The New Nightmare

John opened his eyes.

Darkness.

Not just the absence of light—but thick, suffocating darkness. And the smell… it hit him immediately. Rot. Wet decay. Like old clothes left to mildew, like something abandoned too long. It clung to his lungs.

He sat up slowly.

The room spun.

A dull dizziness pressed against his skull, like his body didn’t fully belong to him yet. He swallowed hard and steadied himself, breathing through it. That’s when he saw it—a thin line of light bleeding through the bottom of a door across the room.

He stood.

Barefoot.

The moment his foot touched the ground, his face tightened. The floor was damp… grimy… wrong. Every step felt like he was walking through something he didn’t want to think about.

He moved toward the door anyway.

Because staying wasn’t an option.

He grabbed the knob and twisted.

It resisted.

Not locked—just… stiff. Like it hadn’t been touched in years. He tightened his grip, jaw clenching, and forced it harder.

Nothing.

Frustration flared fast—too fast.

He yanked it again. Harder. Again.

Still nothing.

“Come on…” he muttered under his breath, his voice already edged with anger.

He stepped back and kicked the door.

The wood cracked.

A piece near the bottom splintered inward, light spilling through the break. He froze for half a second—then kicked again, higher this time.

The door gave way.

It didn’t open—it collapsed.

Rotten wood broke apart under the force, falling in jagged chunks as light poured into the room, exposing everything.

Rust.

Decay.

Everything was dead, dry, and falling apart.

John stepped through what was left of the doorway.

Stairs.

They led downward, toward more light.

He followed it.

Each step creaked under his weight. The wood bowed and cracked, and more than once his foot punched straight through, catching himself just in time. His breathing picked up—not from exertion, but from something deeper. Uneasy. Tight.

Wrong.

At the bottom, another door waited.

This one glowed with light—bright enough to leak through cracks along its edges.

He reached for the knob.

Turned.

Nothing.

Solid.

He tried again. Harder. Then harder still. His breathing sharpened, frustration rising faster than it should have.

“Open.”

He forced it again.

The knob snapped off in his hand.

He stared at it for half a second—then dropped it and shoved the door with his shoulder.

It exploded outward.

John stumbled through it and crashed onto the ground outside.

Light swallowed him.

Blinding.

He squinted, rolling onto his side, dragging in a breath like he’d been underwater. It took a moment before his vision adjusted enough to see.

And when it did—

Everything was ruined.

Metal structures eaten alive by rust. Furniture warped and broken, plastic melted and twisted, wood rotted down to nothing. It looked like time itself had been left here too long.

Dead.

All of it.

John pushed himself up slowly and stepped forward, drawn to the edge of what used to be a structure.

And then he saw it.

A desert.

Endless.

Empty.

Buildings in the distance looked torn apart—like something had peeled them open slowly. Metal beams jutted out like broken bones, jagged and exposed.

He knelt at the edge, staring out.

Confused.

Numb.

None of this made sense.

None of it mattered.

Movement.

Far below.

John blinked, focusing.

A figure.

Walking.

Slow. Steady.

He didn’t care at first. Couldn’t. His mind was too heavy, too detached to react the way it should.

But he kept watching.

The closer the figure got, the clearer it became.

A woman.

Blonde hair.

Something in his chest shifted—subtle at first, then sudden.

Violent.

Recognition hit him like a shock.

“Amy!”

His voice cracked as it tore out of him.

“Amy!”

Again. Louder. Desperate now.

She stopped.

Looked up.

Their eyes met.

And just like that—

She turned away.

And kept walking.

“No—no, no, no…”

Panic hit instantly.

Sharp. Crushing.

John spun and ran—back through the broken doorway, slamming into the frame as he forced his way inside. He hit the stairs at full speed, slipping, crashing, catching himself, barely staying upright as he tore his way down.

He didn’t feel the pain.

Didn’t care.

He burst toward the lower door and threw himself into it—

It didn’t move.

The impact sent him flying backward. He hit the ground hard, gasping, clutching his shoulder.

For a second… he just lay there.

Breathing.

Starring.

Then he forced himself up again.

Slow this time.

Controlled.

He grabbed the knob.

Turned.

It opened easily.

Light again.

But this time it didn’t feel warm.

It felt wrong.

John stepped out into the desert, eyes scanning frantically.

There—

Amy.

Further away now.

Walking straight toward something forming in the distance.

A storm.

A sandstorm.

It churned violently, dark and massive, swallowing the horizon.

“Amy!” he shouted, voice breaking.

She stopped.

For a moment—

Hope.

Then she turned… and walked straight into it.

“No!”

John ran.

Hard.

His legs burned almost instantly, his lungs tightening, but he didn’t slow down. Couldn’t. Every step felt like he was losing her more.

The wind picked up.

Sand hit his skin—sharp, stinging.

Then harder.

Faster.

It felt like needles now.

But he kept going.

“I’m coming!” he screamed, though his voice was already being torn apart by the wind.

The storm swallowed him.

Visibility dropped to nothing.

Pain exploded across his body as sand tore into his skin. He raised an arm to shield his face, but it didn’t help. He couldn’t see. Could barely breathe.

But he kept running.

He had to find her.

Had to—

His lungs burned.

Air wouldn’t come.

His body screamed at him to stop.

He didn’t.

Tears streamed down his face, instantly mixed with sand and grit.

“Amy!” he forced out one last time, emptying everything he had left.

His voice disappeared into the storm.

And still—

He ran.

John woke with a violent gasp—ripping himself out of the nightmare.

For a second, he didn’t know where he was.

His chest heaved. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. His hands trembled as he gripped the arms of the chair, trying to steady himself, trying to breathe.

Then it came back to him.

The office.

Again.

Papers were scattered across the floor—knocked loose in his panic. Books lay open, some bent, some face down, like they’d been abandoned mid-thought. He stared at the mess for a moment… then looked away.

He didn’t care.

He had been sleeping in here a lot.

Too much.

The thought of being around people—talking, pretending, answering questions—was more than he could take most days. Everything they had seen… everything they had done…

And Amy.

He swallowed hard.

He wanted to be alone.

He needed to be alone.

John stood slowly, his back tightening as he stretched it out. Sleeping in the chair had done him no favors. The room smelled—stale, heavy. Like sweat, like stress, like something left too long without care.

Like him.

He hadn’t showered in three days.

He hadn’t really seen anyone either. Not properly. Not even Aaron.

Two weeks.

That’s how long it had been since they lost her. Two weeks since they made it back to the safe house. Two weeks to process everything—and it hadn’t even scratched the surface.