her face darkened gradually, sadness and pain creeping in, as if she carried the weight of memories too heavy to bear. Alan sensed she was struggling not to let them overwhelm her.


    Then, abruptly, her expression changed. Her gaze hardened, her face closed off.


    "Good night," she said almost coldly before getting up hastily and walking away.


    Alan watched her go, unable to say anything.


    The night wind blew softly, carrying away the last traces of daylight.


    The next morning, as the camp slowly stirred awake, Jennel found Alan sitting near the dying fire. He saw her approaching but remained silent, letting her initiate the conversation.


    Jennel sat across from him, her gaze lost in the embers.


    "I wanted to apologize¡­ for last night." She hesitated, searching for words. "I left too quickly."


    She paused.


    "I wonder¡­" She hesitated again.


    "How do you manage to talk about these things?"


    Alan looked up at her, surprised by the question. He gave a small shrug.


    "It¡¯s not easy, as you probably noticed. But¡­ it helps."


    "I struggle with it," she admitted. "The moment I start talking about¡­ everything, I freeze up. I don¡¯t want to go too far. Not into the details."


    "I went pretty far with you."


    She averted her gaze, embarrassed.


    "I feel selfish talking about myself, about my experiences. As if my pain is more important than anyone else¡¯s. And then, there¡¯s the guilt¡­ The guilt of still being here when so many others aren¡¯t."


    Alan slowly nodded. He understood completely.


    "Survivor¡¯s guilt," he murmured. "It¡¯s a burden many carry. But you know¡­ talking about it doesn¡¯t erase the pain of others. It just helps you live with your own."


    Jennel studied him for a moment, her expression caught between mistrust and gratitude.


    "Rose always tells me I need to learn to open up," she said softly. "But it¡¯s¡­ terrifying."


    Alan offered her a reassuring smile.


    "We don¡¯t have to rush. One step at a time."


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    Jennel lowered her gaze, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.


    "One step at a time," she repeated, almost to herself.


    A few moments of silence passed.


    Alan broke it with a quiet voice, almost too gentle for the tension lingering between them.


    "And love?"


    Jennel¡¯s eyes snapped up, surprised. Her expression flickered between unease and confusion.


    "Love?" she echoed, as if she hadn¡¯t heard correctly.


    Alan nodded slowly. "Yes¡­ love. Is that something you can talk about?"


    Jennel looked away.


    "I¡­ I don¡¯t know," she murmured. "I¡¯m not allowed to."


    Alan frowned slightly. "Not allowed? Why?"


    Jennel took a long breath, choosing her words carefully.


    "Because¡­" She hesitated, visibly uncomfortable. "Because it¡¯s selfish. This world¡­ what it has become¡­ I can¡¯t afford to think about that."


    Alan remained silent, giving her space to continue.


    "I tell myself it would be a betrayal of those who are gone," she added, her voice trembling. "To love someone, when so many have died¡­ Do I have the right? Can I allow myself to feel that?"


    She ran a hand through her hair, visibly troubled.


    "But¡­ could I?" she murmured almost to herself, her gaze drifting away again.


    Alan reached out, his fingers barely grazing hers.


    "It¡¯s not about having the right," he said gently. "It¡¯s about being alive."


    "Love is a victory over the enemy."


    Before the group¡¯s departure, Michel approached Alan, his expression grave. The dim morning light cast deep shadows on his tired face.


    "Alan, can we talk before we leave?" he asked in a low voice.


    Alan nodded and followed him away from the others, into a secluded area where the trees formed a protective circle.


    "I need your help," Michel began bluntly. "You can perceive people¡¯s intentions, can¡¯t you? Jennel told me about this¡­ ability you both share."


    Alan furrowed his brow, glancing back at the camp.


    "That¡¯s true. But why would you need mine?"


    Michel crossed his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on Alan.


    "We¡¯re going to encounter other Survivors. It¡¯s inevitable. And not all of them will be friendly. If you can warn us in advance, we¡¯ll have a chance to react."


    Alan remained silent for a moment. The thought of being on the front lines, assessing the intentions of complete strangers, didn¡¯t sit well with him. But he understood the necessity.


    "Alright," he finally said. "I¡¯ll do my best."


    Michel offered a tired smile.


    "Thank you. It could make all the difference."


    Alan¡¯s eyes fell on the notebook resting on Michel¡¯s lap. The pages were filled with intricate sketches and handwritten notes, diagrams of molecules, equations. Michel noticed his curiosity and smiled faintly.


    "You¡¯re wondering what I¡¯m working on, aren¡¯t you?"


    Alan shrugged. "I¡¯m mostly trying to understand what¡¯s happening around us. And you seem to have some answers."


    Michel closed his notebook gently.


    "Answers, maybe. But mostly questions. The nanites¡­ they¡¯re not just machines. They follow a logic we don¡¯t yet understand."


    "Were you a scientist?" Alan asked.


    "A bioengineering specialist. I worked on medical nanomachines before¡­ all this." Michel made a vague gesture toward the world around them. "But the nanites we see today aren¡¯t ours. They¡¯re¡­ far beyond what we were capable of creating."


    Alan frowned. "A different technology, then?"


    Michel nodded. "Most likely. These machines seem capable of evolving, adapting. Maybe even communicating with each other, like a living organism."


    He paused, staring into the fire¡¯s weak embers.


    "And their ability to alter the Survivors¡­" Michel sighed. "It¡¯s beyond anything I can comprehend. Why improve us? Why let us live?"


    Alan felt a chill run down his spine. Michel¡¯s words echoed his own thoughts.


    "So, you have no hypothesis?" Alan asked.


    Michel lifted his gaze, his eyes filled with exhaustion.


    "Only speculations. Maybe we¡¯re experiments, test subjects. Maybe we serve a purpose we can¡¯t even fathom."


    Alan remained silent, mulling over his words. He looked around, observing the other Survivors in the camp. They all showed the same signs of transformation, renewed youth, enhanced abilities. But at what cost?


    Michel spoke again, almost to himself.


    "The real problem, Alan, is that we don¡¯t know if these nanites have a master¡­ or if they¡¯ve become their own master."


    The group had set off, moving slowly along a road bordered by rolling hills.


    Alan walked in silence, observing the other members of the group closely. He tried to start conversations, but the responses were short, wary. He still struggled to fit in.


    It was when he spotted Jennel walking ahead of him that he noticed her slight limp. She put more weight on her right foot with each step, clearly trying to hide her discomfort.


    He quickened his pace to catch up to her.


    "Jennel, you''re limping. What happened?"


    She shot him a brief glance, visibly annoyed that he had noticed.


    "It¡¯s nothing serious. Just a small injury."


    Alan wasn¡¯t convinced.


    "Where did you hurt yourself?"


    Jennel sighed.


    "I slipped on a rock while washing in the stream. It¡¯s nothing. The nanites will take care of it."


    Alan frowned.


    "Maybe, but if we treat it now, it¡¯ll heal even faster. Do you really want to limp all day?"


    Jennel tried to brush him off.


    "I told you it¡¯s nothing, Alan. It¡¯ll pass."


    He placed a firm but gentle hand on her arm.


    "Let me take a look. I have a small medical kit. If we clean it properly, you¡¯ll be back on your feet in a few hours."


    Jennel hesitated, her lips pressed into a thin line. She hated being the center of attention, hated even more feeling vulnerable.


    That¡¯s when a new voice chimed in.


    "Hello, I¡¯m Rose," said a small, slightly round woman with a warm smile.


    "He¡¯s right, Jennel. Let him help. If it gets infected, you¡¯ll be in much worse shape."


    Under Rose¡¯s insistent gaze, Jennel finally gave in.


    "Fine. But make it quick."


    Alan pulled out his medical kit and knelt before her. The injury wasn¡¯t deep, but a clean cut on her heel needed attention. He applied antiseptic ointment before carefully bandaging her foot.


    "There. Now you¡¯re getting on the cart."


    Jennel protested immediately.


    "No way! I can walk."


    Rose placed a hand on her shoulder.


    "Get on. We need you strong, not exhausted."


    Alan extended a hand to help her onto the cart. Jennel groaned in frustration but eventually accepted.


    He watched as she settled in, a small, amused smile on his lips.


    "Thank you," she murmured.


    Alan simply nodded.


    "It¡¯s nothing."


    As Alan adjusted the cart to make Jennel more comfortable, Rose approached.


    "Is she okay?" she asked, lowering her voice so Jennel wouldn¡¯t hear.


    Alan nodded.


    "She¡¯ll be fine. It¡¯s just a minor wound."


    Rose studied him in silence for a moment before speaking again.


    "You know¡­ Jennel and I have known each other for a while."


    "I know. She told me everything."


    "Is she okay?" Alan asked after a pause. "I mean¡­ not just physically."


    Rose lowered her eyes.


    "Jennel is strong. But she keeps everything inside. She has these¡­ weird dreams, as she calls them. Sometimes, they really get to her."


    Alan narrowed his eyes.


    "She told me. Very realistic dreams."


    Rose nodded.


    "Yes. She tries to ignore them, but they haunt her. And that¡¯s something I can¡¯t help her with."


    A silence settled, broken only by the sound of footsteps on the road.


    Then Rose looked up at Alan, curiosity in her gaze.


    "And you? What do you think of her?"


    Alan felt his heart speed up slightly. He briefly looked away, searching for a response that wouldn¡¯t betray too much of what he felt. But he knew his eyes had already spoken for him.


    Rose smiled softly.


    "I see."


    Alan opened his mouth to say something, but Rose raised a hand to stop him.


    "No need to say anything. Good luck."


    Alan gave a sheepish smile.


    "Thanks. I think I¡¯ll need it."


    Rose took a step back, then abruptly changed the subject.


    "Want to come to the village for supplies? We need enough to last a few more days."


    Alan hesitated.


    "The village?"


    "Yeah. It¡¯s not far. But we can¡¯t be too careful. Having a scout with us would help."


    After a brief moment of thought, Alan nodded.


    "Alright. I¡¯m in."


    Rose led Alan to two makeshift handcarts. They were built from old planks and wheels salvaged from bicycles. They looked sturdy, but their weight would be a challenge on rough terrain.


    "No other choice," Rose explained, noticing Alan¡¯s questioning look. "Engines don¡¯t work anymore. Everything electric shut down after the Wave. And animals¡­ well, there aren¡¯t many left."


    She paused, scanning the small group gathered around the carts.


    "We have to be careful with the route. The terrain makes it a nightmare to push these things. We need to avoid steep inclines."


    Alan watched as she unfolded a map on a tree stump. A few buildings were circled in red.


    "We¡¯re focusing on small stores and secondary warehouses. Big supermarkets are rare around here."


    She traced a line between two villages.


    "Here, there¡¯s a hardware store. And here, an old agricultural depot. With some luck, we¡¯ll find useful supplies."


    Alan nodded, impressed by her organization.


    "It must be tough, never knowing what you¡¯ll find."


    Rose gave a sad smile.


    "It¡¯s always tough. But we don¡¯t have a choice. Every trip is a gamble."


    She looked up at him.


    "Come on. The sooner we go, the sooner we¡¯re back."


    Alan took a deep breath and grabbed the handles of a cart. The wood creaked slightly under the pressure. The road would be long, and the challenges many, but at least they were ready.


    They were still some distance from the village when Alan felt a Specter flicker at the edge of his perception.


    Shifting lights, carried by a muted intent.


    It wasn¡¯t the first time he had sensed such a presence, but he tensed slightly, his instincts on high alert. Usually, he avoided them.


    "Everything okay?" Rose asked, noticing his change in demeanor.


    Alan nodded but remained silent. He didn¡¯t want to worry her unnecessarily, but something was off.


    That presence¡­ it was moving. Slowly. Following them.


    When they finally reached the village, the Specter grew stronger.


    Alan slowed his steps, glancing around cautiously. He could now pinpoint it with precision. The crumbling facades of buildings seemed to watch them in eerie silence.


    Rose consulted the map, while Alan fixated on a particular direction.


    "Nothing marked here," she muttered, frowning.


    Alan squinted at the church. Behind the bell tower, slightly hidden, he spotted a small supermarket with a broken, swaying sign.


    "Over there," he pointed.


    The group moved cautiously toward the building.


    The air was heavy with a putrid stench, and they quickly discovered why.


    In the supermarket parking lot, dozens of corpses were piled on top of one another, twisted into grotesque positions.


    Alan instinctively turned toward the church. The door was ajar. He pushed it open gently, and it creaked ominously.


    "They came from the church," Alan called out.


    Rose covered her nose with a cloth.


    "Why move them? Why pile them up here?"


    Inside, there were no bodies on the pews, no signs of struggle. But as Alan approached the altar, he froze.


    Two bodies lay side by side on the cold marble.


    A man and a woman.


    Their faces still bore the traces of a recent, painful death.


    Rose joined him, eyes wide.


    "They died recently," she murmured. "They¡¯re not Wave victims."


    Alan studied the scene, his brows furrowing. Something sinister was unfolding.


    Since arriving in the village, he had felt the presence growing stronger.


    Someone was nearby. Watching.


    "We¡¯re not alone," he said loudly.


    Rose lifted her head, suddenly alert.


    "Who?"


    Alan didn¡¯t answer right away. He focused, letting his ability pick up on the surrounding emotions.


    A wave of hostility hit him, confirming his fears.


    "Someone who has already killed," he finally said. "And who¡¯s ready to do it again."


    Alan cast one last look at the two bodies on the altar, his jaw clenched.


    What if Jennel had been among them?


    A cold determination settled over him. Slowly, he drew his automatic pistol, checking the magazine with a practiced motion.


    "He¡¯s coming."


    He turned to the three armed members of the group, Yann, a bearded man; Marc, a tall, lean figure; and Nina, a woman with short hair.


    "Yann, take cover behind the low wall near the church. Marc, hide behind the fountain. Nina, in the alley to the right. Don¡¯t move until I give the signal."


    All three nodded silently, their faces grim.


    Alan turned to Rose.


    "You and the others, stay inside the church. Do not come out, no matter what happens."


    Rose wanted to protest, but Alan locked eyes with her. She understood.


    He stepped into the middle of the square, fully exposed.


    The silence was heavy, disturbed only by the wind rattling loose shutters.


    Time stretched.


    Finally, a man appeared at the far end of the street, walking at a slow but confident pace. A shotgun rested casually on his shoulder.


    When he saw Alan standing alone in the square, he smiled, a cold, mocking grin.


    "Who the hell are you?" the man asked.


    "Just someone looking for answers," Alan replied calmly.


    The man raised an eyebrow, visibly amused.


    "Answers? Here? The only thing waiting for anyone out here is death."


    Alan didn¡¯t move, but his eyes focused on the man¡¯s Specter, a shifting aura of dark red, pulsing with growing aggression.


    Yet, the man didn¡¯t seem in a hurry to shoot.


    He kept walking slowly, studying Alan the way a predator sizes up its prey.


    "If you ask me," the man continued, "you made a big mistake coming here alone. You got a gun, I assume?"


    Alan gave the faintest nod.


    "And you?" he asked. "Are you planning to use yours?"


    The man let out a hoarse laugh.


    "Maybe. But I like a little conversation first. You don¡¯t seem like an idiot, so tell me¡­ why are you really here?"


    "I heard about a gathering in this area. Survivors. I want to understand what¡¯s left of the world."


    The man stopped, his smile fading.


    "There¡¯s nothing to understand. The world is dead. All that¡¯s left is us, the scraps. You should go home, if you¡¯ve got one."


    Alan felt the tension rise.


    The man¡¯s grip on his shotgun shifted slightly, the barrel angling downward, but poised to move in an instant.


    "Are you going to let me leave?" Alan asked.


    The man shrugged.


    "Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on you."


    He started to lift his gun.


    But Alan was faster.


    The shot rang out, striking the man in the shoulder. He staggered back with a pained grunt, dropping his shotgun.


    Alan advanced carefully, his weapon still raised.


    "It¡¯s over," he said.


    But the man wasn¡¯t finished.


    Despite his injury, he straightened, his face contorted in pain. From his sleeve, a short blade flicked out.


    And he lunged.


    Alan barely had time to react.


    The knife grazed his arm, slicing through his sleeve. Gritting his teeth, he fired again.


    This time, the bullet hit the man square in the chest.


    He collapsed heavily onto the ground, his breathing ragged.


    "Why¡­?" the man murmured, his gaze unfocused.


    Alan lowered his gun, his breath coming fast and shallow.


    "Because I had no choice."


    The man¡¯s eyes fluttered shut.


    And didn¡¯t open again.


    Alan stood motionless for a moment, catching his breath. The tension faded, but an unsettling feeling lingered.


    He hadn¡¯t wanted to kill.


    But he hadn¡¯t hesitated either.


    From their hiding spots, Yann, Marc, and Nina emerged, their faces a mix of admiration and unease.


    Rose was the last to approach, her expression pale but steady.


    "Are you okay?" she asked.


    Alan nodded.


    "Yeah¡­ I¡¯m fine."

 3 - The Call of the Heart

    The search of the village was brief and ineffective.


    The small supermarket was nearly empty, looted long ago. Only the hardware store seemed to have escaped the pillaging.


    Inside, it was dark but relatively intact. They found tools, ropes, some work clothes, and a few rusted cans in a dusty corner.


    "Not much, but better than nothing," Yann remarked, loading the cart with ropes and tools.


    Once their meager loot was secured, they began the journey back.


    The camp greeted them with a deceptive calm.


