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.
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—a towering figure with a hardened expression—crossed 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.