02 .ᐟ
run, little rabbit, before the hunt begins.

SHE NEEDED SUPPLIES. Medicine, first and foremost. And gas—without it, the road ahead would swallow her whole.

The bag she'd hastily packed at home now seemed pitifully light, barely holding the essentials. She couldn't stop obsessing over the lack of medical supplies. It was irrational, perhaps, given that she was alone. No one else to look after, no injuries but her own. Still, the nurse in her screamed to be prepared. What if she got hurt? What if there was an infection? Out here, on these desolate roads, preparation wasn't just smart—it was survival.

Atlanta loomed ahead, distant and uncertain. She told herself the refugee center would have everything she needed: safety, answers, maybe even a way to call someone—anyone. Her phone had been useless for hours, the silence on the other end more haunting than any scream. She'd finally abandoned it, leaving it to rattle uselessly in the passenger seat. They'll have phones there, she told herself. They'll have a way to contact family.

She wasn't sure she believed it.

The car radio buzzed, stubbornly alive despite everything else falling apart. It leaped between static and snippets of music, sometimes landing on an emergency broadcast, the same monotonous voice playing on an endless loop:

"Go to the nearest evacuation post. Find refuge and shelter."

Sometimes, though, it switched to fragments of news, each more unhinged than the last. Shouts. Screams. A cacophony of panic as anchors described streets descending into chaos, people turning on each other. Their voices cracked as they tried to make sense of it all, but no one seemed to know what was happening. One word kept surfacing, though, over and over again: attacks.

Selma gripped the steering wheel tighter. A chill crawled up her back, the kind that settled deep in your bones and refused to leave.

Her mind betrayed her, dragging her back to the hospital basement. The patient's wild eyes as he lunged at her, the way his teeth snapped, feral and hungry. The soldier shouting orders, his rifle shaking as he fired into the chaos. The man with the bite on his neck, blood pouring in pulsing rivers while his skin turned ashen before her eyes.

And those things—the ones who had done it.

Their faces were all wrong, like masks stretched over something primal. Their eyes didn't see, didn't reason. They only wanted. Animalistic. Devoid of humanity.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she considered pulling over, just to catch it. But there was no time, no safe place. Atlanta wasn't just a destination anymore—it was a lifeline.

The gas gauge dipped closer to empty.

She couldn't afford to stop, but she'd have to.

Soon.

She snapped the radio off with a sharp twist, leaning back in her seat. One hand pressed to her forehead, the other gripped the steering wheel, her cigarette burning low between her lips. Smoke curled lazily upward, stinging her eyes as she glanced at the dwindling county skyline in the rearview mirror.

The road ahead was a constant blur of change—one moment, she was weaving through the heart of a town, chaos spilling into the streets. People were shouting, packing cars, running with armfuls of belongings, their faces twisted in panic. The next, she was surrounded by open farmland, endless fields stretching beneath an indifferent sky.

When another town appeared on the horizon, the scene was hauntingly familiar. Cars clogged intersections, honking and screeching. Families scrambled from house to car, dragging bags and screaming at one another. In the distance, store windows shattered as looters poured in and out, clutching whatever they could grab.

She pulled off the main road and parked her car in the shadows behind an abandoned billboard. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep it out of sight. Theft was inevitable in times like these, but she wasn't about to make it easy. Grabbing an empty gas can and her backpack, she slammed the car door shut and made her way to the nearest gas station-slash-convenience store.

The place was a madhouse. People swarmed in and out, clutching everything from cans of soup to flat-screen TVs. Some shoved and screamed; others darted between aisles like scavengers. She tightened her grip on her bag and pushed through the broken glass doors.

Inside, it was worse. Shelves had been stripped bare, their contents scattered across the floor. She didn't waste time. Heading straight for the food aisle, she grabbed whatever she could—cans of beans, soup, candy bars, even a few packs of instant noodles. Her eyes landed on a tent, the last one on the shelf, and she yanked it down before anyone else could.

Her next stop was the gun section.

Before, she'd only come here out of morbid curiosity, marveling at how Americans casually displayed firearms alongside groceries, like they were nothing more than kitchen utensils. It had always been bizarre, almost laughable. Now? Now it might save her life.

The display cases were shattered, the glass glittering on the floor. Most of the guns were already gone, but she crouched low and searched behind the counter. Bingo. A tactical pistol caught her eye—its label read X-Lock Tactical. She tucked it into the waistband of her leggings. A second weapon, a sleek Blackbird revolver, went into her bag.