    Yet, the good-evenings were friendlier than Alan had expected. He could feel the eyes on him, as if his status within the group had shifted.


    A quiet unease crept into him.


    What would Rose tell Jennel?


    He set up his tent quickly, focusing on the task to quiet his thoughts. Once it was ready, he sat inside, eating a simple meal.


    As he finished, a figure approached, Jennel.


    Alan looked up as she neared. She wore the same small denim skirt and black t-shirt as the night before, but this time, she held two cans of syrupy fruit in her hands.


    "I thought you might need dessert," she said with a light smile.


    Alan smiled in return, but his attention quickly shifted to the cans.


    "Do you have a can opener?" he asked.


    Jennel shook her head, amused.


    "No. But I¡¯m counting on you to find a way."


    Alan inspected the cans, searching for an easy way to open them, but they were tightly sealed. He rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a battered multi-tool. He attempted to pierce the lid, but the blade slipped, narrowly missing his hand.


    "Careful," Jennel murmured, leaning in to watch.


    They tried several methods, using rocks, an old rusted screwdriver Alan had in his pocket, even the handle of his knife.


    After several minutes of frustration, Alan sighed.


    "Looks like the cans are winning this round."


    Jennel shrugged.


    "It¡¯s fine. We¡¯ll get them open eventually."


    After a few more attempts, Alan finally managed to puncture the metal, a thin trickle of syrup running down the side.


    "Not the prettiest solution, but it¡¯ll do."


    Jennel reached out to take the can.


    "Thanks."


    They ate in silence for a while, savoring the sweet taste of the fruit. The quiet was soothing, but Alan felt Jennel watching him with unusual intensity.


    "My injury¡¯s healed," she said, stretching out her foot to show him. "The nanites did their job."


    Alan nodded, but his thoughts remained troubled.


    "Something wrong?" Jennel asked.


    Alan hesitated.


    "I suppose you know what happened in the village."


    Jennel nodded slowly.


    "Rose told me everything."


    Alan lowered his eyes, running his fingers over the handle of his knife.


    "I killed that man. And the worst part? I feel nothing. No guilt. Just¡­ cold."


    Jennel placed her hand gently over his.


    "You didn¡¯t do it for pleasure. You did it because you had to. He would have killed you otherwise."


    Alan lifted his gaze to hers, searching for an answer.


    "But that doesn¡¯t explain why I¡¯m so¡­ calm. I expected to be shaken."


    Jennel studied him with a newfound seriousness.


    "Because we¡¯ve changed, Alan. The nanites didn¡¯t just make us younger or physically stronger. They altered something inside us. Maybe our ability to handle extreme situations. Or maybe just our survival instinct."


    Alan straightened slightly.


    "You really think that¡¯s it?"


    Jennel nodded.


    "Yes. I felt it too. When I had to stab that man in the supermarket, I thought his face would haunt me. But it didn¡¯t. It¡¯s not that we¡¯re numb, Alan. It¡¯s just¡­ the way we keep living, despite everything."


    Alan felt a weight lift slightly from his shoulders.


    "That¡¯s good to hear. I was starting to think I was¡­"


    Jennel smiled softly.


    "That you were turning into a monster? No. You¡¯re human. More than ever. And do you know why?"


    Alan nodded, waiting for her answer.


    Jennel held his gaze firmly.


    "Because you ask yourself that question. The ones who truly become monsters never wonder if their actions are justified."


    Silence fell again, but this time, it was comforting.


    Jennel leaned against the tree trunk beside the tent, watching the sleeping camp.


    "Maybe we¡¯re the last humans, Alan. But that doesn¡¯t mean we have to lose our humanity."


    Alan nodded, her words resonating deep within him.


    "Thank you," he murmured.


    Jennel smiled.


    "Don¡¯t mention it. And next time, try to find a can opener."


    After a moment, Jennel stood up.


    "Goodnight," she said softly, her expression warm and sincere.


    Alan watched her walk away toward her own tent, her steps light on the grass.


    He remained seated, unmoving, listening to the rustle of leaves in the night breeze.


    That simple goodnight had sparked an unexpected warmth within him.


    And in that instant, he realized just how much Jennel¡¯s presence had become essential to him.


    Not just her calm words or her reassuring presence.


    But the way she understood him without judgment.


    Yet sleep didn¡¯t come.


    He lay awake, eyes wide open, lost in thought.


    The night stretched on, silent.


    While the memory of Jennel¡¯s smile lingered, illuminating the darkness.


    JENNEL, 93.


    As I had decided, I apologized to Alan. I had gone too far with my confessions.


    But his reaction was strange. Sometimes ironic, sometimes kind, occasionally even a bit flirtatious. Or am I imagining things? Maybe I¡¯m starting to see signs that aren¡¯t really there.


    I like him, though.


    He can be brave and ruthless. Rose was impressed by him, and impressing Rose is no easy feat. But I don¡¯t want to get carried away. It¡¯s so easy to make up stories in a world where there¡¯s barely anything left to brighten our days.


    And that question about love¡­


    It was intrusive, really. But I answered, almost without thinking.


    "It¡¯s not a question of right. It¡¯s a question of life."


    What did he mean by that?


    I try to believe in it, but something inside me resists. A refusal, almost instinctive. I can¡¯t fully accept it.


    Yet, somewhere deep down, I can feel a flicker. Fragile, wavering, but still present.


    And that worries me.


    The group resumed its steady march, but Alan could feel the mental exhaustion accumulating.


    Jennel went on patrol with the others, though it seemed pointless. Alan, thanks to his gift, could sense people¡¯s intentions over a wide area.


    "We need to keep good habits," Michel had insisted, seeing the patrols as a way to maintain discipline and vigilance within the group.


    Alan hadn¡¯t argued, even though he considered it a waste of energy.


    He watched Jennel discreetly when she was at the camp. She seemed focused, but her eyes found him at every opportunity.


    That evening, Michel called a meeting to discuss their next steps. Alan was invited to join.


    Around the fire, he found Jennel, Bob, Johnny, Rose, Yann, and two other women he quickly identified as members of the scouting patrol : Sophie, a woman in her thirties with light brown hair, and Carmen, a younger woman with a severe demeanor.


    Michel unfolded a roughly annotated map and pointed to several locations along their route.


    "We need to make some choices for the coming days. There are still areas to explore here, here, and here." He indicated several villages and hamlets.


    "But we also need to keep moving southeast."


    Rose spoke up.


    "We need to think about supplies. If we find resources in isolated areas near the coast, it could give us an advantage in the long run."


    Alan examined the map carefully.


    "Which route would take us to the Mediterranean?" he asked.


    Michel traced a path with his finger.


    "Through Montpellier."


    Alan grimaced slightly.


    He would have preferred to avoid big cities and head straight for the coast, where rural areas would offer fewer encounters.


    He said nothing, but Jennel never took her eyes off him.


    Her dark gaze seemed to probe his thoughts as if she could sense his reservations.


    Alan straightened slightly, catching her gaze for a brief second.


    Jennel raised an eyebrow, the faintest smile playing on her lips.


    She understood, without him needing to say a word.


    After dinner, the camp settled into an uneasy quiet.


    But the atmosphere was heavy. Food supplies were dwindling, and conversations around the fire grew shorter, more tense.


    Rose, visibly worried, spoke at length with Jennel in hushed tones.


    Alan observed them from a distance, intrigued.


    When Rose finally walked away to join Michel, he approached Jennel.


    She looked up at him, a slight smirk on her lips.


    "I wonder what Rose is telling Michel," he said.


    Jennel shrugged.


    "Nothing you didn¡¯t already avoid saying at the meeting. She¡¯s worried about our supplies. She wants to take detours into less-traveled areas where we might find enough to last."


    Alan pulled a small chocolate bar from his pocket and handed it to her.


    "Here. This should lift your spirits."


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Jennel¡¯s eyes lit up.


    "Chocolate? Seriously? You were keeping this for yourself?"


    Alan shrugged, amused.


    "Had to save it for a special occasion."


    They ate the chocolate together, a quiet understanding settling between them.


    Then Alan turned to her, his gaze more serious.


    "Jennel¡­ I can¡¯t stop thinking about you. Since I met you, you¡¯ve come to mean more and more to me."


    Jennel froze for a moment, surprised by his words. She lowered her eyes, searching for what to say.


    "Alan¡­ you are a dear friend. Truly. But¡­ I can¡¯t move beyond that."


    She hesitated, her voice softer.


    "Maybe¡­ someday."


    Alan nodded slowly, respecting her hesitation.


    But something instinctive made him reach out.


    Gently, he brushed aside a loose strand of her hair.


    Jennel stiffened at the touch, her eyes widening.


    "No¡­ this isn¡¯t possible," she murmured, as if speaking to herself. "I don¡¯t understand."


    And before Alan could respond, Jennel stood abruptly.


    And disappeared into the night.


    Alan remained there, disoriented, heart pounding.


    His fingers still tingling with the softness of that single strand of hair.


    The next day felt strangely long and heavy.


    Alan walked alongside the group, but his mind was elsewhere.


    The weight of the decision he knew was inevitable haunted him.


    Stay or leave?


    He could no longer push the question aside. Which of the two options was the least unbearable?


    If he stayed with the group, he would have to accept a life where Jennel did not feel the same way he did. A life where every exchanged glance, every shared moment, would be a painful reminder of what he desired but could never have. He would be condemned to an unrequited love, a permanent wound he would have to learn to hide.


    But leaving meant giving up on her.


    Abandoning this fragile, precious connection that had formed between them.


    Leaving meant exposing himself to the unknown, to devastating solitude.


    He would be alone in a lost world, without the comfort of her presence, without the conversations that gave him a reason to keep going.


    Staying would be daily torture.


    Leaving would be a final heartbreak.


    Alan replayed the moments spent with Jennel.


    Her light smile, her fleeting glances, her quiet laughter.


    Every detail seemed engraved in his mind.


    He wondered how long he could endure staying by her side without falling into despair.


    How many nights he could spend dreaming of something that would never be?


    And yet, the thought of leaving her behind terrified him.


    He knew he needed her, even if this love was one-sided.


    Her presence soothed his turmoil, and he couldn''t imagine a future without her.


    The dilemma ate away at him.


    Every step on the road grew heavier, every interaction with the others felt more distant.


    Deep down, he knew neither choice would bring him happiness.


    But he had to decide which one would be the least miserable.


    And that decision weighed on him like an unbearable burden.


    When the camp was set up, Alan went to find Michel.


    He found him organizing the night watch shifts.


    "Michel, I need to talk to you," Alan said, his tone calm but firm.


    Michel looked up, intrigued.


    "Of course. What is it?"


    Alan took a deep breath.


    "I¡¯m leaving tomorrow. I¡¯m going to follow my own path."


    Michel frowned.


    "You want to leave? Why? We need you here."


    "It¡¯s a decision I¡¯ve made," Alan replied with determination. "I have my reasons."


    Michel tried to convince him to stay.


    He spoke about the dangers of traveling alone, about the support the group could offer him.


    But nothing seemed to shake Alan¡¯s resolve.


    "Thank you for everything, Michel."


    Michel sighed, resigned.


    "Good luck, then. I hope you find what you¡¯re looking for."


    Later that evening, as the camp slowly fell into silence, Jennel appeared before Alan.


    She seemed troubled, her quick steps betraying her agitation.


    When she reached him, she locked eyes with his, in a mix of sadness, anger¡­ and maybe even despair.


    "You¡¯re leaving?" she blurted out, breathless.


    Alan nodded, avoiding her gaze.


    "Why?"


    Jennel took a step closer, her voice wavering between disbelief and fury.


    "Why leave when the group is here? When I¡¯m here?"


    Alan remained silent.


    She continued, her voice trembling.


    "This is selfish, Alan. You know how dangerous it is out there. Michel is right, you won¡¯t survive alone. Do you want to die?"


    "No," Alan answered softly. "I want to live."


    Jennel narrowed her eyes, trying to understand.


    "You know why I¡¯m leaving," Alan finally said, looking up at her.


    Jennel flinched slightly, as if she had just taken a blow.


    "No¡­" she murmured, shaking her head. "No, that¡¯s not a reason. You don¡¯t have the right to abandon everything because of this."


    Alan took a step closer, his eyes locked onto hers.


    "I¡¯ve tried, Jennel. To stay. To have you by my side without expecting anything more. But I can¡¯t. I love you. And staying here¡­ would mean condemning myself to suffer a little more every day."


    Jennel looked away, a single tear slipping down her cheek.


    "I can¡¯t give you what you want," she whispered.


    "Then let me go."


    A long silence settled between them.


    Finally, Jennel lifted her head, her eyes shining with emotions she refused to name.


    "Good luck, Alan," she said, her voice breaking. Before turning on her heels and disappearing into the night.


    JENNEL, 95.


    What an idiot!


    Who does he think he is?


    I¡¯m not supposed to fall for the first Survivor I come across.


    But I know damn well that this one is a problem for me.


    I can¡¯t make him stay¡ªthat would be too demanding.


    But letting him go¡­ that¡¯s a real shame.


    I mean, I feel good with him.


    Too good, maybe. Or not enough.


    I reread my own words, and they sound just as confused as my thoughts.


    How could he do this to me?


    Just give up on me while I¡¯m doing my best to be kind?


    All because he wants more?


    And what then?


    Okay, it wouldn¡¯t be terrible¡ªbut NO.


    But knowing what I know¡­ maybe I¡¯m the fool here.


    It¡¯s complicated.


    The next morning, Alan woke up late, making sure to avoid the departure of Jennel, Bob, and Johnny, who had left for the vanguard patrol. After folding his tent and gathering his few belongings, he approached the center of the camp. Michel, Rose, and other members of the group came to say goodbye, their expressions a mix of concern and respect. Everyone had heard about his decision to leave.


    "Take care of yourself," Rose said, a hint of sadness in her voice.


    Alan simply nodded, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.


    He left alone, following the path the group was supposed to take later, but staying behind the vanguard patrol. Each step seemed to pull him closer to something unknown, yet inevitable.


    After an hour of walking, two Specters suddenly appeared at the edge of his perception. One was a man, his Specter saturated with violence. The other was a woman, whose tormented Specter revealed deep distress.


    Alan froze, a growing unease gripping him.


    The man was dangerous. Driven by deadly impulses.


    The patrol was heading straight toward him.


    Alan felt his heartbeat accelerate. The man¡¯s Specter radiated an intensity that chilled him : a raw, animalistic hostility, ready to explode. The woman beside him wavered between fear and profound confusion, but she was not the immediate threat.


    The man was.


    There was no time to lose.


    Alan glanced at his bag. Without thinking, he dropped everything except his weapon, shedding weight to gain speed. He drew his automatic pistol from his belt, quickly checked the safety, and started running.


    The paths were narrow, lined with thorny bushes that clung to his clothes. The ground was uneven, littered with roots and treacherous stones. He stumbled once, barely catching himself against a tree trunk, but he didn¡¯t slow down.


    Every second counted.


    The village came into view, its red rooftops emerging beyond the abandoned fields. The eerie silence was anything but reassuring. He cut through an overgrown garden, the tall grass whipping against his legs, his breathing growing heavier.


    In the narrow streets, the stone houses seemed to watch him pass, motionless, silent witnesses to an impending tragedy. The pavement beneath his feet was slick in places, but he refused to slow down.


    His mind was fixated on one thing: getting there in time.


    He knew where the patrol was headed : the village center. The main square, where Survivors usually gathered when exploring new areas.


    He turned sharply left, taking a shorter route, his feet pounding the ground with desperate urgency. He felt the man¡¯s Specter growing closer, pulsing with murderous intent. Each vibration echoed in his mind like a warning.


    "They have no chance," he muttered between breaths.


    The village center was only meters away when he spotted Bob¡¯s silhouette, cautiously advancing with Johnny and Jennel, their weapons at the ready but their expressions relaxed.


    They didn¡¯t know.


    Alan slipped into a side street, his heart hammering against his ribs. He called out to his three companions, his voice low but urgent.


    "Get off the street. Now. Fall back!"


    The next ten seconds felt like an eternity. Bob and Johnny exchanged a glance before complying, but Jennel reacted differently. Without hesitation, she rushed into Alan¡¯s arms, embracing him briefly as if to confirm he was real.


    Alan, however, couldn¡¯t afford to savor the moment. His gaze darkened as he observed the spectral figure of the woman, unseen by the others.


    He made an insane decision.


    "What are you doing?" Jennel whispered, her voice tight with fear as he pulled away from her.


    "I¡¯m going to try to reason with the man."


    Jennel grabbed his arm. "No. Alan, no. That¡¯s suicide!"


    But he gently freed himself, resolute.


    "I have to try. If there¡¯s a chance to save the woman, I have to take it."


    Jennel stared at him, frozen, before whispering in a broken voice:


    "There¡¯s a woman too¡­ Then I¡¯ll find another way to help you."


    She turned abruptly, searching for a way behind a building that bordered the street. Alan watched her go for a moment before stepping forward into the open.


    A sign on the facade of a nearby building read "Town Hall."


    "Hey!" he called out, his voice echoing through the silent village.


    The man emerged, gripping a shotgun. His gaze burned with barely restrained rage. Beside him, the woman trembled, her eyes darting in desperate avoidance.


    Alan raised his hands in a gesture of peace, hoping he could do better than last time.


    "We don¡¯t want any trouble. No one has to die today."


    At least, he hoped so.


    The man narrowed his eyes, distrustful. His grip tightened around the shotgun¡¯s stock.


