Chapter 25 Two Years Before
2 years before Penny
It’s been forty-seven hours.
The air feels heavier now — damp, cold, full of that smell of wet earth that clings to everything. The six of us have stopped talking hours ago, our words replaced by the steady crunch of boots in the mud and the sound of someone’s breathing always being too loud.
We’re one team. Six men. But half of us — me, Cooper, and Vance — got lucky. We’ve had food, water, a few hours of sleep, and extra layers. The other half — Carter, Finch, and Morales — got nothing but a trickle of water and the same clothes they started in.
At first, it was fine. We shared a little. I gave Finch my spare undershirt, Cooper split his protein bar six ways, and Vance let Carter borrow his gloves overnight. It made us feel decent — like we were still human.
But now, forty-seven hours in, that thin line between human and feral is starting to blur.
The three unfed guys are pale and shaky. Finch keeps rubbing his hands together even though he’s already red-raw. Carter’s eyes are bloodshot, flicking around like he’s trying to fight the air itself. Morales just drags his boots, muttering under his breath.
When the terrain flattens, I stop and lift a hand. “We should rest a minute,” I say, keeping my voice even. “You three need to breathe. Me, Coop, and Vance’ll look ahead — try to find something to eat, maybe berries or a stream.”
It’s calm. Reasonable.
But Carter’s head snaps up like a whip. “Oh, how generous,” he says, voice cracked from thirst. “You three full-bellied heroes get to go on a stroll while we sit here and starve?”
“Hey,” I start, but he’s already laughing — a bitter, hollow sound that doesn’t sound like him anymore.
Finch tries to steady him. “Carter, come on, man. He’s trying to help.”
But Carter’s shaking his head hard now. “Help? You think this is helping? You’ve still got food in your pack, don’t you? You’ve still got layers, still sleeping like kings while we freeze our asses off!”
I exchange a look with Cooper — the kind that says don’t escalate this.
“Carter,” I say quietly, “we shared everything we could. You know that.”
“Yeah,” he snaps, “you shared the scraps.”
The silence after that feels thick. No birds, no wind — just the kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound like a drum.
Then Carter’s hand moves — too fast. He grabs his rifle and holds it tight, not aiming it, but holding it the way you hold something when you don’t trust yourself to let go.
My stomach drops.
“Put it down,” I say, voice steady but low.
He barks a humorless laugh. “Relax. It’s not loaded.”
“That’s not the point,” I reply, taking a slow step forward. “You’re not thinking straight.”
Finch takes a half-step closer, too, his voice careful. “Man, you’re gonna regret this. Just breathe, okay?”
Carter’s chest is heaving, his face twisted in something between anger and despair. “You think you’d be any better off?” he says, his tone breaking. “You think because you got the lucky half, you’d still be you if you were on our side?”
He looks me dead in the eyes, and for the first time, I don’t see a teammate — I see someone teetering on the edge.
“You don’t know what you’d do,” he says, quieter now, “until you’re starving.”
Then he drops the rifle. It lands in the mud with a dull thud, the sound cutting through the tension like a gunshot would’ve.
No one moves for a few seconds. Cooper exhales, shoulders slumping. Finch steps forward and crouches next to Carter, putting a hand on his arm.
“You’re done,” Finch murmurs. “Sit down before you fall down.”
Carter sinks to the ground, eyes glassy, chest still rising too fast.
I stare at the trees ahead, jaw tight. My stomach turns — not from hunger, but guilt.
Because deep down, I know he’s right. I don’t know what I’d do if I were in his place.
And that’s the real test, isn’t it?
Not how long you can go without sleep or food —
but how long you can go without losing yourself.
I drop my pack onto the ground with a heavy thud and sit beside it. My whole body aches — not from hunger or cold, but from the kind of exhaustion that builds behind your eyes when you’re holding too much in.
Without saying a word, I pull open the straps and empty everything out onto the dirt. A few loose wrappers, some thread from the lining, a half-empty canteen. No food. No hidden stash. Just the scraps of what’s already been shared.
Carter’s eyes flick to it, wary and trembling. Finch glances between us, looking ashamed for even thinking we might’ve kept something back. Morales doesn’t even lift his head — he’s slumped against a tree, barely conscious.
“See?” I say quietly. My voice is rough, but steady. “There’s nothing left. No tricks. No bullshit.”
Cooper and Vance follow my lead, their packs hitting the ground beside mine. They empty them too — the same story: nothing but empty space and a few drops of water.
I meet Carter’s eyes again, holding his gaze until he stops fidgeting.
“We’re a team,” I say. “That means if one of us starves, we all do. If one of us breaks, we all break.”
For a second, no one says anything. The forest hums around us — bugs, wind, the sound of someone’s stomach twisting itself into knots.
“I know you’re hungry,” I add, softer this time. “I know you’re past hungry. But we’ll find something. You just have to hold on a little longer. You need to hang on to whatever shred of humanity you’ve still got, because if you lose that—” I shake my head. “—then there’s nothing we can do for you.”
Carter’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart from my pack to Cooper’s, then back to me. The tension drains out of him a little — his shoulders drop, the rifle still on the ground between us like it’s something foreign now.
He nods once. Then again.
Finch exhales, a shaky breath that almost sounds like relief. “Alright,” he says quietly. “Alright.”
Morales doesn’t respond. He’s already half-asleep against the tree, his lips parted, chest rising slow.
I look to Cooper and Vance, jerking my chin toward the trees.
“Let’s go,” I whisper. “Before it gets worse.”
They both nod. We move quietly, methodically — checking gear, refilling canteens, keeping an eye on the fading light. I glance back one last time before we disappear into the treeline.
Carter’s staring at the ground, hands clasped, head bowed like he’s praying for something he doesn’t believe in anymore.
And for a moment, I wonder if we’ll even recognize each other when this is over.