Bullets. She needed bullets.

Pushing open the door to the storage room behind the counter, she found three small boxes of ammunition. The labels didn't matter—she'd figure it out later. She shoved them into her bag and zipped it up tight.

Back in the main store, the chaos hadn't subsided. People screamed, shoved, and fought. Someone smashed a display case and made off with jewelry. Another dragged a flat-screen TV through the broken door. She shook her head, disgusted. Idiots. TVs won't keep you alive.

Her final stop was the pharmacy.

The air inside was eerily quiet compared to the store. A handful of people moved through the aisles—a woman and her father, a lone man rifling through the shelves, a few teenagers, and an older couple whispering to each other. Selma didn't stop to look at them. She had a list in her head, and she was moving on autopilot.

She grabbed everything she could: antiseptic wipes, antibiotic ointments, bandages, gauze, medical tape, scissors, surgical gloves, ibuprofen, acetaminophen, alcohol swabs, saline solution, burn cream, and even a couple of slings. A blood pressure monitor sat discarded on the floor; she hesitated, then grabbed that too. You could never be too careful.

The shelves were nearly empty, but her bag was getting heavy. Satisfied, she zipped it shut and slung it over her shoulder.

Time to go.

Selma froze mid-step when the commotion behind her reached a fever pitch.

"Hey, that's mine!" a woman's voice cried out, shaky and desperate.

She turned, catching sight of a young woman clutching a bag of supplies, her frail father standing protectively by her side. A man—a wiry, wild-eyed figure—was pointing a gun directly at her chest.

"Give it to me now, or I'll shoot you!" His voice was sharp, unhinged.

"Sir, please!" the young woman begged, her voice trembling. "I need it for my father! He's sick!"

The older man stepped forward, his hands raised in a futile attempt to calm the aggressor. "Let's not do anything rash. We can—"

"Shut up!" the man barked, cocking the gun.

Selma's fingers itched at her side. Her mind raced. Should I step in? This wasn't her fight. Survival was every person for themselves now, wasn't it? But the nagging tug of her conscience wouldn't let go.

Before she could decide, a low, guttural growl broke through the chaos.

Her stomach dropped.

The sound was unmistakable, a primal warning of something worse than the standoff in front of her. She turned her head toward the shattered windows, eyes widening as shadows shuffled closer.

The dead had arrived.

Panic swept through the store like a wildfire. Screams erupted, bodies shoved past each other, scattering in every direction.

The man didn't flinch, still aiming his gun. His finger hovered over the trigger.

The young woman's voice broke. "Please, don't!"

Selma acted on instinct. With a burst of motion, she darted forward and shoved the man. He stumbled back, the gun clattering to the floor.

"Run!" Selma yelled at the young woman and her father.

They hesitated for only a second before grabbing each other and darting toward the aisle. But they weren't fast enough.

The father didn't make it far.

The nurse felt a sudden grip around her ankle— the man she had shoved moments earlier had caught hold of her. Without hesitation, she kicked him square in the face, her boot connecting with a sickening thud. "I'm sorry!" she muttered under her breath as he groaned in pain, blood streaming from his broken nose.

But Selma barely had time to register the impact. She spun around just in time to witness a horde of decaying bodies descending on the other man and his daughter. The old man's scream was cut short, muffled into a wet, gurgling sound that echoed through the chaos, sending an icy chill crawling down Selma's spine.

"Papa!" the young woman screamed, frozen in place as the group of walkers dragged her father down. Blood splattered across the floor, a horrifying smear as the monsters feasted.

Selma didn't have time to think. One of the creatures—unnoticed by the girl—lurched toward her from behind, its mouth open wide, teeth gnashing.

In a single, practiced motion, Selma drew her Swiss knife and slammed it into the creature's skull. The walker crumpled to the ground, its body twitching before going still.

Selma grabbed the girl by the shoulders, shaking her hard. "Hey! Snap out of it! We have to go, now!"

Tears streamed down the woman's face, her chest heaving with sobs. "My father—"

"He's gone," Selma said firmly, her voice cracking but unrelenting. "I'm sorry. But if you want to live, you need to come right now."

The girl hesitated, her grief pinning her in place. Selma didn't wait. She turned and bolted toward the front door, her bag slamming against her back with each step.