    Meanwhile, Jennel dashed behind the building, her heart pounding wildly. Alan was in danger, and she had only seconds to act. The stone facade was intact, the windows shut, the doors solid. No obvious entry points. She rushed along the wall, tried a porch handle : no luck. Another : locked.


    Grinding her teeth, she stepped back and scanned the building¡¯s facade. There had to be a way in.


    Her gaze locked onto a glass door further down, probably a lobby entrance. She ran toward it, placed a hand on it, and prayed : open!


    Inside, the air was stagnant, heavy with something unplaceable. She sprinted toward the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.


    First floor. Locked doors.


    Second floor. Still nothing.


    Third floor. A door, slightly ajar.


    She hesitated for half a second before pushing it open. A stale odor hit her. There, in the dim hallway, a collapsed body.


    A man in a worn sweater, his face blank, frozen in death for months.


    Jennel swallowed hard, took a step back, then shook her head. No time for hesitation.


    She stepped over the corpse, pushed the door wider, and advanced, holding her breath.


    The living room overlooked the square. A dusty couch, an overturned table¡­ and beyond, another curled-up silhouette against a wall. A posture that could have been sleep if the stench didn¡¯t betray the truth.


    She tore her gaze away and rushed to the window.


    Curtains drawn. She yanked them aside, knelt on the balcony, and shouldered her rifle.


    "Hold on, Alan¡­" she whispered.


    Down below, the negotiations were falling apart.


    "You don¡¯t understand!" the man shouted. "They have to pay!"


    Alan took a step forward, keeping his voice calm.


    "No one wants to hurt you. Tell me what happened. We can help."


    The man shook his head, wild with rage. "You¡¯re all liars. You¡¯re just like them!"


    With a sudden motion, he raised his gun.


    Alan had seen this before.


    The man¡¯s Specter betrayed him before he even acted.


    A gunshot rang out, and the man collapsed.


    But the danger wasn¡¯t over.


    The woman beside him grabbed the fallen shotgun.


    Her hands trembled, but her eyes had hardened.


    She pointed the weapon at Alan, who was no longer watching her.


    This time, it was too late to dodge.


    Another shot rang out.


    The woman crumpled to the ground, taken down from the balcony.


    Jennel slowly lowered her rifle, eyes locked on Alan.


    Her face was pale, her features tight with emotions she struggled to contain.


    Alan remained still, his heart pounding. He glanced at the woman on the ground, then looked up at Jennel.


    They held each other¡¯s gaze for a long moment. No words could express what they felt.


    Later, as Michel and the others arrived, Jennel descended from the building, her rifle still in hand, her gaze fixed on the woman¡¯s lifeless body.


    Alan stood beside her, his expression dark.


    Michel knelt beside the wounded woman, checking for life.


    "She¡¯s still breathing," he murmured.


    But her breath was shallow, each inhale a painful rattle.


    Jennel knelt beside her, trembling. "Hold on," she whispered, placing a shaking hand on the woman¡¯s forehead.


    But the woman¡¯s gaze dimmed. One last breath¡ªthen nothing.


    Jennel recoiled, horrified. Her hands shook, gripping her rifle like a shield.


    "No¡­ I wanted to save her¡­"


    Alan gently placed a hand on her shoulder.


    "You did what you had to do. If you hadn¡¯t acted, I¡¯d be dead."


    Jennel shook her head, tears welling up.


    "But she¡­ she wasn¡¯t supposed to die."


    Alan turned her toward him. "It wasn¡¯t your fault. She made her choice."


    Jennel collapsed against him, seeking comfort.


    Alan held her in his arms, feeling the tension radiating from her.


    After a long silence, she straightened slightly.


    "Alan¡­"


    He waited, patient.


    "What are you going to do now?" she asked, her gaze hesitant.


    Alan took a deep breath. "I said I was leaving. But¡­ now I don¡¯t know anymore. Maybe I should stay."


    Jennel stared at him intently, her dark eyes searching for something in his.


    "You can see that everyone needs you."


    Alan shrugged, the weight of his emotions pressing heavily on him. "And you, Jennel?"


    She lowered her eyes, nervously playing with the hem of her t-shirt.


    "Me too. I¡­ I can¡¯t be without you."


    Alan was speechless. He felt his heart race, a gentle warmth spreading through him. But he didn¡¯t know what to say. Words felt useless.


    Jennel lifted her head, her cheeks slightly flushed.


    "There¡¯s something inside me, Alan. Something irresistible. I can¡¯t explain it, but¡­ I want you to stay."


    Alan, unable to speak, did the only thing that felt natural. He leaned in slowly and pressed a fleeting kiss to her lips.


    The contact was brief, but the world seemed to stop.


    When he pulled back, he immediately regretted his action.


    "Jennel, I¡­ I¡¯m sorry."


    But she didn¡¯t protest. She remained still, her lips slightly parted, her gaze lost in his.


    "Don¡¯t be sorry," she murmured at last.


    They stood there, facing each other, while the rest of the group busied themselves around them, oblivious to the suspended moment between them.


    For the first time in a long while, since the Wave, Alan felt that something had changed.


    Irrevocably.

 4 - Like a day of vacation

    That same evening, Michel gathered the group members around a campfire, seizing a rare moment of calm to restore some cohesion among the Survivors after the tragic events in the village. Fatigue was etched on their faces, but most listened attentively.


    "We need to talk about the path ahead," Michel began, his tone measured yet firm. "I¡¯m going to show you the direction we¡¯re following. Not the destination, because we don¡¯t know it yet. But the direction."


    He spread out an old road map of Europe on a flat stone, its edges worn from time. The Survivors'' eyes fell on the intricate web of roads and cities. Michel pointed to a location marked in red pencil.


    "We are here," he said, tapping lightly on an area southwest of B¨¦ziers, France. "About fifteen kilometers from B¨¦ziers. So far, we¡¯ve followed a clear direction: southeast. And if we continue more or less along this path..."


    His finger slowly traced the map, crossing the Mediterranean. It passed through Italy, skimming Rome, before pointing toward the Balkans.


    "If we extend this straight line, we reach Istanbul."


    A murmur rippled through the group. Some looked puzzled, others anxious. Alan remained silent, observing the map with little reaction.


    Michel continued.


    "Of course, we won¡¯t be able to follow this trajectory exactly. There are mountains, seas, and uncertain areas. We¡¯ll need to take safer routes. But roughly, this is the direction we¡¯re heading."


    He paused, scanning their reactions.


    "How many days will it take? Impossible to say. We have no final destination. Only this direction. The Beacon."


    The faces around the fire were tense. Some exchanged worried glances. The idea of walking for weeks, maybe months, without knowing what awaited them at the end, was hardly reassuring.


    Michel tried to soften his words.


    "We¡¯ve survived this far. We will keep going. The Beacon is our guide. It gives us a purpose, a reason to move forward."


    Rose nodded slowly, but many remained silent.


    Alan, however, remained motionless, eyes fixed on the map, his mind seemingly elsewhere, far from the group¡¯s concerns. He was already considering another option.


    Jennel, seated beside him, didn¡¯t take her eyes off him. She noticed his lack of enthusiasm, the weight of his thoughts visible on his face. Unlike the others, he didn¡¯t seem convinced by Michel¡¯s speech.


    When the meeting ended, the Survivors dispersed into small groups, speaking in hushed tones. Michel carefully rolled up the map and tucked it into his bag.


    Jennel approached Alan.


    "You didn¡¯t say anything."


    Alan shrugged slightly.


    "Because I¡¯m not sure that following a straight line is the best idea."


    Jennel gave him a small smile. "You¡¯re thinking of another path, aren¡¯t you?"


    Alan nodded. "Maybe. But for now, I¡¯ll follow. Michel is doing a good job."


    They exchanged a long glance, a silent understanding passing between them.


    "For now."


    As the group settled in for the evening, Jennel approached Alan, her gaze calmer than usual.


    "I¡¯m spending the night with Rose," she announced simply. "On the grass near the village hall."


    Alan raised an eyebrow, surprised.


    "Why?"


    Jennel gave a faint, melancholic smile.


    "Because she¡¯ll bring me the peace and clarity I need. My mind is still chaotic."


    Alan remained silent, feeling slightly disappointed. He hadn¡¯t expected anything specific, but the idea that she wanted to distance herself for the night unsettled him.


    "I need to find myself," she continued. "To leave behind my old way of thinking. I want to be with you, Alan. I want your love. But for that, I need to first let go of what¡¯s holding me back."


    She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his cheek.


    "Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll come back."


    Alan nodded, unable to find the words. Jennel leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his cheek before disappearing into the night.


    Alan stood motionless for a long time before resigning himself to setting up his tent a little further away. As he prepared his campsite, he let himself be enveloped by the sounds of the evening.


    The gentle murmur of a fountain echoed in the village hall¡¯s courtyard, its steady trickling blending with the distant sounds of the camp. Voices whispered, light laughter drifted through the cool night air. Then, suddenly, a few notes from a guitar broke the monotony of the nocturnal sounds.


    Alan turned his head, surprised. The melody was soft, hesitant, as if the player was still searching for the right chords. He let himself be carried by this unexpected music, appreciating this rare moment of simple beauty.


    A sudden flapping of wings brought him back to reality.


    A lone raven perched on a wooden beam overlooking the hall. It ruffled its sleek black feathers, their glossy surface shimmering under the dim moonlight. Its dark eyes, almost inquisitive, locked onto Alan, as if judging the intruder.


    The raven tilted its head slightly, letting out a harsh, low caw. It seemed to be the last of its kind, a survivor in a dying world. Alan watched the bird with fascination, wondering what it might be thinking as it observed this camp of weary Survivors.


    The raven flapped its wings once more before soaring into the silent night, vanishing into the shadowy trees.


    Alan closed his eyes, letting this suspended moment settle into his mind. The world kept turning, despite everything.


    JENNEL 96.


    I realize I struggle to put such strong emotions into words.


    I killed a woman today. A woman I didn¡¯t know, who wasn¡¯t even threatening me. It¡¯s horrible.


    Why did I do it?


    Because I was about to lose the man I love.


    There. It¡¯s written. I reread it, and I can¡¯t believe it.


    I feel like screaming it, but something is holding me back. I¡¯m spending the night with Rose. Maybe she can help me see things more clearly.


    Poor Alan. He saw me leave with her. He had that lost look that always unsettles me. He¡¯s so adorable, except when he plays cowboy. He lacks common sense sometimes.


    The next morning, Alan stepped out of his tent, stretching. The soft sunlight kissed the stone of the village hall while the first sounds of the waking camp filled the fresh air.


    Jennel and Rose were watching him.


    "That boy loves to sleep in," Rose teased with a laugh.


    Standing beside her, Jennel gave a shy smile.


    "I don¡¯t mind," she added, lowering her gaze.


    Alan ran a hand through his tousled hair, surprised to see them up so early. He grabbed his bag and began sorting through his belongings.


    Jennel approached him quietly.


    "I¡¯m taking rear patrol today. With Ibrahim."


    Alan frowned. "You told me you didn¡¯t like being in the back. Why?"


    Jennel smiled, her dark eyes glinting with mischief.


    "To finish his training. He needs to replace me."


    Alan blinked, surprised. "Replace you?"


    Jennel nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.


    "No more rear patrol for me."


    "And why¡¯s that?"


    She stepped closer, until their faces were nearly level.


    "Because I want to be in the front. With you."


    Alan felt his heart quicken. He stayed silent, searching for a response.


    Jennel placed a light hand on his arm, an intimate gesture.


    "With you, my heart," she murmured before turning to join Ibrahim.


    Alan stood there, a little lost.


    He turned as Rose approached, a knowing smile on her face.


    "She seems different," Alan murmured, almost to himself.


    Rose shrugged with a smirk.


    "Maybe because she spent the night thinking about you two."


    Alan narrowed his eyes, intrigued.


    "What do you mean?"


    Rose leaned against a nearby wall.


    "Jennel asked to stay with me last night. She needed to talk, to sort out her feelings. She wanted to be sure of what she felt for you. And this morning, she was."


    Alan stayed silent for a moment.


    "So¡­ this softness from her this morning¡­?"


    Rose nodded.


    "She wanted to shout it to you, Alan. To tell you she loves you. But she needed to hear from someone else that she had the right to."


    Alan ran a hand over his face, a shy smile appearing on his lips.


    "Thank you, Rose."


    She eyed him mischievously.


    "You know you¡¯re not the oldest in the group, right?"


    Alan raised an eyebrow, confused.


    "Excuse me?"


    "I¡¯m 66," Rose said with a laugh. "I think that makes me the eldest here."


    Alan burst into laughter.


    "Well, you don¡¯t look it."


    "Thank the nanites," she joked. "They did give us our best years back."


    Alan nodded, amused.


    "And the youngest? Do you know who they are?"


    Rose¡¯s face darkened slightly.


    "As far as I know, there are no children or teenagers among the Survivors. Jos¨¦ is the youngest in the group; he¡¯s 23."


    Alan frowned.


    Rose took a deep breath.


    "All the surviving women are sterile. The nanites stopped our menstrual cycles. None of us have ovulated since the attack."


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Alan froze.


    "And the men?"


    Rose shrugged.


    "We don¡¯t know. But without children, there is no future. And Alan, that might just be the worst consequence of everything that¡¯s happened."


    A few moments later, he grabbed his bag and joined Bob and Johnny.


    "Ready?" Bob asked with a grin.


    Alan nodded, but his mind was elsewhere.


    The morning walk was unexpectedly pleasant, the group moving along a road flanked by ponds and canals. Tiny ports and fishermen¡¯s cabins dotted the landscape. Oyster farms formed geometric patterns on the calm water, while abandoned vacation homes were slowly being reclaimed by the wild vegetation.


    Alan walked alongside Johnny, surprised by the usual chatterbox¡¯s silence.


    But it didn¡¯t last.


    "Well, well," Johnny said with a mischievous grin. "Jennel finally caught your eye, huh?"


    Alan shook his head, annoyed. "You¡¯re seeing things that aren¡¯t there."


    Johnny burst out laughing. "Come on, you can¡¯t fool me!"


    He leaned slightly toward Alan, lowering his voice.


    "I¡¯ve seen how you look at her. And her, too, by the way. You¡¯re like two kids playing hide and seek."


    Alan sighed. "It¡¯s more complicated than that."


    "It¡¯s always more complicated," Johnny replied with a shrug. "But it¡¯s nice to see someone smiling in this messed-up world. Even if it¡¯s just a shy little smile."


    Despite himself, Alan found himself smiling.


    "You¡¯re unbearable."


    Johnny laughed, pleased. "I try my best."


    The rest of the morning passed in lighthearted banter. Johnny threw out terrible jokes and gave absurd advice, none of which were taken seriously. Alan, initially irritated, found himself responding in kind, unexpectedly comforted by the camaraderie.


    The scenery remained captivating, weathered wooden fishermen¡¯s cabins, fishing nets abandoned and fluttering in the wind. The group progressed slowly, but each step brought them closer to the sea.


    Suddenly, Alan spotted a Specter, an indistinct silhouette lingering off the path they were following. He stopped briefly, trying to gather more information, but the presence vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He shrugged and continued walking.


    "Something wrong?" Bob asked, throwing Alan a curious look.


    "Nothing important," Alan replied, keeping the details to himself.


    Rose had insisted that the group detour toward two supermarkets marked on an old map. Alan, Bob, and Johnny went ahead to scout them out.


    The first, located inland, had partially collapsed and had long been looted, a truck crashed into its facade.


    The second, closer to the sea, seemed more promising. They took a quick look inside. The doors were blocked, but the intact glass windows revealed shelves still stocked with canned goods, bottled water, and other essentials.


    Rose would be pleased to hear this.


    "It¡¯s worth the detour. We¡¯ll return tomorrow morning," Bob said, a renewed energy in his voice.


    Finally, after hours of walking, the group reached the sea.


    The place was breathtaking. A long stretch of white sand extended as far as the eye could see, bordered by low dunes protected by wooden fences. The dunes were covered in tall grasses that swayed gently in the sea breeze. The emerald waters shimmered under the sun, with small waves rolling onto the shore.


    But there was silence. No birds calling, no seagulls soaring above the waves. As for the fish, it was impossible to tell if they still inhabited these waters.


    Not far from the beach, a small vacation residence stood, empty. The shutters were closed, but the structure remained intact. Signs indicated room numbers, communal areas, and a neglected playground.


    "We can settle here for the night," Alan suggested. "Everyone can find a small room. There¡¯s even a rainwater collection system for the showers. But we¡¯ll have to ration the water."


    The patrol scouted the area, each member finding a space to rest. Alan, however, felt drawn to a row of small wooden cabins lined up along the shore.


    Most were in disrepair, collapsed roofs and, shattered windows. But one seemed to be in better condition, as if someone had maintained it recently.


    Alan approached cautiously, pushed the slightly creaky door, and stepped inside.


    The cabin was simple. A single room with raw wooden walls. A metal-framed bed stood in one corner, missing a mattress. A rickety table, covered in dust, still held an old ashtray. A kerosene lamp hung on the wall, waiting to be lit.


    In another corner, several fishing rods leaned against the wall, their lines tangled. A woven basket contained a few hooks and spare fishing line. Alan observed the place in silence, picturing the cabin¡¯s former occupant.


    He placed his belongings on the bed, assessing what needed to be done.


    "This will do," he murmured to himself.


    When he returned to the main residence, Johnny greeted him with a mischievous grin.


    "So, did you find your palace?"


    Alan shrugged. "A small cabin on the beach. A bit rustic, but it suits me."


