The logging road stretched ahead like a scar through dead timber. Dana kept her rifle ready, eyes scanning the tree line.
The path hadn't been maintained in years—frost-cracked asphalt gave way to gravel, then dirt. Patches of ice made footing treacherous.
She moved carefully, testing each step. The silence felt wrong.
No birds, no small game rustling through the underbrush. Even the wind had died to nothing.
Dana reached the first checkpoint—a rusted pickup truck collapsed on its axles. She'd stripped it clean months ago: battery acid for traps, copper wire for snares, steel plates for reinforcing the farmhouse door.
Now it served as a landmark, marking the halfway point to her scavenging grounds.
She crouched beside the truck's tailgate and listened. Nothing.
The road curved ahead, disappearing into a stand of dead pines. Dana had memorized every twist, every pothole.
Today, something felt different. The air tasted metallic, like blood or old pennies.
She found the first sign fifty yards past the truck.
A boot print in soft mud, half-filled with ice. Recent—maybe two days old.
The tread pattern was military surplus, common enough among survivors. But the depth of the impression told a story. Someone heavy. Someone carrying gear.
Dana knelt beside the print, studying the edges. The left side was deeper than the right.
A limp, or uneven weight distribution. Injured, maybe. Or favoring one side to carry something.
She looked ahead. More prints, spaced evenly along the road's edge.
Someone walking carefully, staying off the main path but following its direction.
Following it toward her orchard.
Dana's throat tightened. She traced the trail with her eyes, counting impressions. At least a dozen clear marks, maybe more where the ground was too hard to hold them.
The prints stopped at a fallen log twenty yards ahead. Dana approached slowly, rifle raised.
Behind the log, the earth was disturbed—scuffed and trampled. Someone had crouched here for a while. Watching.
Dark stains spotted the dead leaves. Dana touched one with her finger. The substance flaked away, rust-colored. Blood.
Old blood. Days old, maybe a week.
Dana's pulse quickened. She followed the blood trail with her eyes, tracing its path through the trees.
It led north. Toward the orchard's eastern perimeter.
Toward where she'd found Luca.
The pieces fell together like puzzle fragments finding their edges. Someone had been watching her place before the boy arrived.
Someone injured, bleeding, waiting. Had they seen her daily routines? Mapped her defenses?
Dana checked the position of the sun. Past noon already.
She needed to reset the perimeter traps before dark, but this changed everything. If someone had been conducting surveillance, they knew about her wire alarms, her shooting lanes, maybe even the cellar.
She turned back toward the orchard, moving faster now. The logging road felt exposed, every shadow a potential threat.
Behind her, the blood trail pointed like an accusation.