For a moment, she thought the girl wouldn't follow. Then she heard the frantic patter of footsteps behind her.

"Come on!" Selma called, glancing back to make sure. The young woman was there, her face pale and streaked with tears, but she was running.

The parking lot was chaos incarnate. Bodies littered the asphalt, both human and walker. People pushed and shoved, trying to escape. Cars screeched as they fought to navigate the mob.

Selma skidded to a stop near her vehicle, frantically scanning for an opening. "This way!" she shouted, waving the girl toward her.

There was no time to think, no time to mourn. Just the overwhelming drive to survive.

Shit. Gas.

Selma's stomach clenched as the realization hit her. Without a second thought, she bolted toward the pump, grabbing her jerrycan on the way. Her hands worked quickly, fitting the nozzle into the container and starting the flow of fuel.

The stench of gasoline mixed with the iron tang of blood in the air. Around them, screams, gunfire, and the guttural growls of the undead painted a horrifying backdrop. The young woman was still sobbing behind her, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

"Hey!" Selma snapped, keeping her voice low but firm. She pointed to a gun lying abandoned on the ground nearby. "I need you to look out. Take that gun and make sure nobody—or nothing—gets close while I finish up here."

The girl's tear-streaked face turned toward her, wide-eyed and trembling, but she nodded. Clutching the weapon with shaky hands, she took a position a few feet away, her shoulders hunched with fear.

Selma glanced over her shoulder as the gas flowed into the container. The pump seemed agonizingly slow. Come on, come on, she urged silently, her eyes flicking to the girl.

Then, a low growl came from behind them.

A walker shuffled closer, its dead eyes fixed on the girl, its rotting hands reaching forward.

The girl's screamed, her terror breaking loose.

Selma didn't flinch. "Shoot it!"

The girl raised the gun, her hands shaking so hard she could barely aim. The first shot rang out, hitting the walker square in the chest. It barely faltered, still stumbling toward her with relentless determination.

"No!" Selma barked, capping the jerrycan and hoisting it off the ground. "The head! Aim for the head, or it won't stop!"

The girl's lips quivered as she tried to steady her aim. Another shot. It missed, the bullet whizzing harmlessly past.

"Focus!" Selma growled, slinging the jerrycan over her shoulder and moving toward her.

The girl squeezed the trigger again. This time, the shot found its mark, blasting a hole through the walker's skull. It crumpled to the ground, lifeless at last.

The girl let out a sharp gasp, gun shaking in her hands and covering her mouth as bile rose in her throat.

Selma grabbed her arm firmly, snapping her out of her shock. "We don't have time for this. Let's go!"

Without waiting for a response, she dragged the girl toward the car, weaving through the chaos of the parking lot. Bodies—human and otherwise—were strewn everywhere, the air thick with the sounds of panic and the acrid scent of burning rubber.

Once they reached the vehicle, Selma yanked open the driver's door and shoved the girl into the passenger seat. She tossed the jerrycan into the back, slid in behind the wheel, and turned the key in one fluid motion.

The engine roared to life, and she slammed her foot on the gas. The tires squealed as the car lurched forward, speeding out of the parking lot and leaving the nightmare behind.

Selma didn't look back. She didn't need to.

Hell was right where they left it.

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For an hour, the car was filled only with silence, punctuated by the occasional, soft sobs of the young woman sitting beside Selma in the passenger seat.

Selma didn't know why she had helped her, why she had put herself at risk. Her conscience, her empathy—those feelings that used to be so simple—were the very things that might get her killed. But she couldn't shake the nagging urge to protect someone, even if she barely knew them.

Jenna still wore that haunted look, her bronze skin smeared with dried tears, her once-coiled hair now an unruly mess around her face. She clutched her backpack tightly, the gun she'd used to defend herself from the walker still gripped in her hand.

Selma bit her lip, her gaze fixed on the road ahead, trying to ignore the unease that churned inside her. She cleared her throat, forcing a casual tone, though her voice betrayed the uncertainty that lingered. "So... what's your name?"

Jenna didn't respond right away. Her eyes remained fixed on the landscape outside, as if the world beyond the car still seemed distant, impossible to process. Then, she swallowed, the rasp in her voice evident when she finally spoke.

"Jenna. Jenna Foxwell."