    Johnny burst out laughing. "You want to play Robinson Crusoe?"


    Alan met Johnny¡¯s gaze seriously.


    "No. I think we need to take a break here. A full day of rest. To regroup. To enjoy this."


    Johnny blinked, surprised by Alan¡¯s firmness.


    "Are you going to ask Michel?"


    Alan nodded. "Yes. And I¡¯m going to insist. Because everyone needs this."


    Alan returned to the cabin.


    A broom sat in a dark corner. He grabbed it and, with quiet determination, began to clean. He swept away the accumulated debris, dusted off the furniture, and restored a sense of order to the space. The raw wooden floor regained some of its former warmth under his methodical care.


    Once the cleaning was done, he went back to the main residence and returned with a mattress, which he placed on the metal bed frame. He also found a pillow¡ªthen a second.


    That¡¯s when he hesitated.


    Should he take two pillows?


    The thought of an invited guest crossed his mind. But was it presumptuous? Too soon?


    Alan sighed and placed both pillows on the bed, a small, amused smile playing on his lips.


    "We¡¯ll see."


    Then he sat at the wobbly table, picking up one of the fishing rods. The tangled lines reminded him of childhood afternoons spent by the river, struggling to untangle the same kind of mess.


    He focused on the task, his fingers skillfully working through the knots and loops. After several failed attempts, he finally managed to free one rod, its line perfectly unraveled.


    A satisfied smile crossed his face.


    Shortly after, the rest of the group arrived at the camp. Alan intercepted Michel and pulled him aside.


    "I¡¯ve been thinking," Alan began. "We need a break. A full day here. To rest, to recharge, to really connect."


    Michel raised an eyebrow. "A whole day lost on our route?"


    Alan nodded firmly. "Yes. But we¡¯ll gain much more in morale and strength. A change in routine can make all the difference."


    Michel studied him carefully, weighing the argument.


    "You know what? You might be right. I¡¯ll bring it up with the others."


    Alan gave a satisfied nod and walked back to his cabin. He took the repaired fishing rod and headed toward a small wooden pier stretching into the sea.


    He sat at the end of the pier, letting his legs dangle over the water. He cast the line into the emerald depths. Without bait.


    He wasn¡¯t trying to catch anything.


    It was the act itself that mattered.


    There, alone with the sea, he let his thoughts drift, carried by the soft lapping of the waves against the wooden beams.


    For once, the silence was comforting.


    From the end of the pier, Alan spotted the patrol led by Jennel returning to camp in the distance. He could make out the silhouettes, but his eyes were drawn to Jennel¡¯s figure, moving with a brisk, confident stride.


    A gathering had formed around Michel. The group was engaged in conversation, but Alan couldn¡¯t hear their words. He watched attentively, curious about the unfolding events.


    Then he saw Jennel break away from the group and run toward him.


    She wore a delicate white top, partially made of lace, revealing her shoulders, and a long skirt in shades of orange and yellow that swirled around her with every step. Against the dazzling backdrop of the sea, the contrast was striking.


    Alan averted his gaze slightly, pretending not to notice. Yet, he felt his heart quicken.


    Jennel wasn¡¯t fooled. As she approached, she slowed down, breathless but radiant.


    "You just won us a day of vacation!" she exclaimed, a bright smile lighting up her face.


    Alan shrugged, feigning modesty.


    "Seemed like a good idea."


    Jennel looked at him with amusement. "Are you fishing?"


    Alan gestured toward the fishing rod planted in front of him.


    "Not really. There¡¯s no bait."


    Jennel burst into laughter, the crystalline sound echoing through the stillness around them.


    "You¡¯re crazy!"


    Alan met her gaze, a soft smile forming on his lips.


    "About you."


    Without another word, Jennel stepped closer, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him deeply. Alan felt his entire being relax under her touch, the world around them fading into nothing for an instant.


    Shouts rang out from the beach, pulling them back to reality.


    Jennel and Alan slowly got up. Without letting go of each other, they intertwined their fingers and walked toward the beach.


    But as they neared the cabin, Alan sensed a slight hesitation from Jennel.


    He turned to her, searching for an explanation. She lowered her gaze for a moment, then lifted her eyes to meet his.


    Alan gently squeezed her hand.


    There was no worry in his eyes. Just quiet certainty.


    Alan was leaving Michel after their discussion about the camp¡¯s security. He had assured him there were no intruders nearby, that all was calm. But Michel had said nothing about the following day. He had simply acknowledged the information.


    Despite this, the overall mood was one of relaxation¡ªboth physically and mentally. The group was enjoying the sea air, relishing a rare sense of peace. Rose, in particular, was enthusiastically organizing her expedition to the supermarket for the next morning. She was rallying nearly everyone with her contagious energy.


    "We¡¯ll bring back everything we can. And in the afternoon, we¡¯ll need cakes!" she declared, her eyes sparkling. "That is, if we can find the ingredients!"


    The mere mention of sweet treats seemed to lift the group¡¯s spirits even further. Johnny cracked jokes about his supposed baking skills, drawing laughter from those around him.


    Then, the conversation shifted to music.


    Jos¨¦, a man who had remained relatively quiet until now, reminded the group that he had a guitar with him. He pulled it out of his bag. It was slightly worn but still perfectly tuned. He strummed the strings, producing a melodic sound that caught everyone¡¯s attention.


    "Any volunteers to sing?" he asked with an encouraging smile.


    The silence that followed was telling.


    Jennel turned to Alan, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.


    "Do you want to sing?" she asked, her eyes glinting with challenge.


    Alan took a step back, raising his hands defensively.


    "Oh no. Absolutely not."


    Jennel laughed at his almost panicked reaction.


    Then, as always, Rose stepped in, her exuberance filling the space.


    "We actually have a real singer among us! A choir soloist!"


    Her gaze landed on Jennel.


    Jennel immediately tried to disappear behind Alan, her cheeks turning red.


    "Jennel!" Rose called out enthusiastically. "How about a song tomorrow? Please!"


    Clearly flustered, Jennel pressed herself against Alan, who instinctively placed a protective hand on her shoulder.


    She murmured, barely audible:


    "We¡¯ll see."


    Alan felt his heart soften at the moment. Jennel, always strong and composed, was revealing a more vulnerable side.


    It was a brief moment. But precious.


    The evening stretched late into the night. One by one, they all drifted off to bed, their laughter and whispers fading into the darkness. Jennel found refuge in one of the residence¡¯s rooms with a real bed for the first time in weeks. Alan, meanwhile, returned to his cabin, appreciating the relative solitude it offered.


    Lying on the mattress he had moved from the residence, he closed his eyes, lulled by the steady rhythm of the waves. His mind wandered, and for a moment, he imagined himself in a villa by the sea.


    But the idyllic image quickly faded when he remembered that he was alone.


    "We¡¯ll see," he murmured to himself once again.


    Sleep only came in the middle of the night, when he finally stopped overthinking.


    The next morning, however, there was no sleeping in.


    Rose, up at the crack of dawn, had already begun organizing the supermarket expedition. She was rallying her teams, determined to maximize the number of trips and gather as many supplies as possible.


    "We don¡¯t know when we¡¯ll get another chance like this!" she proclaimed as she moved from group to group, checklist in hand. "Grab anything that can last, and this afternoon, we cook!"


    Alan, still shaking off his drowsiness, joined the main group. He looked around for Jennel, but she was already busy loading bags and baskets onto an old cart.


    No time to be together.


    Rose was relentless, giving orders with natural authority.


    Jennel briefly caught Alan¡¯s gaze and offered him a light smile before turning away, swept up in Rose¡¯s boundless energy.


    Alan sighed, amused by the situation.


    He had wanted to spend more time with Jennel.


    But he knew that this morning, a different kind of teamwork was needed. One that ensured their survival.


    The afternoon unfolded in a relaxed atmosphere, just as Rose had promised. The morning¡¯s haul from the supermarket had been a success, and the idea of baking treats for everyone quickly became a top priority.


    Rose, always brimming with energy, organized an impromptu baking workshop. With limited supplies and no electricity, they did their best to prepare several sweet treats.


    But the challenges were plenty.


    The attempt to make golden corn cakes on a skillet began with an unfortunate discovery: one of the pans they had salvaged from the supermarket was punctured. They had to improvise by heating flat stones over the fire to use as a cooking surface, which considerably slowed the process.


    ¡°This is going to take hours if we keep going like this,¡± Johnny grumbled as he stirred the batter.


    Rose, unfazed, responded with a smile, ¡°Patience, big guy. It¡¯ll be worth it.¡±


    The shortbread cookies required several attempts before they managed to create a dough that didn¡¯t stick to their fingers. Alan, watching from a distance, found himself smiling as he saw Jennel struggling with an improvised rolling pin, an empty bottle.


    ¡°Do you need a hammer too?¡± he teased.


    Jennel stuck her tongue out at him, amused.


    The highlight of the afternoon was their attempt at making a dried fruit tart. But the dates and walnuts they had found at the supermarket were sticky and difficult to work with.


    ¡°What is this stuff?¡± Jos¨¦ asked, holding a handful of dates that had fused together.


    ¡°Nature¡¯s super glue,¡± Johnny joked, making everyone laugh.


    Once the treats were ready and tasted, the afternoon continued with more lighthearted activities.


    A soccer match was organized on the beach, with impromptu teams mixing men and women. The game was chaotic, filled with laughter and spectacular falls.


    ¡°Johnny, stop playing like a bulldozer!¡± Rose yelled after the big guy sent Yann tumbling to the ground.


    The volleyball match that followed was even more competitive. The women, led by Rose and Jennel, crushed the men.


    ¡°We¡¯ll never see them again, their pride is buried somewhere in the sand,¡± Jennel joked, high-fiving her teammates.


    An attempt to fly a homemade kite, crafted from plastic bags, ended in failure.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s better suited for fishing than flying,¡± Alan remarked as the kite crashed into the sand yet again.


    Johnny, as always, ended the day with some mischief.


    ¡°Time for a swim!¡± Rose shouted, pushing Johnny into the waves.


    He resurfaced, drenched but laughing, shaking his hair like a wet dog.


    Many took the opportunity to swim, while others simply basked in the sun¡¯s warmth on the beach.

 5 - The Dreams

    When evening arrived, Jos¨¦ took out his guitar once again, and the conversations quieted, giving way to music. He played several simple songs that the group sang in unison, the atmosphere growing warmer with each passing moment.


    Rose cast a mischievous glance at Alan.


    "You could at least sing something!"


    Alan shook his head, amused but resolute.


    "I think I''ll leave that to the others."


    The evening carried on gently, laughter and music blending with the salty sea air. Then came the moment Jennel had been dreading.


    Faithful to herself, Rose took the floor.


    "Well, well! Now, it''s time for our soloist! Jennel, you promised us a song."


    Jennel blushed, looking for an escape, but it was too late. All eyes turned to her. Alan felt his heart tighten at her visible unease.


    She slowly stood up, her hands trembling, and walked over to Jos¨¦ to whisper something in his ear. Jos¨¦ smiled and adjusted his guitar.


    Jennel took a deep breath.


    And she sang.


    Stuck on you


    I''ve got this feeling down deep in my soul that I just can''t lose


    Guess I''m on my way


    Needed a friend


    And the way I feel now I guess I''ll be with you ''til the end


    Guess I''m on my way


    Mighty glad you stayed


    I''m stuck on you


    As the lyrics resonated, Alan felt a lump form in his throat. Every word seemed meant for him alone. Jennel, eyes closed, sang with raw, sincere emotion. Her voice was extraordinary.


    When she finished, silence fell. Heavy and meaningful. Then, a wave of applause erupted.


    Jennel opened her eyes and immediately sought Alan.


    Their gazes met.


    Alan, overwhelmed, couldn''t find the words.


    The night ended on this powerful moment. One by one, the Survivors retired, their hearts lighter, no longer just people brought together by circumstance. They were now friends, bound by a shared hope.


    Jennel, still overcome with emotion, slipped away to the beach. Her head spun, from the song, the applause and, the congratulations. Everything swirled into a whirlwind of feelings.


    She walked to the water¡¯s edge, the sand still warm beneath her bare feet. The soft lapping of the waves matched the rhythm of her unsteady breath.


    And she waited.


    She lifted her eyes to the horizon, searching for answers in the calm sea.


    The wind gently caressed her long brown hair, lifting a few strands into the salt-laden air.


    She closed her eyes, listening to the whispers of the waves, a melancholy murmur floating in the breeze. Then, a shiver ran down her spine. Not from the cold, but because she felt his presence behind her. Her heart quickened as if responding to an unspoken call.


    Alan placed his hands gently on her shoulders, his touch light, as if she were made of porcelain. She didn¡¯t move, but a soft smile curved her lips. Slowly, he leaned in, and for a moment, the world disappeared. The sound of the waves became a distant lullaby as he pressed his lips to her cheek, just at the corner of her lips, a promise left unfinished.


    Time seemed to shatter in that instant, blending past, present, and an uncertain future. Within that kiss, there was everything. The tenderness of a farewell, the hope of a new beginning and, the strength of a love defying even the end of all things.


    She opened her eyes, turning toward him slowly, and in her gaze, he saw the echo of infinity.


    They were two souls, lost in a dying world, but alive, vibrant. And for an eternal moment, invincible.


    Their lips finally met.


    When they pulled apart, their foreheads remained pressed together, their breaths mingling.


    She stepped back slightly, her eyes shimmering with a playful spark.


    "So, this cabin everyone talks about¡­ Are we visiting?" she asked in a soft, almost whispering voice.


    "If you want," he replied with a light laugh, caught between the emotion of the moment and the amusement at her spontaneity.


    She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly.


    "Tell me¡­ is the bed narrow?"


    He burst into laughter. A clear, honest sound that broke the heavy atmosphere of a dying world and rekindled something light, something alive.


    He took her hand, squeezing it gently.


    "You''ll see for yourself," he said, feigning mystery, his eyes glimmering with mischief.


    Together, they left the shore, walking through the dunes where the sand still held the day¡¯s warmth. Each step brought them closer to the small wooden cabin, weathered by the sea winds.


    When they arrived, he opened the door, revealing the rustic interior bathed in the last golden rays of the sun. She scanned the room, then let her gaze settle on the bed. Small, but inviting.


    "I knew I was right," she said with a smirk.


    "Always," he replied, pretending not to grasp the deeper meaning behind her words.


    Their gazes locked, suspended in a silence where each heartbeat echoed like a deep reverberation. Alan took a step toward her, slowly, almost hesitantly. Jennel remained still, following his every move with her eyes, her lips barely parting as if she were holding her breath.


    He placed a hesitant hand on her cheek, his palm warm against her soft skin. She closed her eyes at his touch, tilting her head slightly, inviting him without a word. Their lips met in a kiss. Gentle, slow, laden with an emotion neither dared to name.


    Jennel felt his fingers brush against her shoulders, and without a word, Alan slipped one strap of her dress down, then the other. The silky fabric slid gently along her arms, like a caress. She shivered slightly, but not from cold, from the warmth blooming between them.


    She opened her eyes and looked at him for a moment, her cheeks tinged with a blush she didn¡¯t try to hide. Then, slowly, her hands found the buttons of Alan¡¯s shirt. They trembled slightly, but she carefully undid them one by one, her gaze capturing his, watching every reaction.


    Alan let her continue, his own hands now gliding over her bare arms before resting on her waist. When she slid the shirt off his shoulders, he shivered in turn, and their gazes met again, more intense this time.


    Their movements remained imbued with a nervous hesitation. Each touch, each motion almost a test, a silent question. Alan¡¯s fingers lingered on the curve of her back, while Jennel¡¯s hands explored his skin with a delicate reverence, as if trying to commit every sensation to memory.


    Their heartbeats quickened, their breaths merging as they abandoned themselves further, their bodies drawing closer, their touches gaining confidence while retaining an attentive tenderness. The world around them faded away, leaving only the warmth of their presence, the intensity of this moment where they discovered each other with infinite delicacy.


    The dawn light gently crept into the room, casting a golden glow over the sheets. Alan opened his eyes slowly, as if afraid to shatter a fragile dream. Everything seemed surreal, suspended. Then he turned his head and saw her lying beside him.


    She was awake, her eyes half-closed, lost somewhere between the morning light and the tranquil silence of the room. Her brown hair cascaded over the pillow, a few strands falling over her face. Instinctively, he lifted his hand and brushed one away, his touch as light as a whisper. He remembered he had done the same gesture before and hesitated, fearing her reaction.


    She blinked and looked at him, an unreadable glimmer in her eyes. No surprise, no laughter. Just a profound calm and a spark of something he couldn¡¯t quite understand.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± he murmured lightly, not truly expecting an answer.


    She remained silent for a moment before exhaling almost imperceptibly:


    ¡°I¡¯ve lived this before.¡±


    He froze, his hand still near her face. Her words hung in the still air like a riddle.


    ¡°What?¡± he finally asked, not with disbelief but with genuine curiosity.


    She barely turned her head, her gaze drifting back to the sunlight filtering through the window.


    ¡°This scene¡­ you, me¡­ the light, your hand¡­ everything.¡±


    A few seconds passed, stretching out time.


    Jennel sat up cross-legged on the bed. Her hands rested on her knees, her expression thoughtful, intense. Alan watched her in silence.


