The sign at the edge of town still welcomed people in peeling blue paint, but nobody really came, and nobody ever stayed. Oregon rain soaked everything evenly—trees, asphalt, people—until it all shared the same dull color. Caleb fit right in.

His dad died when he was nine. Heart attack in the driveway, keys still in his hand. After that, things collapsed quietly. No dramatic fights, no screaming matches worth remembering—just a slow rot. His mother drank and disappeared into herself. His little brother, Eli, learned how to stay small. Caleb left at eighteen, not because he wanted freedom, but because staying felt like drowning with the windows shut.

He never got far.

He rented a one-bedroom apartment above a pawn shop. Worked nights at a run-down gas station on Highway 22, where the coffee tasted burnt no matter how fresh it was and the flickering fluorescent lights buzzed like they were dying. Customers were rare—truckers, lost tourists, the occasional local buying beer and scratch-offs. Caleb learned to speak in short sentences. Learned that expectations only hurt when you let them grow.

His face always looked tired. Permanent shadows under his eyes, like sleep had given up on him years ago. He didn’t dream anymore. Just closed his eyes and waited for morning.

The day it happened started like nothing.

Fog rolled in thick and low, swallowing the road beyond twenty feet. The kind of fog Oregon perfected—quiet, heavy, patient. Caleb stood behind the counter scrolling on his phone, thumb moving out of habit more than interest. No service, again. He didn’t think much of it. Cell reception had always been bad out here.

The radio crackled with static. He smacked it once, then twice. Nothing.

Outside, the gas pumps stood empty. No cars. No headlights cutting through the fog. Caleb frowned, checked the time. 6:42 p.m. Rush hour should’ve brought at least someone. He told himself it was weather. Told himself it was a slow night.

That was when he noticed the silence.

Not just the lack of cars—everything. No birds. No distant hum of traffic. Even the wind seemed to have paused, like the world was holding its breath. The fluorescent lights flickered harder, and for a second he wondered if the power was about to go out.

He stepped outside, hoodie pulled tight, boots crunching softly on gravel. The fog clung to his skin, damp and cold. He squinted down the highway.

Something moved.

At first, he thought it was just a trick of the mist. Then he heard it—a wet, dragging sound. Footsteps that didn’t keep a rhythm.

A figure emerged from the fog, slow and unsteady. Then another. And another.

Caleb’s stomach tightened, eyes narrowing in confusion. They didn’t walk right. Heads tilted wrong. Arms hung loose like they’d forgotten how to use them. One stumbled and didn’t bother to catch itself, hitting the ground with a dull thud before pulling itself back up.

“Hey,” Caleb called, voice flat. “Station’s closed.”

None of them reacted.

Then he saw the blood.

Dark stains soaked into torn clothes. Skin looked gray, almost waxy. One of them lifted its head and stared straight at him with eyes that didn’t blink. Didn’t focus. Just looked.

Caleb backed up slowly.

The radio inside suddenly burst to life in a scream of overlapping voices—panicked, fragmented.

“…emergency broadcast—” “…do not engage—” “…major population centers—” “…nationwide—”

His phone vibrated violently in his hand. Missed alerts stacked on the screen like a dam breaking all at once. News headlines he hadn’t seen before flooded in, timestamped hours ago. Then days.

STATE OF EMERGENCY DECLARED MASS CASUALTIES REPORTED UNEXPLAINED OUTBREAK SPREADING RAPIDLY

Caleb stared at the screen, numb as ever, except now the numbness felt earned.

He looked back up.

The figures were closer.

Somewhere, far too late, it hit him: Whatever had ended the world hadn’t arrived with explosions or sirens out here. It had come quietly, like everything else in his life. Slipped in while he was working another pointless shift, waiting for nothing.

Well, shit.