Selma nodded, the sound of her own name feeling strange after so much silence. "I'm Selma. Selma Rafiq." A pause. "It's gonna be okay. I'll get us to the refugee center." She glanced over, trying to find some reassurance in Jenna's tired eyes. "Were you planning to go there with..." She trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence, but Jenna, without missing a beat, nodded, her eyes still brimming with grief.

"Yes. Yes, we were. He... he wanted to get us there."

Selma bit back the lump in her throat. "I'm sorry about your father."

Jenna nodded slowly, her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you." That was all. No more words needed.

The road stretched out before them, the hum of the jeep's engine the only sound that filled the cabin. The sky had begun to shift, dark blues and purples giving way to the faint light of the coming sunrise. The early morning light glinted off Selma's red hair, casting a fiery glow around her as she reached up to adjust her sunglasses and cap, shielding her eyes from the rising sun.

It was an unspoken agreement between them, a shared understanding that silence was all they could handle right now. Jenna was still in shock, and Selma, though she didn't want to admit it, was too.

After what felt like an eternity of nothing but the sound of the engine and the occasional distant groan of the world around them, the road in front of them suddenly came to a halt. A long line of cars, parked with no one in them, stretched for as far as Selma could see. The narrow lanes of the autoroute were blocked.

They came to a stop behind a family car. Most of the people around them were outside, sitting on the grass, leaning against their vehicles, some of them just staring blankly into the distance, as though they had been here for a long time. The weight of waiting—of doing nothing—hung in the air, suffocating.

Selma killed the engine, the abrupt silence in the car feeling unsettling. She glanced at Jenna, but the girl was already staring ahead, lost in her thoughts. They both understood without saying anything: they were stuck now, just like everyone else.

The line of cars behind Selma's jeep stretched endlessly, leaving them trapped in a standstill. There was no way to turn back now—this was the only route to Atlante, and they were stuck. She could feel the weight of it pressing down on her chest, the oppressive stillness of a moment where everything felt too uncertain.

To the side of the highway, the trees of a thick forest loomed, a strange haven for the people who had already begun setting up camp. Tents were hastily erected between the trees, scattered here and there like a patchwork quilt of displaced lives. A few people were sitting on folding chairs, looking down the road, their eyes distant, lost in thought.

Others were pacing nervously, whispering in clusters, trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding around them.

There was no one left to give orders, no one to tell them what to do next.

Everyone was waiting for something—a sign, a signal, or maybe just the next inevitable disaster.

Selma glanced over at Jenna, who had barely said a word since they left the gas station. The girl was staring blankly ahead, her face pale and streaked with the remnants of her tears. She hadn't moved since they got on the road, and Selma wondered if she even knew how to process everything that had happened.

"Hey," Selma said, her voice softer than she intended. "I'm going to ask around. Stay close and be careful."

Jenna barely nodded, her eyes still unfocused, her hands gripping her backpack like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Selma didn't wait for a response. She knew the girl wasn't ready to talk—hell, neither was she.

She stepped out of the jeep and the harsh screech of the car door closing was a stark reminder that silence had been replaced by a strange kind of noise—distant conversations, the sound of nervous feet shuffling, and the heavy hum of the world holding its breath. Selma's boots hit the gravel with quiet purpose as she moved toward the family car ahead.

The scene there was unsettlingly ordinary.

The two kids—probably around six or seven—were sitting on the ground, playing with cards. They weren't laughing or talking, just quietly going through the motions, trying to find some semblance of normalcy in a world that was anything but.

She took a steadying breath, eyeing the two women standing near the car. One was older, her grey hair cropped short in a buzzcut, a smile that was worn but genuine stretched across her face.

The other, a younger woman, had long black hair that hung loose over her shoulders. She was on the phone, her face tense, the kind of tension that came from speaking with someone you weren't sure you could trust.

Selma approached the older woman, who greeted her with a warm smile despite the obvious strain in her eyes. Selma forced her own smile, though it didn't quite reach her.

"Hello," the nurse said, her British accent slipping naturally from her lips.

The woman's voice was soft but weary. "Hi."

Selma hesitated, looking over her shoulder at the scene unfolding. The atmosphere felt thick, like something was just on the verge of breaking. "Do you have any idea of what's going on? Why are we all stopped here?"

The woman sighed deeply, her eyes flickering toward the road. "I wish I knew. We've been here for hours. The path is blocked miles down, and we're just... waiting." Her voice trailed off, like she was tired of hearing the same words over and over again. She gave Selma an apologetic look. "Looks like we're all in the same boat."