    ¡°Now I know,¡± she said, ¡°that at least one of my strange dreams was a premonition.¡±


    She nodded slowly, eyes lowered. After another pause, she began speaking, her voice barely above a whisper:


    ¡°I¡¯ve had four¡­ different dreams. Each lasted for several nights before the day we met.¡±


    She took a deep breath, as if gathering her scattered memories, and continued:


    ¡°The first¡­ it was chaos. Shrill noises, flashes of light blinding me, a visceral fear paralyzing me. But¡­ there was also determination, something or, someone that reassured me. A presence I couldn¡¯t quite distinguish.¡±


    She clenched her fists briefly, closing her eyes as if reliving the moment, before pressing on:


    ¡°The second dream was clearer. I saw a barren landscape, dry and desolate. A hill stood on the horizon, and a man was slowly climbing a winding path. He was alone, and I could only see his back. The dream was filled with sadness, anxiety¡­ a deep sense of loss.¡±


    Alan remained still, his features locked in intense concentration. Jennel ran a nervous hand through her hair and continued, her voice more fragile:


    ¡°The third dream¡­ It was¡­ vivid. But incoherent. I was in a plowed field, with furrows stretching endlessly. Two small children were with me¡­ a boy and a girl. They seemed to be mine¡­ which is impossible, because of the nanites.¡±


    She paused, her eyes misty. Her voice trembled as she went on:


    ¡°Then¡­ the man appeared, far away, at the end of a furrow. The children ran to him, shouting¡­ ¡®Daddy.¡¯¡±


    She abruptly stopped, her throat tightening with emotion. Alan reached out, barely brushing her hand, a silent offer of comfort. She swallowed hard and drew a long breath before revealing the last dream.


    ¡°In the fourth dream¡­ I¡­ I was lying in a strange place. The walls were wooden, but the bed was metal, cold. A man was with me. I felt¡­ a deep love, almost tangible. At some point, he lifted his hand and¡­ brushed a strand of my hair away.¡±


    A sob broke free, uncontainable, and she hid her face in her hands.


    ¡°I wanted so badly to relive that dream,¡± she murmured. ¡°It felt so good. And this morning¡­ my love¡­ it became real.¡±


    She lifted her tear-filled eyes to Alan.


    ¡°Since I met you, I know you¡¯re the man from my fourth dream. But¡­ I needed to be sure it wasn¡¯t¡­ a fantasy created by the nanites. Especially¡­ especially when I saw the cabin.¡±


    Alan, his throat tight, wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. No words were needed. Jennel¡¯s dreams, veiled in mystery, seemed to be another piece in the puzzle of their strange fate.


    Jennel lifted her head, guilt flickering in her eyes.


    ¡°Forgive me for hiding these dreams from you,¡± she murmured.


    Alan cupped her cheek gently. ¡°Jennel, maybe it was for the best. If I had known, it would have changed so much. Everything happened naturally, just as it should have.¡±


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    She gave a timid smile. ¡°Naturally¡­ really?¡±


    He chuckled softly. ¡°If I had known, I wouldn¡¯t have needed to seduce you, my love.¡±


    Jennel playfully swatted his shoulder. ¡°Oh, please! I¡¯m the one who seduced you.¡±


    They burst into laughter together, the sound ringing like music through the cabin. Alan pulled her into his arms, their laughter fading into a tender kiss. Time seemed to stand still for them, and the group¡¯s impending departure suddenly felt very, very far away.


    An eternity later:


    "We should probably get up¡­"


    They hurriedly got dressed, brushing past each other in the tight space of the room. A half-buttoned shirt, jeans pulled on backward. Their movements were quick but clumsy, punctuated by muffled bursts of laughter.


    "You''re even slower than me," she teased, tugging on the collar of his jacket.


    "That''s because you''re watching me," he retorted with a laugh, still desperately searching for his shoes.


    The makeshift shower Alan had rigged up was quick, almost rushed, but the splashes of water and their laughter mingled, dotting the walls like fleeting moments stolen from everyday life. When they finally stepped outside, their hair still damp, they hurried toward the door.


    Jennel took a few steps, then suddenly froze. She stared at him, her eyes wide with astonishment.


    "I can see your Specter!" she exclaimed.


    "That''s surprising! And yesterday?" Alan asked, already guessing the answer.


    "No, I couldn¡¯t see it when you met me on the beach."


    "Maybe something happened last night," he mused with a knowing smile.


    "Well, we know how to fix this kind of problem," she concluded, bursting into laughter.


    When they joined their companions, standing in a circle around a wooden table with nearly cold cups of coffee, knowing glances greeted them. Johnny, wearing his usual mischievous grin, called out:


    "We almost thought you''d decided to abandon us."


    "Sorry," Jennel replied with a fake guilty look. "We¡­ took our time."


    Laughter erupted, warm and without judgment. They sat down, their cheeks slightly flushed, but their gazes said it all: these moments belonged to them alone.


    JENNEL 99


    I didn''t write yesterday. That''s only happened once before. But yesterday, I was very busy with my man. I¡¯ll avoid writing the details.


    I adore him, and I have no fear of writing it.


    I told him everything about my dreams. He wasn¡¯t angry that I kept them secret. He said it was better for things to unfold naturally. I won¡¯t contradict him, but I don¡¯t see much ¡°natural¡± about our love.


    But I don¡¯t care. That¡¯s not what matters.


    That day, the heat was oppressive. A stifling warmth mixed with a stormy sky, streaked with heavy clouds that refused to release their rain. The sun shone with a harsh light, sharpening every detail of the landscape. Michel, with his usual pragmatism, suggested they walk only in the morning. The accumulated fatigue the nanites couldn¡¯t entirely erase and the promise of an even more suffocating afternoon convinced him it was the best option.


    For days now, this rhythm had become their routine, a necessary strategy in June, when every afternoon was a challenge. Their destination was Avignon, a city that, despite the Wave, had retained part of its aura.


    For several days, Alan had noticed something troubling: no Specters on the horizon. It unsettled him as much as it relieved him. The absence of these strange visions was unusual, almost unnatural. Odd. Yet, he hadn¡¯t shared his concerns with Jennel or the others. Not yet.


    That afternoon, after a much-needed rest, Jennel and Alan decided to visit the Palace of the Popes, a legendary monument Jennel had always heard about but never had the chance to see.


    When they arrived in front of the grand edifice, they noticed how eerily empty the square was. No corpses littered the surroundings. The Wave had struck on a day the palace was closed, and that small, trivial detail felt like a strange, silent truce. Still, they were able to enter.


    The Palace of the Popes, imposing and majestic, captivated them with its austere silhouette and creamy stone walls, marked by the passage of centuries. Jennel and Alan stepped into the vast courtyard, their footsteps echoing lightly against the worn paving stones.


    "Look at how enormous it is¡­ You feel so small here," Jennel murmured, lifting her gaze toward the towering spires above.


    Alan nodded, his eyes tracing the details of the gothic windows and sharp crenellations.


    "Yeah, but all this emptiness¡­ It¡¯s almost oppressive, don¡¯t you think?"


    They had entered through the massive wooden gates, the ancient iron fittings glinting in the slanted sunlight. The air inside was cooler, even on this bright day, and every corner of the palace seemed to whisper forgotten secrets.


    The immense interior halls, adorned with crumbling frescoes and vaulted ceilings, amplified their voices when they spoke.


    "Do you think they held banquets here?" Jennel asked, stopping at the center of the Consistory Hall. Her eyes roamed the thick stone walls, where traces of old paintings still clung.


    "Probably," Alan replied thoughtfully. "But imagine all the politics, the scheming¡­ This place must have been a viper¡¯s nest."


    She smirked, amused by his comment.


    "I wonder if you can still feel it. Like, if the walls themselves carry the weight of the past."


    Later, they reached the terrace overlooking the city. The Rh?ne shimmered in the distance, bordered by ochre rooftops and winding streets. Jennel leaned on the parapet, her hair tousled by a light breeze.


    "It¡¯s beautiful," she said simply, her voice tinged with melancholy. "But it¡¯s also so quiet now¡­ Too quiet."


    Alan joined her, resting a hand on her shoulder.


    "Yeah. It feels like the world is holding its breath. But places like this still remind us of what humanity was capable of."


    They lingered there for a while, watching the view and letting their thoughts drift among the shadows of history.


    As they left the Palace, Alan finally voiced his concern.


    "This absence of Specters¡­ It¡¯s been bothering me. I don¡¯t know why, but I can¡¯t stop thinking about it."


    Jennel turned to him, smiling.


    "Alan, there are so few Survivors left now. Maybe that¡¯s all it is. A coincidence."


    He frowned, deep in thought.


    "Maybe."


    "You know, I¡¯m not as good as you at interpreting these Specters. I see the colors, I feel something, but it¡¯s still blurry to me."


    She raised an amused eyebrow.


    "Ah, so you admit it! Well, I¡¯ve had more opportunities to be around other Survivors than you have."


    Alan shot her a knowing look.


    "Then help me. Tell me¡ªthese colors, what do they mean?"


    Jennel paused for a moment, thinking.


    "Alright, but listen carefully.


    Red is obvious¡ªit¡¯s aggression, anger. But sometimes, it¡¯s also uncontrolled passion.


    Orange is more ambiguous. It can show nervous excitement or uncertain intent, something flickering between action and hesitation.


    Yellow is joy, sure, but also calculated ambition. Optimism with an underlying self-interest.¡¯¡¯


    Alan, intrigued, nodded, memorizing every detail.


    Jennel continued:


    "Green is often hope, like I told you before, but there are nuances. A light green means naive hope. A darker green means determination, a firm intention, but cautious.


    Blue can mean sadness, but also deep calm, or suppressed emotions.


    Purple is fascinating¡ªit represents mystery, but also a mix of respect and distance¡­ or even obsessive fascination in some cases.


    And finally, there¡¯s black."


    Alan frowned.


    "Black? I¡¯ve never seen it."


    Jennel looked at him with gravity.


    "Black is nothingness. The total absence of intent, or a hostility so pure that it reveals nothing at all. It¡¯s rare, but if you ever see it¡ªbe careful."


    "Have you seen it before?" Alan asked, suddenly uneasy.


    "Once. For a second, in a man."


    "And?"


    Her answer fell like a blade.


    "I killed him."


    Silence.


    Alan took a deep breath.


    "Thank you. That makes things clearer."


    The smile slowly returned to Jennel¡¯s face.


    "So, what¡¯s my fee for this private lesson? Fifty euros?"


    Alan smirked, shaking his head.


    "I don¡¯t have cash on me. But I could pay you in kind."


    She looked at him, mischief glinting in her eyes.


    "Then I¡¯ll have to think carefully about what I want."


    That evening, the camp had settled early in the shade of a small grove of poplars. The tall, slender trees formed a shifting canopy under the soft breeze drifting in from the Rh?ne. The rustling of the leaves created a soothing, almost hypnotic melody, while the shadows cast by the last rays of the sun danced across the uneven ground. The day''s heat had softened, giving way to a pleasant but heavy warmth, laden with the electricity of an approaching storm.


    Not far away, the Rh?ne reflected the hues of dusk, its dark waters shimmering with golden ripples. Occasionally, a stronger wave gently lapped against the shore, adding a deep, resonant note to the atmosphere. In the distance, the mountains were beginning to fade, swallowed by storm clouds slowly creeping closer. Distant flashes of lightning intermittently illuminated the horizon, tracing fleeting silhouettes along the ridges.


    The tents had been set up haphazardly. Some preferring to camp closer to the river for its cool breeze, others choosing the shelter of the trees. The air carried the scent of warm earth mixed with dry leaves, a hallmark of the lingering drought. A discreet fire had been lit, kept to a low flame to minimize any risk of wildfire. The group gathered around it, exchanging hushed conversations in the dim light.


    The storm loomed menacingly on the horizon, its dark clouds dominating the sky yet remaining motionless. Though the rain had yet to arrive, the group knew it was only a matter of time before it would pour down, bringing a welcome reprieve for the parched land.


    Dinner was shared in a peaceful atmosphere, conversations punctuated by laughter and reflections on the day''s events. When Alan rose to speak, Jennel raised an eyebrow, surprised by his initiative. Michel, however, remained impassive, as if he had anticipated it. Alan took a deep breath before addressing the group.


    "As usual, we had planned to seek out other Survivors in the region, despite the risks involved. However, after several days of observation, I can confirm that there are none nearby. That settles the question, for now."


    He then turned to Rose, asking whether their available resources would be enough to support a larger group. Rose, visibly pensive, responded after a brief silence:


    "It''s already difficult. Finding supplies takes more and more time. If our group grows, it will become problematic."


    Alan nodded, taking her response into account before continuing.


    "In that case, I propose that we abandon this practice. The time spent searching could be better used for progress and recovery."


    A murmur rippled through the group, but before the discussions could grow heated, Michel intervened calmly:


    "That¡¯s a valid point. It¡¯s true that gathering food is taking up more and more of our time. I support Alan¡¯s proposal."


    The two men exchanged a knowing glance, strengthening the credibility of their suggestion.


    "Those in favor, raise your hands," Michel instructed.


    With only two exceptions, every hand went up.


    Alan then moved on to another topic.


    "We all know the direction of the Beacon, but not its exact location. I propose that we take a more northern route, deviating from the direct path. By doing so, we could intersect two sightlines and determine its precise position. This would also tell us whether it''s pointing to a location in Italy or even further. Perhaps India, which no one wants. Given the curvature of the Earth, it¡¯s likely the Beacon is marking a point directly overhead."


    Alan¡¯s words sparked a wave of questions and comments. Some pointed out that this route would lengthen the journey, but the overall sentiment was clear: curiosity and the need for certainty outweighed concerns about time. Bob spoke up to confirm the logistical impact, adding that this decision would require careful planning. Michel, however, remained silent, listening intently to everyone¡¯s arguments.


    Finally, Michel stood and announced:


    "I remain neutral on this matter. We will hold a vote."


    Jennel suggested that the vote be conducted by secret ballot, an idea accepted without dispute. Scraps of paper were quickly distributed, scavenged from their supplies, along with pieces of charcoal to write with. One by one, the members of the group wrote their choice and placed their ballots in a metal pot serving as an improvised ballot box.


    Once all the votes were collected, Michel counted them under the watchful eyes of the group.


    By a large majority, the northern route was chosen. Michel stood again, sweeping his gaze over the group with his usual composure.


    "Noted. The only thing left is to define the exact path."


    Thus concluded what Rose, ever the one for catchy phrases, would later call "The Avignon Council."


    But the evening continued with a smaller gathering, including Michel, Alan, Jennel, Rose, Bob, and a few others.


    Michel revealed that Alan had approached him before making his speech, asking if it was wise to propose something that might disrupt Michel¡¯s plans.


    "I gave him my approval," Michel assured the group.


    Alan¡¯s abrupt rise in status was evident in how people behaved toward him. Though technically "proposals," his suggestions had clearly nudged the group toward a decision. Jennel said nothing, but her grip on his arm was firm, her expression unreadable.


    Alan then proposed heading east to cross the Alps by following the Durance River north. He asked Bob to form a team to map out the best route.


    Bob accepted and presented a carefully chosen list of names, justifying each one:


    "First, Marie. She has excellent terrain knowledge, especially in the mountains, thanks to her experience in outdoor sports before the Wave. Then, Thomas. He¡¯s highly reactive to unforeseen events and is skilled in planning complex routes. Jeanne, because she has a strong sense of direction and a natural ability to stay calm under pressure. Lastly, L¨¦o. For his physical strength and ability to carry heavy loads if needed."


    Alan did the same with Rose for supply planning, ensuring that both teams worked in tandem.


    After a long silence, Michel thanked Alan in a measured tone.


    "Thank you for your involvement," he said, though his restraint was evident.


    One by one, people returned to their tents, except for Bob and Rose, who stayed behind to finalize their teams.


    Jennel, lingering in the shadows, murmured to Alan:


    "So, have you finished your little coup, my love?"


    Alan smirked slightly. "Yes."


    She slowly nodded.


    "It probably had to be done. But you forgot to tell your girlfriend first. Now you¡¯ll have to deal with her sulking."


    No sooner had Alan and Jennel retreated under their tent than the storm struck with brutal force. The wind howled through the trees, shaking the fabric as if trying to rip it apart. The rain, at first a fine drizzle, turned into a torrential downpour, hammering the ground and forming puddles that reflected the flashes of lightning streaking across the sky. The thunder rumbled so loudly it felt like it was erupting from the earth itself, each detonation reverberating in their chests.


    Jennel, initially sulking, forgot all her irritation. She huddled against Alan, their breaths syncing.


    "This is¡­ terrifying," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the shifting shadows of the branches, illuminated by each flash of lightning.


    Alan squeezed her shoulder gently. "It¡¯ll pass. Just hold on."


    They remained still, listening intently, waiting for a break in the relentless storm that never came. The minutes stretched on, thunder crashing continuously. Time felt suspended, swallowed by the fury of the elements.


    At last, after what seemed like an eternity, the storm began to wane. The wind died down, the rain softened to a whisper against the tent, and silence gradually reclaimed the night, interrupted only by the occasional lingering raindrop.


    Jennel, her eyes half-closed, murmured:


    "It felt like the world was collapsing all over again."


    Alan pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.


    "But it''s still here. And so are we. Get some rest now."


    In the newfound calm of the night, they finally drifted into sleep. Exhausted, but relieved.

 6 - A Cryptic Message

    July


    The long line of Survivors wound its way up the slopes of the Col de Larche, their dark silhouettes barely visible in the early morning light. They had set out before dawn, their steady footsteps evoking a mechanical determination. The air was crisp, almost biting at this altitude of 2000 meters, but the persistent gray sky was occasionally pierced by streaks of blue on the Italian side, hinting at the possibility of a brighter day ahead.


