Elsie, Start of the Outbreak

The early morning sun barely creeps over the horizon as I stir from my sleep. The stillness of the San Juan Mountains envelops my tent, a sanctuary between the rugged peaks. Being a guide, this is my time, my brief pause between the trails led and paths yet to be discovered.

The chill of the pre-dawn hour seeps through my tent. I lay there for a moment, nestled in my sleeping bag, the weight of solitude pressing close. It's a feeling I've come to respect. The isolation of the mountains keeps my head clear.

I sit up, stretching, the remnants of dreams slipping away. Today, I need to make tracks to the camping store. It's time to resupply, touch base with civilization, and find a hiker or two needing a guide. I've always thrived in these quiet moments, anticipating the day's possibilities and stirring a familiar excitement within me.

Sliding out of my tent, I'm greeted by the serene murmur of the river nearby, its waters a constant companion on this low mountain where I've made my temporary home. The sky is a canvas of soft blues and pinks, the sun just a promise on the horizon. The scent of pine needles, rich and earthy, fills the air, and the gentle rustle of leaves whispers secrets of the forest. I gather kindling, the crackle of the fire soon joining the river's song. The smoke makes its ancient dance, curling upward, an offering to the dawn and a practical repellant to the early mosquitoes that buzz hungrily in the cool air.

Nature is alive around me, a symphony of the wild that never ceases. Birds begin their morning calls, each chirping a note in the day's beginning melody. The grass, wet with dew, brushes against my ankles, and the trees stand tall and grand, their branches reaching toward the brightening sky. It's a clear day, the kind where the blue seems to go on forever, where the sun promises warmth to banish the night's chill.

I head to the stream, the cold water a welcome friend. I fill my pot with practiced motions, setting it over the fire to heat. As it heats, I strip down, readying myself for a quick wash. In these moments, alone in the wilderness, I genuinely see the changes in my body. The years of hiking, climbing, and guiding through these mountains have molded me, with muscle built upon muscle, highlighting my chosen life.

I pour the warm water over my skin, watching it cascade down the defined lines of my arms and legs. My reflection in the water shows a strength I take pride in, a visible sign of the countless trails conquered and the many more to come. I know the people in my tribe notice—the men and women alike. I choose to remain single, to walk these paths alone for now. It's not a decision of loneliness but of independence, a choice to embrace the solitude that shapes me just as much as the mountains.

After drying off, I quickly dress, choosing practicality over style, though I have to admit, I like how my long black hair looks when I tie it back into braids. It's about function, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate the form.

Breakfast is nothing fancy. Just my usual mix of oats with some dried fruit I found last season and a sprinkle of nuts. It fills me up and gets me ready. Gotta stay energized. Can't guide on an empty stomach.

The walk from my camp to Bob's camping store is something I can do with my eyes closed, but I never would. It's about a mile – just enough to let my thoughts wander. My path starts by the river, where the cold water runs loud and clear. As I leave the river, the noise fades into the background, replaced by my boots on the dirt.

The trail is lined with pines, and the ground is padded with years of their shed needles. It's easy walking. The trees here are like old friends; they've seen me grow. As the forest thins out, the path widens into a dirt road that leads into town. It's nothing much – just a few shops, the one restaurant where everyone goes for a burger, and a handful of houses scattered around. It's quiet and always has been, which is why the roar of jet fighters overhead catches me off guard. They're out of place here, slicing through the sky with their engines screaming. I stop and squint at them, wondering what they're doing this far out.

Just as their noise fades, a gunshot cracks in the distance. It's not hunting season, and that sound has no business here this time of year. I pick up my pace, the unease growing in my gut. Something's off, but I can't put my finger on it. I need to get to Bob's, grab what I need, and return to the quiet of the mountains.

I get to Bob's camping store just after the clock nudges past noon. It's a cozy nook hidden among the towering pines, a place that calls out to hikers and adventurers with its promise of stories and supplies. Once I step inside, I'm surrounded by shelves packed tight with everything a traveler could need, from maps and matches to meals that just need water and jackets to ward off the mountain chill. The scent of wood mixed with a touch of wax fills the air, and this underlying note of pine reminds me of the vast wilderness just a step away.

That's when I see a dark line smeared across the floor. My heart does a weird flip. Is that blood?

