Jack's pulse pounded in his ears as he scanned the forest for any sign of movement. The figure had vanished into the shadows, but he could still feel its presence, lingering just out of sight. He took a slow, cautious step forward, his spear held tightly in his trembling hands. The snow beneath his feet crunched, the only sound in the vast, frozen wilderness.
Then, a deep grunt echoed through the trees. Jack spun around, his breath catching in his throat. Less than twenty feet away, a man—or what looked like a man—stepped into the dim morning light. His thick furs blended into the snow-covered surroundings, his powerful frame towering over Jack. His face was rugged, his brow heavy, his deep-set eyes filled with something unreadable—curiosity, caution, perhaps even suspicion.
Jack swallowed hard, forcing himself to remain still. He had spent days fearing that he was alone in this world, but now, as he stood face to face with another human—or something close to it—he wasn't sure which was more terrifying.
The man grunted again, his head tilting slightly as he studied Jack. Then, to Jack's surprise, he lifted his hands, palms facing outward. A universal sign of peace.
Jack hesitated, then slowly mirrored the gesture, raising his hands to show he carried no threat. He saw the man's eyes flicker to his crude spear, and Jack quickly lowered it, placing the tip in the snow. He needed to show that he wasn't a danger. That he wasn't an enemy.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then, with deliberate slowness, the man turned his head and let out a low, guttural call. Jack stiffened as more figures emerged from the trees—two, then three, then five. All of them were clad in thick furs, their faces rough and weathered by the elements. Some carried spears, others simple stone tools. A woman among them clutched a bundle wrapped in animal hide—an infant.
Jack felt his breath hitch. This wasn't just a lone survivor. This was a tribe.
One of the men, slightly older and more imposing than the others, stepped forward. His eyes locked onto Jack's with an intensity that made his stomach churn. He said something in a deep, unfamiliar language, his tone carrying both authority and a hint of challenge. Jack had no way of understanding the words, but the meaning was clear.
Who are you?
Jack licked his dry lips, searching for a way to communicate. He pointed to himself and slowly said, "Jack."
The group exchanged glances, murmuring amongst themselves. Then the older man pointed at his chest. "Garrak."
Jack exhaled, feeling a small sliver of relief. A name. It was a start.
But before he could attempt anything else, one of the younger men let out a low growl, his grip tightening on his spear. He didn't trust Jack. That much was clear.
Garrak barked something in his language, and the young man fell silent, though his gaze remained sharp and suspicious. Jack knew he was on thin ice—one wrong move, and they might decide he wasn't worth the risk.
Summoning his courage, Jack slowly reached into his furs and pulled out a piece of dried bison meat he had saved from the night before. He extended it toward Garrak, an offering.
Garrak studied him for a long moment before taking the meat and sniffing it cautiously. Then, to Jack's surprise, the older man nodded approvingly and tore off a piece with his teeth. He chewed slowly, then handed the rest to the woman holding the child.
Jack let out a slow breath. A small gesture, but it seemed to have worked.
Garrak motioned for Jack to follow, then turned and began walking toward the trees. The others followed, watching Jack closely. He hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, leaving the safety of his camp behind.
He had found others.
Now, he had to prove he belonged.