    The carts that had long been their primary means of transport had been abandoned. In their place, the Survivors used makeshift strollers, loaded with supplies and baggage too heavy for their backpacks. These rudimentary but functional contraptions squeaked softly with each irregularity in the road. Some in the group showed clear signs of exhaustion. Hunched backs, heavy breathing, clumsy movements. Aware of their physical limits, Alan and Bob had enforced a strict rhythm: a fifteen-minute break every hour. These stops, also meant to allow the nanites to repair their bodies, were strictly observed.


    ¡°Ten more minutes, then we take a break,¡± Bob announced, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.


    Alan walked at the rear of the column with Michel, bringing up the rear. They assisted the stragglers, sometimes carrying an extra pack or helping to steady a tilting stroller.


    ¡°Hang in there, the summit isn¡¯t far now.¡±


    Ahead, Jennel and Rose had taken the lead. They were tasked with preparing a small bivouac at the top, where the group could regain their strength before descending into Italy. Their pace was quick, driven by the urgency of their mission.


    The road, lined with rocks and sparse alpine shrubs, became increasingly steep. The line of Survivors stretched out as the climb grew more difficult. Alan scanned the weary faces, noting expressions of discouragement.


    ¡°You can do it,¡± he said to a young woman who had slowed down, briefly placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.


    Despite the challenge, the physical resilience granted by the nanites made a difference. The planned breaks allowed them to maintain a steady rhythm, and each restart made it feel like they could continue indefinitely.


    When they finally reached the summit, relief was palpable. A breathtaking view unfolded before them: to the west, menacing gray clouds clung to the French peaks, while to the east, the Italian sky opened up over valleys bathed in diffused light. The wind blew in strong gusts, cold yet carrying the promise of respite.


    Jennel and Rose awaited them near a rocky plateau where they had set up a makeshift camp. A small fire, sheltered by a ring of stones, provided much-needed warmth.


    Alan joined Jennel, his face marked by fatigue but with a faint smile.


    ¡°Good job,¡± he said, giving her shoulder a light tap. ¡°Everyone made it.¡±


    Jennel nodded, her gaze drifting toward the Italian mountains.


    ¡°Now we need to think about the descent. Those abandoned hamlets we spotted on the map... they could serve as shelter.¡±


    Alan agreed. ¡°Yes. We¡¯ll reach them before nightfall, I¡¯m sure. But for now, let¡¯s let them rest. They¡¯ve earned it.¡±


    The group, exhausted but relieved, settled around the fire. Their exchanged glances, though laden with fatigue, carried a sense of accomplishment. They had crossed a crucial threshold, and Italy, with all its promises of new horizons, lay before them at last.


    The high-altitude hamlet emerged like a ghost, nestled in a steep valley. The houses, built from gray stone and topped with slate roofs, seemed to blend into the rocky landscape. Many were in ruins, their collapsed walls revealing charred wooden beams, blackened by time and moisture. The windows, once shielded by wooden shutters, were now gaping holes, and some doors hung sadly from their rusted hinges.


    At the center of the hamlet, a small cobbled square was overrun by vegetation. Wild grasses sprouted between the disjointed stones, and an old stone watering trough, half-filled with rainwater, sat in eerie silence. The air was cool, carrying the scent of moss and damp stone.


    Alan and Jennel stopped before a building that seemed better preserved than the others. Its walls, though cracked, still stood firm, and an intact chimney hinted at the possibility of making a fire inside.


    ¡°This could work,¡± Jennel murmured, surveying the place with cautious hope.


    Alan nodded. ¡°Yeah. We¡¯ll need to check inside, but it looks habitable.¡±


    They moved through the hamlet, their footsteps echoing on the uneven cobblestones. The atmosphere was strange. A mix of serenity and abandonment. At the edge of the village, a ruined chapel overlooked the valley. Its bell was missing, and the roof had partially collapsed, but the entrance remained open, beckoning with silent curiosity.


    ¡°There¡¯s something sad about this place,¡± Jennel whispered, her eyes fixed on the chapel.


    ¡°Yes, but it¡¯s also a refuge,¡± Alan replied, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ¡°A place that has endured, despite everything.¡±


    They returned to the rest of the group, deciding that this hamlet would serve as their temporary base, however brief.


    The thirty or so Survivors dispersed through the village, exploring the houses to determine which were safest. Concerned about keeping everyone warm, Alan oversaw their allocation. Some settled in the still-standing buildings, while others began gathering planks to fuel the chimneys. The afternoon waned, and the cold grew more intense.


    As he inspected a stack of firewood ready to be lit, Jennel called out to Alan in a clear voice:


    ¡°You haven¡¯t seen this one!¡±


    She was staring intently at a rocky slope at the hamlet¡¯s entrance. Alan, too absorbed in organizing, hadn¡¯t been scanning for Specters. Jennel, however, had noticed a woman slowly climbing the incline with her Specter clearly visible.


    Without panic, Jennel sat down on a rock in plain sight, her gaze calmly tracking the newcomer. Alan didn¡¯t move, trusting Jennel to handle the situation. The woman hesitated a few meters away. Jennel raised a hand in greeting.


    ¡°Hello,¡± she called out cheerfully. ¡°Bit late for a climb, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    The woman heard: ¡°Buonasera, ¨¨ un po¡¯ tardi per fare l¡¯ascensione.¡±


    She seemed to consider the words before responding:


    ¡°Vado fino al villaggio.¡±


    Jennel frowned, hearing the sentence in Italian but somehow also perfectly understanding its translation in English within her mind.


    ¡°What language did you just speak?¡± she asked in English.


    The woman raised her eyebrows, visibly surprised. ¡°Italian,¡± she answered.


    Jennel, stunned, realized their brains were automatically translating their words. The nanites were surely responsible, linking their minds directly. A few more exchanges confirmed this hypothesis.


    The woman¡¯s name was Maria-Luisa, a local Survivor who clearly carried the same nanite technology in her body.


    ¡°So, we understand all languages¡­¡± Jennel murmured, more to herself than to Maria-Luisa.


    She turned to Alan with a thoughtful look, ready to explain this new discovery.


    Maria-Luisa was a petite, typically Italian woman¡ªrather attractive, with curly hair. She was 43 years old, divorced, and, in her own words, ¡®fortunately without children.¡¯ Thanks to the nanites, she looked barely thirty.


    Maria-Luisa was stunned to find so many Survivors gathered in this isolated hamlet. She bombarded them with questions, just as the group barraged her with their own. The bizarre linguistic ability granted by the nanites quickly became a source of mutual wonder and curiosity.


    From a distance, Alan watched the scene, standing beside Michel. Arms crossed, his gaze was fixed on Maria-Luisa, who already seemed to be integrating with the group.


    ¡°The nanites want us all to understand each other. But for what purpose?¡± Alan murmured.


    Michel, ever pragmatic, took a moment before replying:


    ¡°That¡¯s the real question.¡±


    August


    The group of Survivors moved through the rolling green hills of Piedmont, where vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see. Neatly arranged rows of grapevines, heavy with ripening fruit, painted a vivid picture of life. Under the summer sun, the leaves shimmered in a bright green glow, and the air was filled with the sweet aroma of maturing grapes.


    Perched villages, with their elegant bell towers, dotted the landscape, while ancient wine estates with timeworn, whitewashed walls stood as silent witnesses to a once-prosperous past. The Survivors found a certain peace in this setting. After months of uncertainty, walking through these vineyards and picking a few grapes offered a rare moment of simple pleasure. Some chuckled softly as they bit into the juicy fruit, savoring its vibrant sweetness.


    Alan noted with satisfaction the lack of contact with the Specters. Some days, he didn¡¯t perceive a single one. When they passed near cities, small groups of two or three Specters sometimes appeared, but they posed no direct threat. The group remained discreet and carefully avoided populated areas.


    As Alan and Jennel walked side by side, Maria-Luisa caught up with them, her quick steps bringing her to their pace. ¡°Am I interrupting?¡± she asked with a smile, her eyes gleaming with barely concealed mischief.


    ¡°No, of course not,¡± Alan replied calmly. Jennel, however, remained silent, her gaze fixed on the path ahead.


    After a few minutes of silence, Maria-Luisa cast a curious glance at the rifle slung over Alan¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°You know your precision rifle is a SCAR-H? It¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve seen one in real life.¡±


    Maria-Luisa had been a member of a shooting club before the Wave, which explained her in-depth knowledge of firearms.


    She added confidently, ¡°I read in an article that this model was supposed to equip the French army.¡±


    Alan raised his eyebrows, surprised. ¡°Quite possible. It looked modern to me.¡±


    Maria-Luisa leaned slightly toward him, her voice turning softer.


    ¡°It¡¯s impressive, anyway. And you seem like the kind of guy who knows how to use it, don¡¯t you?¡±


    A hint of amusement crossed Alan¡¯s lips. ¡°We do what we can.¡±


    Maria-Luisa continued, ¡°I suppose you didn¡¯t just find it in a supermarket.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Alan admitted. ¡°I raided a military base.¡±


    Maria-Luisa stopped for a moment, her expression shifting between surprise and doubt. She lightly placed a hand on his arm.


    ¡°A military base? You¡¯re full of surprises, Alan.¡±


    Alan nodded.


    ¡°Yes. I made a long detour to check out an air force base. Getting in was easy. The armory door was open, with corpses inside. I picked this rifle and some ammo, then left my old hunting rifle behind. I spent long hours training on the base¡¯s shooting range before moving on.¡±


    Maria-Luisa nodded slowly, her eyes still fixed on the weapon. ¡°Can you mount a scope on it?¡±


    ¡°In my backpack,¡± Alan answered with a subtle smile.


    Maria-Luisa shrugged, stepping a little closer to him. ¡°Mine is less modern, but I can mount a scope on it too. And I¡¯m used to it.¡±


    A smile passed between them, but it was less warm when Maria-Luisa turned her gaze toward Jennel, who remained stubbornly silent.


    ¡°Interesting conversation,¡± Jennel finally said in a neutral tone.


    Alan chuckled softly as Maria-Luisa picked up her pace slightly to join another group, throwing one last playful glance over her shoulder.


    He turned to his companion. ¡°You are so jealous,¡± he said, still laughing.


    Jennel rolled her eyes, her face set in an unmistakably grumpy expression.


    ¡°You¡¯re joking.¡±


    During the lunch break, the group settled under the shade of large walnut trees lining a dirt path. Baskets filled with fruit and a few canned goods were quickly shared. The Survivors laughed and exchanged stories, savoring this rare moment of relaxation.


    A tanned man stood up with a smile. ¡°This is the land where Barolo is born. The king of wines, as they used to say around here,¡± he announced.


    ¡°I saw a few bottles well hidden in an estate up the hill. Maybe they¡¯re just waiting to be opened.¡±


    Rose chuckled.


    ¡°We could open one or two tonight. But just for a toast, not to get ourselves drunk.¡±


    Laughter rippled through the group, and the lighthearted atmosphere grew even warmer. Alan glanced at Jennel, who finally seemed to relax, a quiet smile brightening her face. This moment, fragile but precious, gave them all a renewed hope for better days ahead.


    JENNEL 158


    Jealousy. I can say with certainty that it¡¯s a feeling I do not experience. I find it petty.


    But Maria-Luisa gets on my nerves. The way she flutters around Alan, all coy and giggly, is infuriating. And that ridiculous smile of hers. I don¡¯t see what people find so charming about her.


    No, this is not jealousy. I¡¯m just being objective.


    Luckily, my Alan doesn¡¯t seem taken in by her little tricks.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I just realized I wrote ¡®my Alan¡¯. That was a mistake. I¡¯m not possessive either.


    I should erase it, but my eraser is probably buried at the bottom of my bag.


    The Certosa di Pavia, majestic and imposing, stood in the midst of a lush countryside, its white marble walls shimmering under the afternoon sun. The group had settled outside.


    "So as not to disturb the serenity of the place," Jos¨¦ had pleaded.


    Jennel and Alan walked slowly along the cypress-lined path, the air thick with an almost palpable solemnity. No human remains, likely for the same reason as in Avignon.


    "It¡¯s... immense," Jennel murmured, her gaze fixed on the richly sculpted facade, adorned with intricate bas-reliefs. "It looks like every stone tells a story."


    Alan nodded, equally impressed. "Yeah. It¡¯s both overwhelming and fascinating. Look at these details. How long did it take to create all this?"


    They passed through the grand entrance and stepped into the inner courtyard, where the silence seemed amplified by the sheer scale of the site. Polished marble columns, worn smooth by time, framed meticulously arranged geometric gardens.


    "I didn¡¯t expect it to be this well-preserved," Jennel said, pausing before a central fountain. Water still trickled gently, producing a soft melody that contrasted with the grandeur of the place.


    Alan crouched near a mosaic on the ground, his fingers brushing over the colorful stones. "It¡¯s almost surreal, like the Wave forgot this place. It feels like it¡¯s just waiting for someone to bring it back to life."


    They continued their exploration in silence, their footsteps echoing softly against the fresco-lined corridors. The artwork, though faded, still evoked powerful imagery. Jennel stopped before a depiction of Saint Bruno, her expression thoughtful.


    "Do you think people came here looking for peace?" she asked quietly.


    Alan joined her, following her gaze. "Maybe. Or looking for answers. A place like this must have been a refuge when everything felt like it was falling apart."


    They finally reached the main cloister, a vast courtyard surrounded by small cells once occupied by Carthusian monks. Jennel ran her hand over one of the wooden doors, its surface worn by centuries.


    "Can you imagine living here, isolated, staring at this garden every day?" she asked.


    Alan gave a small smile. "I think I¡¯d go crazy within a week. But I get why some people chose this life. It¡¯s a kind of harmony with silence."


    Their visit ended with a climb to the top of the bell tower. The breathtaking view stretched over rolling hills and shimmering fields bathed in golden light. Jennel took a deep breath, savoring the moment.


    "If we had to choose a place to start over, this wouldn¡¯t be bad," she said with a melancholic smile.


    Alan leaned against the railing, looking out at the landscape. "Yeah. But I guess we have to figure out what exactly we want to rebuild first."


    "Life, my love. Life."


    They descended slowly, each lost in thought, as if the weight of the monastery¡¯s history had seeped into them.


    As they retraced their steps, Jennel¡¯s attention was drawn to a colorful painting in an adjoining hall. She approached slowly, fascinated, and stood still in front of it. Alan, intrigued by her silence, followed her gaze and read the inscription:


    "Virgin and Child by Bernardino Luini."


    The painting, bathed in a soft golden light, depicted a mother tenderly holding her child. The Virgin¡¯s face radiated serenity, an infinite tenderness emanating from her expression. Her hands cradled the child with an unparalleled delicacy. The rich colors, dominated by deep blues and warm reds, brought the scene to life, while the background suggested a peaceful landscape bathed in divine light.


    Overcome with emotion, Jennel murmured, "It¡¯s divinely maternal..."


    She then turned to Alan, an indefinable sadness in her eyes. "But that¡¯s no longer possible..."


    Sensing the weight of her sorrow, Alan gently pulled her into his arms. "One day, you¡¯ll make a wonderful mother."


    Jennel looked at him as if he were delusional, but in her eyes, an unexpected determination flickered. Alan insisted, his voice firm yet full of tenderness:


    "I know it. Absolutely. Even if it seems impossible."


    Finally tearing herself away from the painting, she stepped outside in silence, her arm wrapped around Alan¡¯s. Her mind was troubled, and she didn¡¯t fully understand her own reaction, nor Alan¡¯s. But so many things were incomprehensible in this new world.


    September


    The day had been long, marked by difficult marching and an all-encompassing fatigue. The group arrived late at the banks of the Tagliamento, a wide and sluggish river typical of Mediterranean waterways. In September, it carried only a thin stream of water, meandering between vast stretches of white sand and half-buried pebbles. The shores were dotted with sparse bushes, and the warm, dusty scent of the dry riverbed filled the air.


    The evening gathering was brief. Too exhausted, Alan and Jennel had quickly slipped into their tent. The distant murmur of the river lulled them to sleep. Yet, Alan awoke with a strange feeling. He struggled to open his eyes, as though a heavy veil kept them shut. His vision was blurred, and his body felt weighted down. He sat up slowly, confused.


    Daylight had already broken. Alan stepped out of the tent, his legs numb. Everything was silent. No one was awake. Strange. Not even Rose, who was always the first to rise.


    Rubbing his eyes, trying to shake off the haze, he moved toward the sandy banks. The river flowed not far away, calm and indifferent. He thought they would need to set off early to avoid the midday heat. But something felt off. He headed toward Michel¡¯s tent. It was slightly open. Empty. Michel was gone.


    A tight knot of anxiety formed in his chest. Alan ran back to his own tent. Jennel wasn¡¯t there either. He called out, his voice cracking in the oppressive silence. No response. He turned back toward the river, spinning in place, panic gripping him. The camp had disappeared. No tents, no trace of anyone.


    Slowly, a desert landscape materialized around him: golden dunes interspersed with dark, wind-sculpted rocks. The sky, an unnatural ochre hue, seemed to press down upon the horizon.


    In the middle of this desolation, a woman appeared. Small, dressed in sand-colored fabrics that almost blended into the surroundings, she moved with slow, deliberate steps. Her enigmatic face radiated an indescribable aura, and her short, translucent hair seemed to capture and reflect the ambient light.


