June 29, 2023
Dear Journal,
We found the ranger station.
But it's not what we hoped.
The morning started with a strange stillness. Not the usual hush of fear or exhaustion—this was different. The air felt thick, like the forest itself was holding its breath. Even the insects had gone quiet. It put all of us on edge.
Naomi led the way again, retracing the route I'd mapped in my head from yesterday's lookout. We pushed through thick underbrush and navigated steep trails, the terrain growing rockier the closer we got to the hilltop. Around noon, we emerged from the trees and saw it clearly:
A squat wooden structure, mostly intact. Windows boarded, door hanging slightly ajar. The roof sagged on one end, and moss had overtaken half the outer wall. But it stood.
Our pace quickened, cautious but eager.
Naomi raised her hand to stop us just a few yards from the clearing. "We do this slow," she said. "Watch for tripwires, traps, anyone watching."
Marcus and I flanked the perimeter while Naomi and Nora circled from behind. The baby had gone limp in Nora's arms again—no crying, no movement, just that low-grade fever that clung to her like fog. She needs real medicine, soon.
We didn't find any traps. No signs of recent human activity—no footprints, no smoke, no fresh disturbances.
But something still felt… wrong.
We approached the front door slowly. Marcus pushed it open with the butt of his rifle. It creaked loud enough to make all of us flinch.
Inside was darkness.
And the smell.
Rot. Dampness. And something sweet beneath it all—faint but unmistakable. Decay.
We waited a few beats, listening.
Then Naomi stepped inside.
The floorboards groaned under our weight, but held. Light filtered in through the slats of the boarded-up windows. Dust floated in the air like falling ash. The front room had been used as a command center once—maps lined the walls, most of them water-stained and peeling. A desk lay overturned, and someone had scrawled STAY OUT on the wall in what looked like dried mud.
Or maybe blood.
We searched the main room first. Found empty drawers, cracked glass, a broken radio that crackled static but nothing more. No batteries. No signal.
Then we moved to the back.
That's where we found them.
Two bodies.
One in a corner, seated against the wall. The other lying halfway across the floor like he'd been crawling toward the door. Both long dead. One had a bullet hole in his temple. The other—slashed across the stomach, intestines spilled and mummified. A knife still clutched in his hand.
We don't know their names. No ID. Just uniforms—ranger gear, long faded.
Marcus covered the bodies while Naomi rifled through their packs. We didn't find much—an old flare gun with one charge, a half-used bottle of iodine, and a sealed emergency ration pack. We split it for lunch. Cold, tasteless, but it was something.
The second floor was mostly storage. Supplies scattered everywhere—mildewed tents, damp clothing, broken flashlights. But tucked away behind an overturned filing cabinet, Naomi found a first-aid kit still sealed in plastic.
It had fever reducers. For the baby.
Nora cried when we handed it to her.
That moment alone made the trip worth it.
We spent the rest of the day clearing the building. Blocking off entrances. Making it as safe as possible.
Naomi climbed to the roof and used the flare gun just once—straight into the air. A signal. Not just for us, but for anyone. It was a risk, but maybe worth it.
"If there's anyone decent out there," she said, "maybe they'll come. If not… we'll know soon enough."
Tonight, we're sleeping inside real walls.
It feels strange, having a ceiling again.
But also… heavier. As if this place remembers what happened here and doesn't want to forget.
We don't plan to stay long. Just a few days. Rest. Regroup. Heal.
Then we move again.
But for the first time in weeks, I feel the tiniest flicker of something I don't quite recognize anymore.
Not hope. Not yet.
Maybe possibility.
Yours in cautious relief,
J.K.