Before Selma could respond, a voice interrupted from behind, harsh and grating like gravel being scraped across metal. "Carol!" The man who called out was standing with his back to her, his cigarette dangling from his lips. His voice was rough, and when he turned to face Selma, there was something in his eyes—suspicion, maybe disdain, like she wasn't worth his time.

Selma tried to muster a smile, but it faltered under his cold stare. The man didn't return the gesture. Instead, he gave Carol a sharp look, one that made the woman stiffen slightly.

Without a word, Carol shifted her attention away from Selma and toward the man, her expression hardening. She moved toward him, gait quick and purposeful, as if she had dealt with his presence a thousand times before. Selma watched them for a moment, the tension between them thick and palpable.

The man's dark, sharp eyes tracked Selma for a moment longer, then flicked back to Carol as if dismissing her entirely.

Selma turned back toward the jeep, her pulse ticking in her ears. The road ahead seemed even more uncertain than before.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Night had fallen.

The sound of helicopters had become an ominous backdrop, circling above like vultures waiting for the inevitable. Their low rumble blended with the muffled voices of the stranded crowd, creating an eerie atmosphere that wrapped itself around the camp like a shroud.

Selma sat in her car, the day's weight pressing heavily on her shoulders. The doors were propped open to let in the cool evening air, her legs stretched out as she leaned back in the driver's seat. Every so often, she stepped out to pace along the gravel, the rhythmic crunch beneath her boots a fleeting distraction from the unsettling stillness around them.

Over the hours, she'd come to know the people trapped in this limbo with her. Names had been exchanged like lifelines, stories shared in hushed voices as the waiting stretched on. It was hard not to grow familiar with faces when you were all marooned in the same place, tethered by a shared, growing sense of helplessness.

The radio in her car had given out earlier in the afternoon, sputtering static before falling silent entirely. No news, no updates—just dead air. Selma could only assume that even the journalists had fled, abandoning their stations in favor of escape. Whatever was happening, it seemed bigger than anyone had anticipated. Now they were at the mercy of events far beyond their understanding or control.

Jenna had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, her head resting awkwardly against the window. Exhaustion had finally claimed her, though Selma knew it was more than physical tiredness; it was grief, plain and simple. The girl's face was peaceful now, but the dark circles under her eyes and the tension in her brow betrayed the weight she carried. Looking at her now, Selma realized Jenna couldn't be much older than nineteen. A teenager thrust into a world she didn't deserve, one that had no mercy for anyone, least of all someone like her.

Selma glanced out at the two children she'd noticed earlier—Carl and Sophia. They were still playing cards, their small hands moving with practiced focus as they tried to stave off boredom or fear. Neither of them spoke much, their expressions far too solemn for their age. The quiet between them was unnerving. Children were supposed to laugh, to bicker, to run around without a care. But these two sat cross-legged on the ground, their pale faces lit faintly by a lantern someone had placed nearby.

She sighed, her eyes drifting back to Jenna. The thought of these kids growing up in a world like this—whatever it had become—made her chest tighten. How could they? What kind of future waited for them now?

Don't be ridiculous, a voice in her head muttered. Maybe this will all blow over in a week or two. A month at most.

But Selma wasn't sure she believed it. She looked out at the forest beyond the autoroute, where tents dotted the treeline like flickering beacons of desperation. Fires crackled softly in the distance, their light casting long shadows that danced on the edges of her vision.

The helicopters still circled above. Whatever they were looking for, whatever they were monitoring, Selma couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't good.

She wished things would ease up soon, but deep down, Selma knew better. Everything felt too heavy, too deliberate, and tonight would likely prove just how serious it all was.

Another helicopter roared overhead, its searchlights cutting through the darkness, casting eerie shadows over the parked cars and the weary faces below. The sharp beams flickered over the forest and briefly illuminated the camp of stranded travelers.

"Are we gonna go soon?" Sophia's soft voice reached Selma's ears, hesitant and hopeful.

"I don't know, baby. I sure hope so," Carol replied, her tone patient but tinged with uncertainty. She crouched down, brushing a hand over her daughter's hair in a gesture that was as much for herself as it was for the girl.

"I'm hungry," Carl chimed in, turning to his mother, Lori, with an expectant look.

