Read with BonusRead with Bonus

Chapter 2: The Long Road

After three weeks of living in the dimly lit, almost surreal confines of the dorm, things finally started to shift. It wasn’t that the world had suddenly become less chaotic; it was more like the collective energy of panic had dwindled, leaving behind a weary, grim acceptance of our new reality. The immediate frenzy of the blackout had faded into a persistent, unsettling silence. People had stopped fighting over resources and started adapting to the absence of power, law, and order. The city had turned into a shadow of its former self, a place where survival had become the primary goal, and any semblance of the life we knew before seemed like a distant memory.

Most of my friends had left the dorm in search of their families or simply to escape the madness. I saw them packing their bags with a mix of determination and desperation, their faces drawn and tired. A few of them stayed behind, hoping against hope that things would return to normal, but the numbers dwindled each day. The dorm, once a bustling hub of student life, had become an eerie ghost town, filled with the echoes of laughter that seemed out of place in this new, grim reality.

I had spent those weeks grappling with the same thoughts over and over—worry for my parents, confusion about what was happening, and a deep, gnawing fear that I might never see them again. The absence of communication had been the cruelest part. I had no way to check in on them, no way to confirm they were safe. The only thing I knew was that I had to find them, no matter what it took.

The decision to leave was both liberating and terrifying. I packed a small bag with essentials: some clothes, a few cans of food, a flashlight with extra batteries, and a basic first-aid kit. I took a deep breath, looked around the dorm one last time, and stepped out into the unknown. It felt surreal, like walking through a dream. The familiarity of the campus faded behind me, replaced by a landscape that was both eerily quiet and unsettlingly foreign.

The roads were a sight to behold—an apocalyptic tableau of abandoned vehicles and scattered debris. Cars were left in disarray, some with doors ajar and windows shattered, as though their owners had abandoned them in a hurry. Trash and discarded belongings were strewn across the streets, making it clear that people had fled in panic, leaving behind anything they couldn't carry. The world had changed so drastically in such a short time that it was hard to process the extent of the transformation.

I started my journey on foot, moving cautiously. The initial excitement of setting out gave way to a profound sense of isolation. Every step seemed to echo in the oppressive silence, and the desolation around me made the enormity of the situation sink in. I walked through empty towns, each one a snapshot of the chaos that had ensued—grocery stores looted and left in disarray, houses with broken windows and open doors, streets devoid of the usual hum of life.

Each day blurred into the next as I trudged along, my footsteps creating a rhythmic pattern on the cracked pavement. The sun beat down during the day, its warmth both comforting and harsh, while the nights were cold and filled with unsettling noises. I slept wherever I could—often in abandoned buildings or makeshift shelters I could rig up from discarded materials. Sleep came in fits and starts, disturbed by the sounds of the unknown and the constant worry about what lay ahead.

Occasionally, I encountered other travelers. Some were families or small groups, trying to make their way to safety or searching for loved ones. We shared brief, wary conversations, exchanging what little information we had. Many were just as lost and confused as I was, their faces lined with worry and fatigue. A few were helpful, offering directions or sharing supplies, but others were far more unsettling. They eyed me with suspicion or outright hostility, their survival instincts making them wary of strangers. I quickly learned that trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Every encounter was fraught with tension, and I had to remain alert and cautious, ever wary of the intentions of those I met.

As the days stretched on, I began to develop a routine to help manage the uncertainty. I would find a place to rest during the day and move through the night, using the darkness as cover. I relied on the skills I had picked up from hiking and camping, trying to stay self-sufficient and out of sight. The constant search for resources became a daily ritual—finding clean water, scavenging for food, and making sure my supplies lasted as long as possible.

Every now and then, I would come across a town where a small flicker of normalcy seemed to remain. Some places had makeshift markets where people traded goods, their interactions a blend of camaraderie and desperation. I would stop briefly to see if I could find anything useful, but I had to be careful not to draw too much attention. In these brief moments of interaction, I would try to glean any information about the situation beyond the towns I passed, but the stories were always fragmented and uncertain.

The search for my parents became the driving force behind every step I took. I followed every lead I could find, from rumors of where people had been seen to tracking down distant family connections. Each day was a new challenge, filled with hope and fear in equal measure. I clung to the belief that if I just kept moving, kept searching, I would eventually find them.

And so, I pressed on, the world around me a constant reminder of what had been lost. The journey was long and fraught with danger, but it was the only path I had. Each step forward was a step away from the safety and familiarity of the life I once knew, and a step closer to whatever lay ahead in the darkness.

Previous Chapter
Next Chapter