A few hours later, his dad and Nicki returned.
Peter sat up when he heard them. His muscles were still sore, but they moved when he told them to. The ache was dull now. Manageable. His stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten in a while.
His father stepped under the tarp first, steady but clearly tired. Nicki followed, her face flushed, her eyes alert, movements quick.
Their car hadn't started. Anything with electrical circuits was fried. "Too many systems got hit," his dad said. "The SUV's useless now."
The world itself had changed too.
The cabin was gone. Ripped apart. The earth had shifted—expanded somehow—and the building hadn't survived. When Peter finally got outside, he saw it firsthand: beams torn, foundation cracked wide, debris scattered far from where it should've been.
"We jogged to town," Nicki said, dropping her bag with a thud. "Ten miles, with packs. It felt like my normal three-mile run—nothing crazy."
She wiped her face with her sleeve. "I think the light did something to us. Improved us somehow."
Then her tone dipped, losing its edge.
"But some people didn't make it."
Peter looked at her.
"Freezer-burned veins. That's what people are saying. Kids, too."
She glanced toward the trees, voice quieter. "Based on the town and the number of people that died, they're putting it at one in ten."
Peter took a deep breath, slow and steady.
Did they experience what I did before they died? Peter thought to himself.
Later the next day, after some rest—and most importantly, food—Peter felt better.
The soreness was still there, but it had dulled. He moved easier. His muscles weren't as stiff, and his stomach had finally stopped growling after a couple full meals.
He stepped out of the lean-to, stretched his arms overhead, and took a few steps around the clearing. His legs felt steady. His balance was solid.
He picked up his pace into a light jog. It wasn't planned—he just wanted to see how it felt.
It felt good. Natural. His breathing stayed even, and the tightness he expected never showed up.
He ran a little farther. Still smooth. Still steady.
He didn't think too hard about it. He just noticed things.
His stride was easier. His body moved without pushback. The air even seemed cleaner than before.
Whatever the light had done, it hadn't broken him.
It had changed something. He couldn't say what, exactly—but it was there. And he could feel it.
They sat around the fire that evening, the silence stretched long between them. The flames popped and cracked, casting just enough light to see one another's expressions—but no one said much.
It was Annie who finally spoke. "We need to go to town."
Gerald didn't respond right away. He kept turning something slowly over in his hands—an old multi-tool he'd dug out earlier. His jaw shifted like he was chewing on the idea more than her words.
Peter watched both of them, waiting.
Annie continued, calm but firm. "They're organizing people. Nicki and I saw flyers at the edge of town—handwritten stuff, posted up at the diner and outside the school. The mayor and sheriff want everyone to meet, combine resources, figure things out."
Gerald let out a slow breath. "And what happens when we bring everything we have into town and find out things are worse there than here?"
"We don't know anything about here either," Annie said. "And if something else happens—another quake, another light—being alone in the woods might not mean safe."
Nicki tossed a pinecone into the fire. "It's not like we're going back to school Monday."
Peter cracked a faint smile at that, but no one laughed.
"We should go," Annie said again, softer this time. "Bring what we can. Help where we can. If nothing else, we'll learn more than we know right now."
Gerald finally nodded, slow and deliberate. "Fine. We pack full, take what we've got. But we're not bringing everything."
He stood and pointed toward the edge of the clearing. "I'll stash a backup kit just off the trail—food, water, first aid. If we ever have to double back or things get out of hand in town, I want to know we've got something waiting here."
"Okay," Annie agreed. "That's reasonable."
By moonlight, they packed. Full bags. Water jugs, dry food, medicine, matches, tools—everything they could carry without slowing themselves too much.
Before they slept, Gerald buried a sealed duffel just off the clearing beneath a thick patch of pine needles and brush. When Peter asked why not take it all, his dad just said, "Because it's smarter this way. Never leave yourself with nothing."
The next morning, they left the lean-to behind and started walking toward town.
They were making good time along the county highway.
The road cut through the woods like a scar—cracked asphalt, patches of moss, old guardrails bent and rusted. No traffic, no power lines humming, just the steady rhythm of footfalls and breath. Their packs bounced with each step, but it didn't feel like effort. Whatever had changed them, it made running easier—cleaner. They could have gone on for hours.
Then it happened.
A roar tore through the trees—low at first, like distant thunder, then building into a full, bellowing challenge that made the birds scatter and Peter's pulse stop.
The thing that charged out of the woods wasn't just a bear—it was massive.
Jet-black fur, thick and coarse. Its body was packed with muscle, shoulders high and wide like a boulder rolling on legs. Its head swung low, jaws open in a snarling gape. It cleared the ditch in one bound, landing heavy on the broken edge of the road.
Nicki turned—and froze.
Annie didn't.
She moved without hesitation, grabbing Nicki by the pack and shoving her clear.
And then the bear's paw came down.
Peter saw the swipe—wide and fast. The claws weren't just long; they were thick, jagged, almost like shards of black bone. They caught Annie across the upper chest and neck in one brutal, raking strike.
The sound was awful—a deep, wet tear followed by a rush of blood.
Her body dropped like someone had cut the strings holding her up.
She hit the asphalt hard, and blood sprayed across the shoulder of the road, fast and arterial, bright red against blacktop and gravel. It didn't trickle—it pumped. Out and wide. Her hand twitched once. Then stopped.
Peter's vision narrowed. His chest locked up. He couldn't hear anything except the thudding of his own heart.
The bear loomed over her, paw still lifted. Its breath came in thick bursts, steaming in the morning air. Muscles shifted under its coat with every slow, stalking movement. It wasn't just large—it was oversized, ten, maybe fifteen percent bigger than a normal black bear, swollen by something that didn't belong in nature.