    When she spoke, her voice was strangely high-pitched. Yet, her lips did not move.


    "Enjoy the days ahead. The path is long, dark, and uncertain. And never forget: logic has been distorted."


    Alan tried to scream, but no sound came out. Then everything vanished.


    He jolted awake, sitting upright in his sleeping bag, breath ragged and body damp with sweat. It was still night. Jennel, stirred by his sudden movement, placed a concerned hand on his shoulder.


    "Alan, what¡¯s wrong?" she whispered softly.


    It took him a moment to answer, searching for the right words.


    "I dreamed. For a long time. It was... strange. Maybe like yours, but different."


    She helped him calm down, gently holding him as he steadied his breathing. Alan eventually recounted his dream, each detail still vivid and unsettling. Jennel listened in silence, her dark gaze fixed on him, absorbing every word.


    When he finally drifted back to sleep, one phrase kept echoing in his mind:


    "Logic has been distorted."


    Alan walked with the group, lost in his thoughts. A shadow of concern darkened his face, and Jennel, walking nearby, noticed it without saying a word. He kept replaying the words from his dream:


    "Enjoy the days ahead. The path is long, dark, and uncertain. And never forget: logic has been distorted."


    These words repeated over and over in his mind. "Enjoy?" He was happy to enjoy Jennel¡¯s love and the good weather, but beyond that, he wasn¡¯t sure what else it could mean. As for "the path," he knew it would be long, probably uncertain, but "dark?" That word unsettled him the most.


    However, what haunted him the most was that cryptic phrase: "Logic has been distorted."


    He searched for possible explanations:


    <ul>


    <li>


    Maybe the nanites weren¡¯t just altering their bodies but also influencing their thoughts or their perception of reality.


    </li>


    <li>


    He also knew the group was fragile. Could this distorted logic imply an upcoming betrayal or manipulation?


    </li>


    <li>


    Or if the fundamental rules of physics or nature were somehow compromised, it might mean the world was deteriorating in ways he hadn¡¯t dared to imagine.


    </li>


    </ul>


    He frowned, trying to untangle the meaning behind the message. Behind him, Jennel caught up, gently resting a hand on his arm. She didn¡¯t say a word, but her gaze, filled with concern and tenderness, reminded him that he wasn¡¯t alone.


    December


    Winter in Mariborsko Pohorje cast a quiet, serene atmosphere over the region. In the morning, a thin layer of snow covered the ground, and a few lazy flakes drifted down from the gray sky. The group of Survivors, led by Alan and Michel, moved slowly along the mountain paths, scanning the surroundings for a suitable shelter to endure the months of December and January. They could sense that the snowfall would intensify throughout the day, making their search even more urgent.


    "We need solid structures with chimneys," Alan reminded as the group reached a clearing.


    "A set of cabins or a hotel would be ideal. We need to be able to spread out and keep the fires going."


    Jennel nodded. "We could hold out for weeks if we find enough wood and supplies. But we have to hurry. Soon, the snow will cover everything."


    They pressed on for another hour, their footsteps crunching through the thickening snow. Finally, they stumbled upon a small cluster of abandoned cabins, not far from a larger hotel. The shutters were closed, and some doors were damaged, but the chimneys remained intact. Rose and Bob took charge of inspecting the buildings while the others began gathering dry wood from the area.


    "The hotel is perfect for regrouping," Rose reported upon returning. "There¡¯s a large fireplace in the main hall, and several suites are still usable, each with its own chimney. The cabins, however, will need quick repairs."


    "Alright," Alan agreed. "If possible, we¡¯ll spread out into the different buildings tonight, but for the first evening, we all stay together in the hotel hall. Let¡¯s make sure we have enough firewood stocked near the fireplaces before heading down to Maribor for supplies."


    The rest of the morning and early afternoon were spent organizing. Some Survivors, using axes found in the cabins, prepared logs for the fires, while others ensured that each shelter was functional. As the hours passed, the snowfall grew heavier, quickly covering the rooftops and paths.


    By mid-afternoon, a team set off towards Maribor to gather supplies. The city still held resources for those who knew where to look. Alan led the group, using his ability to perceive Specters to avoid any risky encounters.


    They returned with canned food, blankets, and a small gas stove. Though their haul was modest, it was essential for the coming days. They made it back to the hotel just before nightfall.


    That evening, the group gathered in the grand hotel hall. A large stone fireplace dominated the room, and the fire, fed by the logs they had prepared earlier, spread a welcome warmth. The Survivors, huddled around the flames, savored a hot soup made from the provisions retrieved in Maribor.


    Wrapped in a blanket, Jennel watched the flames flicker across the walls.


    "It¡¯s almost¡­ normal," she murmured.


    Bob, sitting near the door, added,


    "Tomorrow, we¡¯ll continue exploring the area. If there are more usable cabins, we can repair them and expand our settlement."


    Alan nodded.


    "Good idea. But for now, get some rest. We all need our strength."


    After dinner, the group dispersed. Each person returned to their room or cabin, tending to the fireplaces before settling in for the night. Outside, the snow fell in silence, covering the landscape in a pristine white blanket. The hotel, with its smoking chimney, remained the beating heart of their temporary refuge.


    The hotel hall buzzed with an unusual energy. The Survivors had gathered to debate a question that, under different circumstances, might have seemed trivial: What day was New Year''s?


    "It¡¯s tomorrow," a man stated confidently. "We¡¯ve been keeping track since the Wave. Today is December 31st."


    "Impossible," a woman countered. "With all the nights spent in caves or under trees, with no reliable way to track time, we must have gotten it wrong. New Year''s is probably in three days."


    Another man, leaning against a wall, chimed in,


    "It doesn¡¯t matter if it¡¯s tomorrow or in three days. The real question is : do we keep counting the years as before? Is it still 2025, or do we start from zero?"


    This sparked another round of animated discussions.


    "Why reset to zero?" someone protested. "The world hasn¡¯t ceased to exist. We should keep counting as before."


    "And why count at all?" Rose interjected with her usual liveliness. "A number means nothing. What matters is coming together. Let¡¯s say New Year¡¯s is in three days."


    A brief silence followed. Then Michel exchanged a knowing smile with Alan and Jennel.


    "Alright," he said finally. "Three days from now it is. But if we¡¯re going to do it, we need to make it special."


    With that decision, the Survivors began planning their second collective celebration since the Wave. Ideas quickly flew.


    The group decided to prepare a festive meal using supplies from abandoned supermarkets. A team set off to search for premium canned goods, bottles of wine, dried fruits, and chocolate. For the main dish, they gathered rice, canned vegetables, and vacuum-sealed meat that was still safe to eat. A makeshift cooking area was set up in the hall, allowing them to warm the food and share a hot meal.


    Jennel and Rose volunteered to transform the hotel hall into a festive space. Using tablecloths found in the rooms, makeshift garlands made from colorful fabric scraps, and candles scavenged from the buildings, they created a warm and celebratory atmosphere. The walls were decorated with drawings from those who had bits of charcoal or crayons.


    With no electricity, the group relied on Jos¨¦¡¯s guitar for entertainment. He had a varied repertoire of simple yet lively songs. Jennel agreed to sing a few pieces.


    Michel, with his natural charisma, was chosen to open the ceremony.


    As midnight approached, everyone stood up to join in the joyous celebration.


    Laughter filled the air, and conversations blended with the music that echoed through the grand hall.


    Alan and Jennel, however, were taking their time getting ready. Jennel had insisted that this moment be special. The day before, she had gone into town with others for some shopping.


    "A girl thing," she had told Alan with a mischievous smile.


    Upon her return, she had presented him with an elegant dark suit, complete with a bow tie and a crisp light-colored shirt.


    "Try it on, it''ll be a nice change from your survival look," she had said with a wink.


    Though slightly reluctant, Alan had gone along with it. The fitting had been a success. The suit fit him perfectly, and Jennel had observed him with a satisfied smile.


    "And you, did you find something?" he had asked.


    Jennel had simply shrugged, but that evening, she appeared in a long black fitted gown, low-cut, adorned with a simple necklace that enhanced her natural elegance. Alan had been stunned. Words had failed him as he took in the sight of her.


    He had stepped forward to take her in his arms, but Jennel had stepped back with a playful smile.


    "No touching!" she had exclaimed with a laugh.


    Alan had raised his hands in surrender, an amused grin on his face.


    "Alright, alright. But you look stunning," he had said sincerely.


    Now ready, the duo joined the rest of the group.


    Rose looked at Jennel with satisfaction and teased,


    "You look gorgeous, Jennel! I knew that dress was made for you."


    Jennel smiled.


    "I think you were right. Thanks again for the advice."


    Nearby, Maria-Luisa observed Alan with a playful look and remarked,


    "And you, Alan, that bow tie gives you an air¡­ almost distinguished."


    Rose burst out laughing.


    "Oh yes, we should capture this moment! Who would have thought Alan could be so elegant?"


    Jennel, amused, nodded.


    "I have to admit, it suits you well."


    Unfazed, Alan raised an eyebrow and replied in a neutral tone,


    "I''ll take that as a compliment."


    And as the New Year was officially declared, one thought united them all: despite everything, they were still here, together, ready to face another year, whatever number it carried.


    The celebration continued late into the night. Though hesitant at first, Alan made use of the dance lessons Jennel had given him. Maria-Luisa also took advantage of the moment. Perhaps a little too much for Jennel¡¯s liking.


    Back at their chalet, Jennel wore a slightly sulky expression.


    "Did you not notice that Maria-Luisa always finds an excuse to be near you? During the dance, she practically monopolized you the whole evening. And those laughs¡­ a bit too exaggerated in my opinion."


    She paused before adding,


    "And when you poured her wine, she looked at you like you were the last man on Earth."


    She shook her head gently with an amused smile, though her tone remained teasing.


    "Alan, you¡¯re so blind sometimes."


    Alan, visibly surprised, shook his head.


    "You¡¯re joking, right?" he asked, incredulous.


    Jennel playfully mocked his obliviousness, a smile on her lips.


    "You never notice these things. But it¡¯s obvious."


    Alan, after a moment of thought, looked at her tenderly.


    "No one could ever replace you."


    Jennel nodded slowly.


    "I know," she murmured, a serene glow in her eyes.


    They prepared a warm fire in the fireplace, its heat soon filling the room. Lying down near the hearth, Jennel nestled into Alan¡¯s arms.


    "Are we being selfish, love?" she asked softly.


    Alan smiled slightly.


    "Someone once told me to enjoy the moment."


    After a brief silence, Alan stood up, walked to their room, and returned with a neatly decorated bag. He handed it to Jennel, a mischievous smile on his lips.


    "Happy New Year, my love."


    Jennel unwrapped the gift, discovering a thick white mountain sweater, cozy and warm, decorated with traditional patterns : snowflakes, stylized fir trees, and red reindeer running along the hem. A pair of red wool-lined mittens completed the ensemble.


    Jennel smiled, her eyes shining.


    "It¡¯s perfect, Alan. Thank you."


    She kissed him tenderly, the warmth of her lips rivaling that of the fire.


    "My turn," she announced, standing up. She returned with a small box adorned with a red ribbon.


    Alan opened it and found a tiny golden heart-shaped locket. Curious, he opened it and inside was a tiny lock of brown hair, carefully placed. He froze for a moment, overwhelmed with emotion.


    Jennel, slightly nervous, watched his reaction. Alan looked up at her, his eyes filled with tenderness. He gently cupped her face in his hands.


    "You are the love of my life," he whispered before kissing her with infinite softness.


    A few moments passed. Then, mischievously, Jennel stepped back and unzipped her dress, which slipped gracefully to the floor. Alan, stunned, admired his partner, now dressed only in a delicate pair of panties embroidered with three words: Happy New Year.


    The night stretched on, as the flames danced across the walls and the silence of the night gently enveloped the chalet.

 7 - The Raiders

    JENNEL 277.


    It''s January 1st of I-don¡¯t-know-what-year. I realize I¡¯ve missed two days. I¡¯m becoming less and less consistent. Regaining that might be a good resolution for this new year.


    I started this deeply personal journal as a way to anchor myself in reality. We all struggle with this. This incomprehensible world arrived too abruptly, like a nightmare we can¡¯t wake up from.


    To be honest, for me, it feels more like a dream I absolutely don¡¯t want to wake up from.


    I am terribly selfish. We both are.


    The last night of the year was amazing. I hit a few wrong notes in my songs, but no one noticed.


    Alan gave me a beautiful sweater, which I immediately put on this morning. And I gave him the pendant. We were both very moved.


    I dared to wear the embroidered panties. Definitely effective.


    Alan pretends not to notice me writing in this journal, but he understands everything.


    I am happy when I probably shouldn¡¯t be.


    February


    Winter had grown harsher over the weeks. The relentless snowfall and freezing temperatures made daily life increasingly difficult. Food was running scarce, firewood for the chimneys was depleting rapidly, and it became clear that staying in the hotel much longer was untenable. Leaving at the first sign of warmer temperatures, carefully selecting sheltered stops along the way, seemed to be the only viable option.


    A meeting was held in the hotel¡¯s hall to decide their next move. Detailed maps of Eastern Europe, found during an expedition to Maribor, were spread out across a table. Michel spoke first, his expression serious.


    ¡°With the first sightline drawn in Avignon and the second one obtained here, we now have a potential location for the Beacon,¡± he said, placing his finger on a section of the map. ¡°It¡¯s in Turkey.¡±


    An immediate murmur of concern filled the hall.


    ¡°That far?¡± a voice exclaimed. ¡°We¡¯ll never make it!¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we find a safe place and settle down? We could stockpile supplies and wait for things to get better.¡±


    ¡°Wait for what?¡± someone else countered. ¡°There¡¯s nothing to wait for!¡±


    Some no longer wanted to keep moving, while others were demoralized by the remaining distance. Michel raised his hands to restore order.


    ¡°Please! Everyone will have their say. Your opinion matters. But let¡¯s hear each other out first.¡±


    A sharp voice cut through the brief silence:


    ¡°What do you think, Alan?¡± It was Rose, her gaze locked on Alan with determination.


    Alan, who had remained silent until now, slowly rose to his feet. A cold smile curved his lips.


    ¡°Of course, no one is forced to keep fighting,¡± he said, his voice calm but sharp.


    ¡°Many survivors will simply wait for death on this empty planet, until supplies run out. Most will likely kill each other long before that. You¡¯re free to follow their example. But not me. And not those who, like me, choose to fight until the very last spark of hope.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve come a long way, and we take pride in having walked this path together. There¡¯s still a journey ahead. And at the end, we may find answers to our questions. Perhaps even a chance at survival.¡±


    A deafening silence followed his speech. Alan sat back down, crossing his arms.


    ¡°If you want to stay and build snowmen, fine by me,¡± Rose added with a smirk.


    ¡°Well, Chief!¡± Johnny called out from the back of the room.


    Gradually, people started finding their own reasons to keep going. Alan¡¯s words, strengthened by Rose¡¯s determination and Michel¡¯s silent approval, resonated deeply with the survivors. Despite their doubts, each one asked themselves whether they could truly abandon this journey.


    Alan left the hall, his face tense with contained emotion. Jennel followed him in silence. Once outside, the biting cold stung their skin, a stark contrast to the heated discussion inside.


    ¡°What did Johnny mean by ¡®Chief¡¯?¡± Alan asked, stopping to face her.


    Jennel looked at him seriously, searching his eyes. ¡°It¡¯s the nickname they use for you behind your back.¡±


    Alan raised an eyebrow, surprised. ¡°Chief?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Chief. Because, whether you like it or not, they follow you.¡± Jennel placed a gentle hand on his arm, a soft smile lighting up her face. ¡°And you¡¯d better get used to it.¡±


    Alan stood in silence for a moment, gazing into the snowy darkness. Then, with a mix of resignation and pride, he nodded. ¡°Alright, then. Chief, huh?¡± he murmured with a half-smile before they resumed their walk toward the chalet.


    April


    JENNEL 365.


    So, it¡¯s been a year since I started this journal (actually, this is my second one). I think I¡¯ll stop counting the days. Maybe because I can¡¯t keep up with it, or because I no longer feel the need? I¡¯ll write whenever I feel like it.


    Starting with today.


    We¡¯re struggling to find food because the unspoken rule is to avoid towns and cities. Everyone sees the problem, but no one does anything about it. Except me.


    I made a suggestion in Alan¡¯s style, meaning I proposed it as if it were already decided. That¡¯s his trick, and it works on me too.


    So, we¡¯re forming lightweight, fast-moving teams to make detours into the towns we pass. Alan can ensure their safety without a problem. And Bob will plan quick access routes if the scouting team finds a worthwhile source.


    I don¡¯t feel particularly brilliant for this idea. And I¡¯m not sure if people are convinced by me or if I¡¯m just ¡®the Chief¡¯s girlfriend.¡¯ Let¡¯s stick with the first explanation.


    Alan told me I should do this more often. More than just encouragement, I take it as recognition of my abilities.


    The Horezu Monastery rose majestically in the heart of the lush Balkan hills, its pristine walls glowing under the spring sun. The group wandered slowly around and within this place of peace and spirituality, admiring the ancient frescoes and delicate sculptures adorning the buildings. Jennel, fascinated, ran her fingers along the stone, as if trying to grasp a fragment of the history that still seemed to vibrate in the air. Maria Luisa, laughing, joked about how the monks must have survived in such isolation, while Alan, silent, observed the surroundings with his ever-present vigilance.