"I know, Carl. We all are," Lori answered, her voice low and tired as she absentmindedly fiddled with the chain around her neck. She sighed, glancing toward the stretch of cars ahead that seemed to extend endlessly, blocking any path forward.

Carol straightened up, ever the kind one, and offered, "Why don't I get him something to eat? Ed's into all this survival stuff. We've got enough MREs to feed a small army."

Lori gave her a grateful smile. "I'd really appreciate that."

"No trouble," Carol said gently, already heading off toward her own vehicle.

Selma leaned against her Jeep, watching the exchange. She reached into the cab, pulling out a bag of candies she'd been saving—her last indulgence in a world that now offered so little sweetness. Maybe this'll cheer them up, even if it's just for a moment.

Making her way over to the kids, she knelt slightly to meet their level. "Hey, kids, here." She handed them the bag, smiling at their sudden wide-eyed excitement.

Carl was the first to speak, his face lighting up as he clutched the bag. "Thank you, ma'am!" He wasted no time tearing it open, the sound of crinkling plastic almost too loud in the stillness of the camp.

"You didn't have to. This is too much," Lori said, her voice touched with both gratitude and surprise as she rested a hand on Selma's shoulder.

"It's fine, really," Selma replied, her tone reassuring. She stepped back slightly, giving them space while Carl eagerly sorted through the treats.

"Thank you," Lori said again, nodding in appreciation.

Carol returned then, her steps slower than before. She held a few small items in her hands and looked down at them with a frown. "Ed must've forgotten to pack the MREs," she muttered, her voice tinged with frustration. "But I found these in my purse."

Lori glanced at the meager offering Carol held but quickly shook her head. "It's all right. Selma gave them a bag of candies. They're happy for now."

Carol looked over at Selma and offered her a small, grateful smile. "Well, that's something, at least."

Selma nodded back, leaning casually against her Jeep. She reached up to reattach her dark red hair into a loose clip, her movements deliberate and calm despite the tension hanging in the air.

"Listen, do y'all mind keeping an eye on Carl for a minute?" Lori asked, her voice steady but carrying a hint of urgency.

"Not at all," Carol replied without hesitation.

Lori crouched beside her son, running her fingers through his hair as she spoke. "Shane and I are gonna go scout up ahead, see if we can find someone who knows what's going on."

Carl's face fell as he looked up at her. "I want to come with you."

Lori shook her head firmly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "No, sweetie. Stay here with Carol. We won't be long."

Selma watched as a tall, gruff man approached them, his black curls gleaming faintly under the dim light of a passing helicopter. That must be Shane, she thought, noting his commanding presence. His expression was serious, but he managed a small smile as he addressed Carl.

"Hey, we'll be back before you know it, okay? Be a champ for your mom," Shane said, his voice gruff but gentle as he patted the boy's shoulder.

Carl nodded reluctantly, his small hands gripping the bag of candies like a lifeline.

Selma turned away, heading back to her Jeep. She was about to wake Jenna and offer her something to eat when a deep, distant rumble cut through the stillness.

Boom.

The sound reverberated through the air, followed by another, louder explosion.

Selma froze, her blood turning cold. She looked up—and saw it.

The skyline of Atlanta was illuminated by violent bursts of orange and red. Skyscrapers stood silhouetted against the inferno as planes swooped overhead, releasing napalm bombs that detonated with terrifying precision.

"Oh my God," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos erupting around her.

Panic spread like wildfire.

Shouts filled the air as people scrambled to make sense of what was happening. Some darted into their cars, fumbling with keys, while others stood rooted to the spot, their faces pale with shock.

Selma's chest tightened as she watched flames ripple across the city, swallowing buildings in their path. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke, even from this distance.

"This can't be real," she murmured, her mind racing. Why would soldiers bomb the city? Wasn't Atlanta supposed to be a refuge?

Her legs trembled as the weight of the situation pressed down on her. They were trapped on this highway, surrounded by strangers and uncertainty, while the city burned before their eyes.

Selma clenched her fists, forcing herself to focus. Panic wouldn't help now. She glanced at Jenna, still asleep in the car, blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding.

"We need to get out of here," Selma muttered to herself, her voice firm despite the fear clawing at her throat. But where could they go? The road was blocked, and the forest beside them offered little comfort.

Her heart pounded as the helicopters circled above like predators, their searchlights cutting through the night.

Whatever was happening, it was far worse than she could have imagined.