Day 21 - 22: The Bridge

Day 21-The Bridge

Jackson crouched behind an overturned truck, scanning the bridge ahead. The rusted steel frame stretched across the river like a skeleton, its bones picked clean by time and fire. Cars clogged the lanes, their windows shattered, doors left open in a desperate last escape.

And in the middle of it all, bodies.

Some were fresh—newly turned, their skin still clinging to the illusion of life. Others were old, dried husks that had long since stopped moving.

He wasn’t alone here.

He could hear them—shuffling feet, the occasional gurgle of something that no longer needed to breathe. The infected wandered aimlessly between the wreckage, their movements sluggish in the cold morning air.

Jackson adjusted his grip on the baseball bat. He had two choices: fight his way through or find another route.

Neither option was good.

But the thought of turning back, of sitting alone in that radio station until the batteries ran dry… No. He had to keep moving.

With a slow breath, he stepped onto the bridge.

Day 21 - The First Kill

The first one didn’t notice him. It was hunched over a corpse, gnawing on what used to be a man’s arm. The wet sound of chewing filled the silence.

Jackson moved carefully, heart pounding in his throat.

Just as he was about to pass, his foot caught on a piece of broken glass. A sharp crunch split the air.

The thing’s head snapped up.

For a moment, they locked eyes—his filled with fear, its filled with nothing.

Then it lunged.

Jackson swung.

The bat connected with a sickening crack, and the creature crumpled to the ground, twitching. But it wasn’t dead. Its fingers clawed at the pavement, trying to drag itself toward him.

He brought the bat down again. And again.

By the time he stopped, his arms were shaking. His breath came in ragged gasps.

It was the first time he had killed something that had once been human.

He wished it would be the last.

It wouldn’t be.

Day 21 - The Gunshot

He was halfway across when he heard it.

A gunshot.

Not far—maybe the other side of the bridge.

Then another. And another.

Someone was fighting.

Jackson ducked behind a rusted sedan, peering through the broken windshield. He could see flashes of movement near the exit of the bridge—figures darting between cars, muzzle flashes lighting up the wreckage.

Survivors.

But not just survivors.

He heard shouting—angry, desperate voices. And then, a scream.

Not the infected.

People.

Jackson’s grip tightened on the bat.

He was walking straight into something dangerous.

Day 21 - The Wrong Kind of People

The gunfire had stopped by the time he reached the other side.

Jackson moved carefully, his breath shallow. He stepped over bodies—some infected, some not. Bullet casings littered the ground. A few fires still smoldered in the wreckage.

Then he saw them.

Three men stood near a burned-out truck, rifles slung over their shoulders. Their clothes were ragged, faces smeared with dirt and blood.

Bandits.

Jackson had seen people like them before—desperate men who had given up on saving the world and decided to carve out their own. They took what they wanted. Killed who they wanted.

And right now, they were dragging someone from the wreckage.

A girl.

She was young—maybe sixteen. Her wrists were bound with rope, her face streaked with tears and grime. She kicked and thrashed, but the men only laughed.

Jackson felt his blood turn to ice.

He could turn back.

He could pretend he never saw this.

He could walk away and live.

But instead, he reached for the revolver at his hip.

And stepped forward.

Day 21 - The First Shot

His hands were steady.

“Let her go.”

The words rang out, clear and strong.

The men turned, their laughter fading. One of them—a burly man with a thick beard—sneered. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Jackson cocked the revolver. “Your last mistake.”