    When the group resumed their journey, they followed a route mapped out by Bob¡¯s team. The map was lacking in detail, making their progress somewhat uncertain, yet the atmosphere remained surprisingly relaxed. At midday, they took a break by a crystal-clear stream. The sun bathed the valley, and the gentle murmur of water added a soothing touch to the landscape.


    However, Alan remained on high alert. As he scanned the area, he detected an unusual presence. Three Specters were following them at a safe distance. Then, he noticed another group of four on their left. A chill ran down his spine.


    ¡°We¡¯re being followed,¡± he announced in a low but firm voice. ¡°Three behind us and four on the left. That¡¯s a lot.¡±


    The group froze at his words. The surprise was evident on their faces. Jennel murmured,


    ¡°Seven? That¡¯s... unexpected.¡±


    Maria Luisa, her expression darkening suddenly, grabbed her automatic rifle.


    ¡°Bob,¡± Alan said, ¡°we need to change the route. We can¡¯t keep going this way.¡±


    Bob nodded and quickly mapped out a new path, leading the group away from their pursuers. After hours of cautious walking, the tension seemed to ease.


    As night fell, they set up camp discreetly, avoiding a fire to remain unseen. Alan, unable to sleep, spent hours keeping watch with his ability. The others slept in shifts, their breaths laden with unease.


    By morning, they resumed their journey, but the worry lingered. They knew their path was predictable, and the Specters remained in their minds.


    The group advanced through a wooded valley, the rustling leaves filling the spring air. The atmosphere was almost peaceful, yet Alan couldn''t ignore the tension gnawing at him.


    Still on edge, he suddenly sensed a wave of dark intentions: greed, growing hostility. He halted abruptly and scanned the surroundings.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Jennel asked, her voice tinged with concern.


    ¡°Specters. Many. More than we¡¯ve seen before. Bandits. And they¡¯re closing in,¡± Alan said, his voice low but resolute. ¡°A fight is inevitable.¡±


    Maria Luisa, walking slightly ahead, paused and calmly set her pack down. In one fluid motion, she unshouldered her automatic rifle and checked the scope. Her once-relaxed demeanor vanished, replaced by cold determination. The usual playfulness in her eyes had transformed into something almost unsettling.


    Jennel watched the shift in Maria Luisa with a mix of fascination and concern. She leaned closer to Alan and murmured,


    ¡°This woman¡­ she¡¯s not what she seems. Something about her unsettles me.¡±


    Alan nodded, his gaze locked on the forest.


    ¡°Now¡¯s not the time for questions. But you¡¯re right. She¡­ changes. And for now, that¡¯s to our advantage.¡±


    They pushed forward another few hundred meters, but the tension escalated quickly. The Specters grew clearer, and Alan sensed their greed turning into murderous intent. When Maria Luisa suddenly stopped and raised a fist in warning, the group knew it was time to prepare.


    To Alan¡¯s left, Maria Luisa silently fixated on a rocky ridge several hundred meters away, where a brief glint revealed the presence of a scout.


    ¡°They¡¯re here,¡± she murmured, adjusting her rifle. ¡°Three positions on the ridge, likely more in the ravine.¡±


    Alan nodded.


    ¡°How long before they advance?¡±


    Maria Luisa shrugged. ¡°Not long. They know we¡¯re here, but they¡¯re waiting. Probably to surround us.¡±


    Alan visualized the dispersed intentions of the bandits¡ªa mixture of greed, anxiety, and ruthless hostility.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°They¡¯re moving,¡± he announced. ¡°We have ten minutes at most before they hit us full force.¡±


    Michel, crouched behind a ledge below, signaled to them.


    ¡°Do we hold them here?¡±


    ¡°No choice,¡± Alan replied. ¡°We stop them on this slope. If we position ourselves well, they won¡¯t have the height advantage.¡±


    Maria Luisa grinned.


    ¡°Perfect. The closer they are, the harder it is for them to run.¡±


    They quickly spread out, each armed member taking cover behind rocks and tree trunks. Maria Luisa climbed onto a ledge, adjusting her scope to cover the left flank. Alan positioned himself higher up to monitor the center.


    The first shot rang out, a sharp crack in the crisp air. Maria Luisa had fired, taking down the scout with a single precise shot.


    ¡°One down,¡± she murmured, reloading smoothly.


    The bandits reacted instantly. Shouts echoed through the valley, followed by a barrage of gunfire. Bullets ricocheted off the rocks, sending shards flying. Alan steadied his aim and fired, hitting an enemy trying to flank them.


    ¡°Take cover!¡± he shouted to the group. ¡°Michel, watch our rear!¡±


    Chaos erupted. The bandits charged down the slope, covering their advance with relentless gunfire. Alan steadied his breath, focusing on a man wielding an improvised grenade launcher. He fired, and the man crumpled to the ground.


    Beside him, Maria Luisa was a picture of deadly efficiency. Every shot from her rifle found its mark, her movements eerily precise. Alan, already impressed by her discipline, couldn¡¯t help but notice the clinical detachment in her actions. There was something almost inhuman about her composure.


    ¡°They¡¯re flanking us!¡± she warned. ¡°Three on the left, two on the right!¡±


    Alan nodded and targeted the right side, his shots taking down two more before they could advance further. But just as they seemed to gain the upper hand, a piercing cry shattered the air.


    Michel, stationed lower down, had been hit. He collapsed, his rifle slipping from his hands, blood staining the grass.


    ¡°Michel!¡± Jennel screamed, rushing toward him without hesitation.


    Alan felt a wave of despair but forced himself to focus, shooting down a bandit aiming at Jennel.


    ¡°Maria, cover her!¡±


    Maria Luisa responded with a rapid burst, neutralizing the remaining assailants on the left. Jennel reached Michel, but it was too late. He had been shot through the heart.


    ¡°No¡­¡± she murmured, cradling his lifeless body.


    The fight ended abruptly. The remaining bandits, realizing their numbers had dwindled, fled into the forest¡¯s shadows. Alan and Maria descended to Jennel. The ground was streaked with red, and the only sound was Jennel¡¯s muffled sobs.


    ¡°We lost him,¡± she whispered, voice breaking.


    Alan placed a firm yet comforting hand on her shoulder.


    ¡°He saved us. We won¡¯t forget him.¡±


    Maria Luisa, her voice cold, stated,


    ¡°But we must move on. Otherwise, he died for nothing.¡±


    A solemn procession formed. Michel¡¯s body, wrapped in a clean but worn blanket, was carried to a clearing at the forest¡¯s edge. Faces were set with grief, words murmured in prayer or quiet farewells.


    Alan spoke, his voice unsteady.


    ¡°Michel was more than a companion. He was a pillar, a friend, a brother to us all. Today, we honor him by continuing the path he gave his life for. Rest in peace, Michel.¡±


    The group dug a simple yet dignified grave. A makeshift cross was planted, marking his final resting place. Each person placed a flower, a stone, or a personal token in tribute.


    After the burial, they moved on. Faces were hardened by grief but steeled with determination. No one spoke, each lost in thought.


    The bandits remained at a distance. Their presence, though distant, hung over them like a lingering threat. As night fell, they returned to the battlefield to retrieve their dead and wounded before vanishing into the darkness.


    The group found a relatively safe place to set up camp. A fire flickered, casting light on weary faces. Alan took the first watch. Sleep was elusive for all.


    At dawn, the first rays of sunlight melted the shadows. Alan, exhausted yet relieved, watched his companions stir. For the first time in days, there were no signs of the bandits.


    A breath of hope stirred through the group. Perhaps they had finally earned a respite.


    As they marched on, Jennel drew close and murmured,


    ¡°Last night, I spoke with Maria Luisa.¡±


    Alan raised an eyebrow, surprised. The tension between the two was well known.


    ¡°Tell me,¡± he said, intrigued.


    JENNEL


    I see myself, hesitant, standing before Maria-Luisa¡¯s tent. After a moment, I ask for permission to enter. Her cold voice invites me in, but her welcome is as distant as I feared.


    I apologize for my past behavior, admitting that I haven¡¯t always been friendly toward her. Maria studies me for a long moment before calmly stating:


    ¡°We have something in common, you and I.¡±


    She pauses, and I understand that she is speaking of Alan, without naming him.


    ¡°We both love him,¡± she adds.


    Her bluntness unsettles me. She continues, almost gently:


    ¡°I don¡¯t blame you for getting there first. It¡¯s better this way.¡±


    I remain silent for a moment before addressing what has been on my mind: her behavior during the battle.


    ¡°I wanted to ask you something. Why were you so¡­ different back there?¡±


    She narrows her eyes. ¡°Is that question from you, or from Alan?¡±


    ¡°From me,¡± I answer honestly.


    Maria looks away and sighs. ¡°I just used my training. I¡¯m skilled, that¡¯s all.¡±


    But I¡¯m not convinced.


    ¡°You seemed¡­ detached.¡±


    She takes a deep breath and, after a long silence, begins to speak.


    ¡°A few months ago, I met another survivor, Alexia. She meant a lot to me.¡±


    I understand from the look in her eyes that Maria had loved her.


    She continues, ¡°One day, we ran into a man who seemed friendly. He was a raider. When Alexia tried to defend herself, he stabbed her. He took her bag and ran, leaving me alone with her. I had no weapon. I watched Alexia die right in front of me.¡±


    Her voice trembles slightly. ¡°Today, I thought I could avenge her, but¡­ it¡¯s not that simple.¡±


    A heavy silence settles between us. I don¡¯t know what to say. Finally, I murmur, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Maria.¡±


    She nods, her eyes glistening with restrained sorrow. And for the first time, it feels like a fragile bridge is beginning to form between us.


    May


    The Bosphorus Bridge stretched out before them, an engineering marvel linking two continents. The group of Survivors, led by Alan and Jennel, approached the imposing structure under a clearing sky, where a few clouds still drifted after a gray morning. The shimmering waters of the Bosphorus below reflected the sunlight, adding an almost supernatural dimension to the landscape.


    ¡°It¡¯s strange to think that we¡¯re changing continents just by crossing this bridge,¡± Jennel said, her gaze fixed on the massive towers supporting the steel cables.


    Alan nodded slowly, his dark eyes scanning the distance.


    ¡°Yes. But look closely¡­ the chaos, the wreckage. The Wave passed through here just like everywhere else.¡±


    The group advanced cautiously along the wide roadway, their footsteps echoing against the metal as they progressed. The cars, immobilized in a macabre chaos, told the story of a brutal end: chain collisions, charred husks from fires, and vehicles that had crashed through the barrier, plunging into the waters below. In some places, shattered glass and twisted metal gleamed under the sunlight.


    ¡°It¡¯s as if everything was frozen in time,¡± murmured Rose, her eyes locked on an overturned car with a burned-out engine.


    ¡°That¡¯s exactly what happened,¡± Alan replied in a low voice. ¡°They died instantly, without understanding what was happening.¡±


    The wind coming from the strait brought a welcome coolness, though its force occasionally forced the group to proceed with caution. Alan suddenly stopped, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the horizon.


    ¡°Specters?¡± Jennel asked, concerned.


    Alan nodded, his gaze fixed on a distant point.


    ¡°Yes. Not too close, but they¡¯re there. They seem to be¡­ watching.¡±


    Jennel placed a hand on his arm. ¡°We should cross quickly.¡±


    Reaching the middle of the bridge, Jennel leaned against the railing, gazing down at the murky waters below. The minarets of Istanbul, a ghostly silhouette in the distance, seemed to watch over their passage.


    ¡°It¡¯s breathtaking,¡± she whispered, her eyes shining with emotion. ¡°But so empty¡­¡±


    Alan stood beside her, taking in the view. ¡°Yes. It¡¯s a beauty we appreciate differently now.¡±


    The group took a brief pause to drink water and reassess their progress. The air carried a salty scent mixed with rusted metal and ancient ashes. Rose approached Alan, holding a crumpled map.


    ¡°If we keep this pace, we should reach our next stop before nightfall. But these Specters¡­¡± She glanced over her shoulder. ¡°We can¡¯t ignore them.¡±


    Alan nodded. ¡°They¡¯re far for now. But you¡¯re right, we should stay cautious. This bridge might attract less friendly Survivors.¡±


    Once they crossed the bridge, the group stopped at the entrance of a park, deciding to take a short break before continuing. Jennel sat on a half-collapsed bench, watching the waters stretch behind them. Then, the group set off again, leaving behind the bridge and its horizon, a meeting point between two worlds.


    The group advanced slowly along the small roads of Turkey. The winding path, bordered by arid landscapes, seemed to bend to their will while imposing its own rhythm. At each turn, the Beacon appeared on the horizon. Sometimes to their right, sometimes to their left, gliding along in echo to their direction of travel.


    The number of Specters was also increasing, though there was little direct contact with the Survivors. Some observed them with silent curiosity, while others passed by indifferently. Nevertheless, the presence of those ghostly halos urged caution.


    At last, the road straightened, pointing directly toward their destination. Ahead of them, a group of Specters stood distinctly apart from the path¡ª a mixture of duty and necessity: a dozen individuals, motionless, just off the road. Alan halted, raising a hand to signal the group to stop. He took a deep breath, then stepped forward alone, his eyes fixed on the man at the center, who appeared to be in command.


    This man, tall and imposing, advanced toward him in turn. Unlike the others, he carried no weapon, but those surrounding him were heavily armed, a yellow armband marking their function.


    ¡°Welcome,¡± he said in a firm but composed voice. ¡°My name is Imre, and I am in charge of security in Kaynak.¡±


    Alan nodded. ¡°My name is Alan. Most of us come from France, and we have followed the light. The Beacon.¡±


    Imre studied Alan for a moment, as if evaluating his words. ¡°Who follows the light?¡± he asked.


    Alan answered without hesitation: ¡°I do.¡±


    A silence followed. Imre seemed satisfied. ¡°Then you have arrived. Kaynak is before you. The Source is before your people.¡±


    Murmurs rippled through the group. A wave of relief and excitement spread among the Survivors. But Imre remained still. He turned to a tall, dark-haired woman standing beside him.


    ¡°What do you think, Yael?¡± he asked.


    Yael frowned, her sharp gaze lingering on Alan. ¡°There¡¯s a problem,¡± she said after a moment. ¡°I don¡¯t see him.¡± She gestured toward Alan with a curt motion.


    Jennel understood immediately and stepped forward. ¡°You can¡¯t see his intentions. At first, neither could I. But now, I can. Just as I can see yours.¡±


    Yael was intrigued. ¡°And how do you do that?¡± she asked.


    Jennel smiled at Alan before leaning in to whisper a few words into Yael¡¯s ear. Yael¡¯s eyes widened in surprise. She studied Alan once more, her expression changed. Alan, guessing her thoughts, returned a reassuring smile.


    Imre broke the silence. ¡°Well?¡± he asked.


    Yael slowly nodded. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she said, still surprised.


    Jennel returned to Alan, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Alan murmured, ¡°If I have to make a sacrifice¡­¡±


    Jennel shook her head with a smirk. ¡°It only works with me.¡±


    Alan raised an eyebrow, amused. ¡°That¡¯s quite possible,¡± he thought.


    ¡°Alright, you¡¯ll need to hand over your firearms if you want to continue. No worries, they¡¯ll be numbered, and you¡¯ll get them back easily. My men and I handle security in Kaynak,¡± Imre said in a reassuring tone, scanning the group''s faces.


    Jennel, maintaining a cautious stance, fixed him with a sharp look before asking, ¡°What exactly is your role?¡±


    Imre gave a slight smile. ¡°I¡¯m the sheriff, so to speak. Appointed by Kaynak¡¯s Council. Don¡¯t worry, ma¡¯am, I¡¯m not the local dictator.¡± His answer, laced with humor, aimed to ease Jennel¡¯s visible doubts.


    Alan took a deep breath, turning to the Survivors. ¡°We need to cooperate if we want to move forward. I know it¡¯s difficult, but we don¡¯t have a choice.¡±


    Murmurs ran through the group. Some members showed clear reluctance. Elias, a pragmatic man, shook his head. ¡°And if we never see them again? How do we know we can trust them?¡±


    Jennel stepped in. ¡°They have a system. Look, they¡¯re numbering the weapons so they can be returned easily. They have nothing to gain by deceiving us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather keep mine,¡± grumbled another Survivor. ¡°You never know.¡±


    Alan raised his voice slightly, but without aggression. ¡°And what if keeping your weapons put us all in danger? Do you want them to see us as a threat? We came here for peace, not war. You need to trust me.¡±


    However, Maria-Luisa remained motionless. ¡°No. I¡¯m not giving them anything.¡±


    Alan sighed and stepped closer to her.


    ¡°Maria-Luisa, come. Let¡¯s talk.¡± He led her aside, his gaze searching hers. ¡°I understand. You¡¯re afraid. But I promise you, they won¡¯t betray us.¡±


    She shook her head, determined. ¡°I can¡¯t. I don¡¯t know them.¡±


    In desperation, Alan gently placed his hands on her face, his eyes locking onto hers. ¡°Help me. Do it for me.¡±


    Maria-Luisa wrestled with her emotions for a moment, then lowered her gaze. ¡°Alright,¡± she murmured at last.


    Jennel, watching the scene from a distance, offered Alan a knowing smile.


    One by one, the Survivors handed over their weapons. Imre¡¯s men numbered them and assigned each person a corresponding number. The process was orderly and professional, reassuring some.


    Once everything was in order, Imre smiled and declared, ¡°You may proceed. We will be waiting for you below to provide shelter. You are fortunate. Seekers, like Alan, are privileged. Just like Seers.¡±