Grub kept moving northwest. He did not rush. He never rushed anymore. The forest punished impatience, and his body punished it even faster. Instead, he settled into a steady pace that matched the limits of his injuries — he moved slow enough that his leg would hold, and careful enough that his ribs would not flare up and become a nuisance. It was extremely inconvenient but something he had to deal with.

  The bundle on his shoulder shifted slightly with each step, but he had packed it well. The cooked meat sat wrapped in cloth near the top, and the journal pressed flat against the inside where it wouldn’t bend. His club rested easily in his right hand, angled downward so it wouldn’t snag vines or branches when he moved.

  The forest changed gradually around him. Near the ridge the growth had been tangled and chaotic, as though everything competed for space. Here the trees grew taller and more evenly spaced. Their trunks rose straight upward before branching high overhead, forming a canopy thick enough that the sunlight broke into scattered beams instead of broad patches. The air smelled different. It had the smell of bark and dry leaves. It felt older somehow. Less disturbed by lif.

  Grub noticed it without slowing. He noticed everything. The ground held fewer stones now, replaced by compact soil that gave slightly under his weight. Fern-like plants grew in scattered patches, their fronds brushing softly against his boots when he passed. Thin roots crisscrossed the surface like veins, forcing him to place each step carefully to keep from stumbling.

  Every few dozen steps he stopped. Not because he was tired — though he was — but because he had to make sure nothing was following him. He listened first. Then he moved again. The forest carried sound strangely. Small noises traveled far. Large ones sometimes vanished completely. He had learned quickly that survival depended on hearing what came before danger.

  Once he heard something leap between branches overhead and froze until the movement passed. Another time he thought he heard breathing and waited nearly a full minute before deciding it was only wind shifting through layered leaves.

  Each pause sharpened his awareness. Each step followed only after he understood what surrounded him.

  The dried ridge meat tasted worse the farther he got from the ridge. The saltiness had faded, leaving only a tough fibrous chew that stuck in his teeth. Still, he forced himself to eat small pieces as he walked. Despite the blatantly unsavory taste he had to finish this tough meat before digging into the fresh meat he had caught. Though the thought of the new type of meat he hadn’t tried yet made his mouth water.

  He tore off another strip of the flavorless jerky and chewed slowly, swallowing without enjoyment. The taste brought back memories he didn’t want — the smell of smoke, the noise of voices, Wrighty laughing too loud, Gravel shouting orders like survival could be commanded. Those things felt distant already. Like they belonged to someone else. How strange—he thought it had only been a few days.

  Grub wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and continued forward. After a time the forest floor began to change.

  It happened gradually enough that he almost missed it. The random disturbances of animal movement — scattered scratches, uneven pressure, broken stems — began to shift into something else.

  Grub slowed automatically. Ahead of him, the soil showed faint compression that ran in a narrow line between clusters of plants. It wasn’t deep or obvious. But it repeated numerous times He crouched and examined the ground carefully. Several plants bent in the same direction. The stems had folded instead of snapping — a sign of steady passage rather than sudden movement. He brushed aside a thin layer of leaves and uncovered darker soil beneath. It was compressed and compacted. It wasn’t recently enough to still be soft, but recent enough to remain visible.

  It could mean multiple passes. Grub’s eyes narrowed slightly. He shifted his weight carefully and searched for clearer signs. It took nearly a full minute before he found one. A partial impression near the edge of a root. Another boot tread. This one was faint. The ridged outer pattern matched the one he had seen near the stream. This one seemed a little older though. The edges had begun to crumble where the soil dried. Grub studied the spacing between them and estimated stride length. Definitely longer than his own. Whatever made this was possibly simply taller than him. He brushed leaves aside in widening circles, revealing additional disturbances that confirmed the pattern. Not one traveler. There had to be several. Different signs. Each spread apart from each other. But all towards the same direction. Northwest.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Grub straightened slowly and scanned the forest around him. Nothing moved. The canopy shifted gently overhead. Insects droned in uneven pulses. He remained still for a full ten seconds before moving again. Then he pulled out his journal and flipped to a blank space. The pressed-leaf pages rustled softly in the quiet air.

  Multiple travelers possible. Same direction. Older than the prints at the stream.

  He paused, thinking. Then added:

  Organized movement likely.

  The word felt heavy. Organizing meant planning and if you could plan, then you had to be at least somewhat intelligent. He closed the journal and slid it back into his coat.

  The forest no longer felt empty. Grub resumed walking. His movements were a lot more careful. The signs appeared more often as he progressed. A scuffed root where something hard had struck it. Then a patch of soil where stones had been kicked aside. A broken fern flattened long enough to have begun drying in place.

  None of it was obvious alone. But together they formed a pattern. Someone moved through these woods regularly. Late in the afternoon he found something that made him stop completely. At first he thought it was just another fallen branch. Then he realized it stood upright.

  A stick leaned against the base of a tree trunk at a shallow angle. It was placed there like some sort of marker. Grub approached cautiously. The stick was long and stripped smooth along one side. The bark had been shaved away with something sharp, leaving exposed wood that had dulled slightly with time. It was far too clean for teeth. And much too straight for an accident.

  He did not touch it immediately. Instead he circled slowly, examining the surrounding ground. No fresh tracks. No disturbed soil. Only older compression marks fading into the forest floor. Finally he reached out and pressed a fingertip lightly against the wood. It was completely dry. Probably not recent. But it was deliberate. He stepped back and studied its angle carefully. It pointed slightly northwest. The same direction as the tracks. Someone knew these woods well enough to leave signs behind.

  Grub’s breathing remained steady. But his thoughts sharpened. Markers, they made a marker—so this must be some sort of route.

  All routes had a destination and destinations meant people. He turned his head slowly and listened again. Wind moved through the canopy in slow waves. Insects buzzed unevenly. A distant branch creaked. Nothing else. He scratched a small mark low on a nearby trunk — angled and shallow, one only he would recognize — then stepped past the marker and continued on. The forest grew darker as the day wore on.

  The canopy thickened overhead, blocking more light with each passing hour. The air cooled slightly and carried the faint smell of damp wood and moss. The ground sloped unevenly, forcing him to slow further as exposed roots twisted across his path. His leg trembled once. He stopped immediately and leaned against a tree until the shaking passed.

  No rushing.

  Eventually he found a place suitable enough for the night. A fallen trunk lay split along its length, its hollow interior raised slightly above the ground by supporting roots. The opening faced downslope, giving him a narrow view through scattered brush. It wasn’t comfortable but not too bad.

  He cleared only what he needed, moving leaves aside carefully and making sure not to expose bare soil. Then he settled into position. The last light drained slowly from the forest. Gold faded into gray. Gray into blue. Blue into black.

  The jungle changed voices again as darkness deepened. Something called in the distance — low and resonant. The night here were dangerous. Back in the original village he had heard rumors that people would go missing when the darkness covered the land.

  Grub rested the club across his lap and watched the darkness beyond the brush. Somewhere ahead, people walked these woods. He didn’t know who they were.

  He didn’t know if they were dangerous. He didn’t know if they were even human.

  But they were real. He knew—he knew this meant something. Whether it was friend or foe he didn’t know. But they were there. They could have the answers he seeks. And every step northwest brought him closer.

  Grub leaned back slightly against the rough wood and stared through the narrow gap in leaves where a few unfamiliar stars showed faintly overhead. He would move again in the morning.