"Bob?" I call out. My voice sounds too loud in the quiet, bouncing around like it's looking for somewhere to hide. Bob's the heart of this place and always has a story or spare gear for anyone who needs it.

I spot him on the floor, crumpled against a shelf. But as he twists around to face me, every alarm bell in my head starts ringing. This guy looking at me can't be Bob. His eyes are all wrong, like when the lake freezes and gets that cloudy look. And his skin... it's too white like he's made of snow.

Bob rose from the floor, all six feet of him. A large, horrifying gouge marred his cheek, revealing a raw, blackened flesh beneath. As he turned to face me, a guttural moan escaped his lips, filling the store. It was a chilling, soul-shaking sound that confirmed my worst fears. This was no longer Bob, the friendly store owner I knew. This was something else entirely, something monstrous. His movements were stiff and unnatural, as if every step was a battle against his body. He reached out with both hands and stumbled around the counter, his lips curling into a snarl.

"Bob, stop!" The words tumble out of me as he gets up, all jerky like a puppet with someone yanking on the strings. I'm moving before I think, ducking down an aisle, my brain screaming at me to run and hide.

That's when it hit me. The virus

Just two days back, I was up in the mountains with a group, and they were talking about some virus, something out of a movie where people go crazy and turn into... well, into what's in front of me now. Stuff like that doesn't happen here, not in our small slice of the world. But seeing Bob... it became a reality all too quickly.

As Bob lunges at me, his massive form sends one of the shelves crashing down. My heart's pounding like crazy as I dart around the store, and it hits me – I didn't bring a weapon. Who thinks they'll need one for a quick trip to the camping store?

Bob's growl pierces the silence, a primal sound that sends shivers down my spine. As I try to dodge him, my foot catches, and the world tilts—a crashing sound, metal and plastic colliding. Then, I'm on the floor, pinned with something on my back, the cold and hard pressing me down. Boxes fall around me, one striking my shoulder hard. I struggle to move under the weight of all that holds me, squirming to find a way out.

Bob's twisted face comes into view through the slats of the shelving, his hands finding gaps, reaching, clawing with a hunger that turns my blood to ice. The wood creaks and groans under him. His breath, foul and hot, washes over my face. He wants to kill me. I have known this man for years, and he's been transformed into a creature that wants to kill me.

I twist and turn, desperate to escape the confines of my cage, but the shelving won't yield. His fingers brush my face; the touch is so wrong it fuels my panic. I can feel the splinters digging into my skin, the sharp jabs as I push against the wooden pieces, fighting for every inch of space between us. The structure shudders, ready to collapse, and with a surge of fear-driven strength, I prepare to make my move, knowing it might be my last chance.

Panic turns into adrenaline. I pull my legs up, pressing my feet against a more stable part of the shelving, and with everything I've got, I push and yell, "No!" The shelf gives way, sending Bob stumbling back just enough.

I scramble to my feet and dash to the other side of the store, my eyes catching on a few hatchets mounted on the wall. I grab two without thinking, spinning around just as Bob charges again. "I'm sorry, Bob," I whisper right before I swing the hatchets with all my strength, feeling them connect with a sickening thud on either side of his head. He collapses, and for a moment, all is quiet except for the sound of my heavy breathing and the ringing in my ears.

I stand there for a moment, staring down at Bob's lifeless body. Part of me wants to collapse right there on the floor, to let the grief and shock wash over me. Bob was more than just a store owner; he was a part of this community, a part of my world. But there's no time for mourning, not now. With a heavy heart, I force myself to turn away to focus on what needs to be done.

Dragging my feet, I make my way to the other side of the store, my hands shaking as I reach for the radio. I flip it on, the static crackling before settling on a broadcast already in progress. "...the United States and many other countries of the world are now in quarantine as the Zeta virus has reached critical mass," the broadcaster's voice cuts through the silence, heavy with a gravity that roots me to the spot. Quarantine. Critical mass. The words echo in my head.

As I step back into the daylight, I leave the radio on, its drone a grim soundtrack. My mind races. I need to check in with my tribe, with Uncle Jimmy, with my cousin. I need information, anything I can get about this virus. It's time to gather my supplies to prepare for what's coming. Survival isn't a job anymore.

Continue to Part 2