The night, outside the deceptive safety of the cabin, was a suffocating shroud of darkness. A thick, clinging fog had rolled in, mingling with the spray from the waterfall, making the air heavy and humid. Visibility was almost non-existent, the world beyond the cabin's windows reduced to a monochrome blur. But none of this fazed Maarg. For him, the only thing that truly mattered right now was to go out and find Gabby. The unsettling splashes from the water, the sudden silence, it gnawed at him.
He briefly considered waking Jack. Jack was strong, reliable, and always had his back. But the memory of the previous night's brutal fight, the sheer toll it had taken, flashed through his mind. Maarg had seen the deep cuts and bruises marring Jack's muscled frame, the way his friend had been favoring his left arm. Even if Jack tried to hide it, his raw pain was evident in every strained movement, every grimace. Maarg knew that Jack was in no shape to fight, not for a week or so, not after the battering he'd taken from Gunther and the toxic fumes he might had inhaled while the fight. Waking him would only put them both at greater risk, turning a potential rescue into a double casualty. No, this was on him.
It also wasn't that he didn't trust Henry. Far from it. Henry was a skilled marksman, an absolute necessity in this world. If not for his accurate shots from a distance, their group wouldn't have been able to run away from Charity, the intelligent zombie, on more than one occasion. Henry was invaluable when it came to long-range engagements, picking off targets before they could even get close. But that was precisely the problem. Henry was good from a range, not in close-proximity fights. He wasn't much useful for this situation, where stealth and quiet, hand-to-hand engagement might be necessary.
Moreover, the sound from his gun fires would almost certainly attract more unwanted attention, transforming a silent search into a potential ambush. Zombies weren't the only problem they had to face here in the wilds of Ontario. This world was also home to dangerous wild animals, cunning bandits who preyed on survivors, or whatever new abominations had begun to appear in the world, thanks to warped minds like Gunther's. A gunshot, no matter how accurate, was a beacon in the dark, screaming "here we are" to every threat within miles. No, this silent, solo reconnaissance, risky as it was, was the only viable option. This was on him.
Beyond Henry and Jack, there were Andy and Johan. Maarg wasn't too comfortable waking them, primarily because he knew almost nothing about them beyond their basic functions within the cohort. All he truly knew was that Johan was an easygoing, cheerful individual who served as the reliable driver for their cohort, navigating the treacherous, zombie-infested roads of what remained of Ontario with practiced ease. Andy was the electrician, a quiet but skilled man who could perform basic repairs to the truck with remarkable efficiency, often improvising solutions in a pinch. Both were like the perfect duo for a zombie apocalypse survival group: a driver to keep them moving and someone who could fix the vehicle when it inevitably broke down. Maarg didn't know if he was incredibly lucky to have found them, or if it was just fate playing a cruel joke, giving him competent strangers when he longed for familiar faces.
His anxiety about losing anyone else, coupled with the need for silence, solidified his decision. This was on him.
As he got closer to the waterfall, the air grew heavy with moisture, and the relentless roar of the falling water became a deafening shroud. The thick fog, coupled with the absolute darkness of the night, made it nearly impossible to clearly make out any details beyond a few feet in front of him. He was effectively blind, relying purely on his other senses. Though the full moon hung unseen behind the heavy cloud cover, its presence seemed to make the darkness feel even deeper, more profound.
He began to circle the body of water, his hand gripping the worn handle of his knife, ready. It was a humble weapon, barely more than a last resort. He had planned to turn it into a makeshift spear in the morning, lashing it to a sturdy branch, but the urgent situation had forced him to roam in the oppressive dark with just the short blade. Usually, this lack of proper weaponry would have been a significant problem, a cause for deep concern.
But Maarg also had his strange, unreliable ability, a secret weapon he could deploy in emergencies. He didn't exactly know how it worked, or the limits of its power, but he could instinctively increase either his strength or speed. The catch, a significant one, was the cost: it came at the expense of his stamina, leaving him utterly tired, nauseous, and with a throbbing headache. And there was another, far more unsettling side effect. When he used his ability, he also felt a great bloodlust, a burst of raw, primal adrenaline that surged through him. The longer he used it, the more the bloodlust grew, a chilling hunger that fought against his own consciousness. He also had a growing suspicion, an idea that had solidified in his mind over the past few days, that it had something to do with the multivitamins sent by his brother, Amar. Could it be that Amar, somehow, had some answers to what was happening to him, to the world? The thought was a strange flicker of hope in the overwhelming darkness.
As Maarg entertained these profound, unsettling thoughts, focusing on the subtle shifts in the damp air and the feel of the uneven ground beneath his feet, he heard it again. The unmistakable sound of water being disturbed, a clear, unnatural ripple that cut through the waterfall's roar. This time, it was close. Not too far at all.
His body tensed, every muscle coiling. He dropped into a low crouch, moving with an instinctive stealth born of weeks on the run. His senses sharpened, trying to pierce the fog and darkness. The water sound wasn't the steady rush of the falls; it was deliberate, rhythmic, like something moving with purpose. He held his breath, his eyes straining against the gloom, the grip on his knife tightening until his knuckles were white.
After what felt like an eternity of crouching and waiting, every nerve screaming with anticipation, Maarg slowly, meticulously, made his way towards the area from where he had heard the sound. He moved with a predator's caution, each foot placement deliberate, silent. The ground was slick with mist and damp leaves, but he navigated it effortlessly, his senses, though dulled by the darkness, guided him.
He was still in a low crouch, his eyes scanning every shadow, when he saw something. Lying on a smooth, flat stone near the very edge of the waterfall's basin, illuminated by a sudden, thin shaft of moonlight that had pierced through a momentary break in the clouds, was an object. It rested there, almost reverently, like something placed on a pedestal.
As much as Maarg didn't want to think about it in such absurd terms, it felt precisely like he had stumbled upon a secret treasure in a game, an unexpected, vital find.
The clouds had indeed let go of the moon, momentarily, aiding his vision with a pale, ethereal glow. But in that instant, Maarg wished it hadn't, because the object lying in front of him, gleaming coldly in the moonlight, was a gun.