Gerald's voice cracked through the moment, loud and raw—shouting, moving, trying to pull the bear's attention away.
But Peter couldn't move.
He couldn't blink.
His mother lay there, blood spreading fast across the road like the color was draining from the world.
And the only thing in his head—the only thing—was the impossible, ugly truth of what he'd just seen.
The bear lunged.
Gerald moved—cutting across the road toward Annie, arms pumping, jaw clenched.
He didn't make it.
The bear pivoted with shocking speed, and its massive paw slammed into Gerald's chest. More bludgeon than claw, the impact lifted him off his feet. His body went airborne—legs folding, pack twisting mid-flight—and he hit the pavement with a bone-shaking thud, skidding several feet before rolling to a stop on his back.
Peter's breath caught. His father wasn't moving.
Then the bear turned back to Annie.
It went straight for her throat.
Its jaws opened wide and clamped down just below her jawline, crushing into the soft tissue with a deep, brutal pressure. The force of the bite sent a heavy spray of blood across the ground. Her legs kicked once, then went slack.
The bear shifted its weight and started dragging her.
Her boots scraped along the cracked pavement. Her limbs bounced limply with each step. Blood flowed freely, soaking into her shirt, into the road, trailing behind in long streaks that glistened dark red under the rising light.
At the tree line, the bear paused.
It turned and looked back.
Its eyes swept across the three of them—Gerald crumpled on the ground, Nicki frozen in place, and Peter locked in his own body, heart hammering, eyes wide, breath trembling in his chest.
The bear stared for a long second.
Then it turned and stepped into the woods, dragging Annie's body behind it—her blood marking every inch of the road as the forest swallowed them whole.
He realized his sister was screaming.
Sobbing, too—high-pitched, choked cries spilling out in broken rhythm. She dropped to her knees in the middle of the road, hands trembling, her breath coming too fast to catch.
His father was groaning as he rolled onto his side, one arm wrapped around his ribs. He moved slow, breath ragged, jaw clenched against the pain.
And Peter… couldn't move.
He stood there. Legs stiff. Mouth dry. The roar still echoed in his ears like a siren trapped in his skull.
What the fuck just happened?
His eyes dropped to the road. To the pool of blood.
It was still spreading—thick, dark, sticky across the broken asphalt.
That's Mom's.
The thought hit him like a brick to the chest. His knees buckled, but he didn't fall. He just stood there, eyes locked on the mess, the drag marks leading to the trees.
He'd done nothing.
I just stood there.
His breath hitched. His vision blurred.
Like a moron. Or… no. Worse. Like a coward.
His stomach twisted.
Which is worse? Being a coward or an idiot?
His heart was racing. His throat burned.
And then the weight came crashing down.
The blood, the stare, the silence, the sound of Nicki breaking apart behind him. His dad's groan. The look on the bear's face. The dragging. The blood.
Grief slammed into him, hard and fast.
He dropped to his knees and clutched at the road, fingers digging into the cracks, breath stuttering from his lungs as the first sob ripped its way out of him.
"Be quiet," Gerald snapped, voice low and sharp like he was afraid anything louder might bring the bear back. He hunched forward, one hand clutching his ribs, his other braced against his thigh to keep himself upright. His face was tight—jaw locked, eyes wide with something too shaken to name.
Nicki's voice cracked. "What the fuck was that?" she shouted, voice breaking on every syllable. Her hands were shaking, her face flushed with panic and streaked with tears. "Why—why did it just take her?! Why did it attack like that?!"
"I don't…" Gerald staggered a step. "I don't know."
He didn't sound like her father right then. He sounded like someone lost in it—just like them.
Peter stood still, his arms limp at his sides, the wind moving through the trees but nothing really registering. His mind couldn't catch up. He could still see the bear's head turning. The way it had looked at them. The way his mom's legs had dragged through the dirt. The blood—so much of it—smeared across the pavement like paint.
"We need to get to town," Gerald said, straighter now, his voice forced into something that sounded like control. "Now. Let's go."
They walked.
No one said a word.
Gerald moved with a limp, one arm still wrapped around his ribs, the other hanging at his side. But it wasn't just the pain that slowed him—it was the way he kept staring ahead without seeing anything. His eyes were blank, like he was walking through fog. The man who usually had a plan for everything, who always knew what came next, looked completely lost. His steps were automatic, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Nicki was crying again.
Quiet at first. Then louder. Her hands were clenched in the straps of her pack, her shoulders shaking as sobs worked their way out in uneven bursts. "She was just—" she gasped, not finishing. She shook her head like she was trying to erase what she'd seen, but it kept coming back.
"She pushed me," she whispered, more to herself than to them. "She pushed me out of the way…"
Her voice cracked. Her pace stuttered. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, but the tears kept falling. Peter didn't think she even knew she was still walking.
And Peter—
He couldn't even speak.
His stomach twisted with every step. He felt like he was watching himself from the outside, like someone had taken over his body and just told it to keep going.
His feet hit the road. One after the other. The ground felt soft under him, almost detached from reality.
All he could see—over and over again—was his mom's body hanging from that bear's jaws. Her blood on the road. The trail into the trees.
He had done nothing.
Not a yell. Not a step.
Just stood there, frozen like an idiot. Or a coward.
His chest ached from the inside out. His jaw clenched until his teeth hurt.
He glanced at his dad—still looking ahead like he wasn't really there.
At Nicki—crumbling more with every mile.
And he hated himself.
Because deep down, he knew he'd never forget what he didn't do.