The first thing he saw was the smoke.
Alvin Delos Santos froze at the edge of a dried creek bed, crouched low, one hand gripping his old bolt-action rifle. Smoke, thick and black, rose above the treetops like a signal flare. It twisted in the wind, drifting eastward.
He felt it in his gut before he confirmed it with his eyes.
"Luntian," he muttered.
His pace quickened.
For the past two weeks, Alvin had been tracking a small deer herd through the hills, camping in the wilderness while avoiding the main roads. He'd survived the early days of the outbreak by trusting his instincts—and by not getting involved.
Now, something told him he should've come back sooner.
He reached the treeline overlooking Barangay Luntian about an hour before sunset.
What he found made his stomach twist.
The village was gone.
