Chapter 3 (Joshua’s POV)

  I stumbled out onto the busy street, half-blinded by midday sunlight reflecting off skyscraper windows. The sudden burst of color and noise hit me like a slap; my last memory of sunlight was filtered through smoke and decay, not city haze and glass towers. My heart pounded, expecting the moans of roamers at any second, anticipating that sick stench of rot. But there wasn’t any. Just honking horns, rumbling engines, and the sour tang of exhaust in the air.

  I realized, in a dizzy flash, that I was missing one shoe. My foot dragged across the sidewalk, the concrete scraping painfully against my dirty sock. When had I lost it? Probably in that final frantic sprint… or maybe the Key’s reality-warping undid half my outfit. My clothes were torn, the left sleeve nearly shredded, a rancid mix of old blood and grime dried into the fibers. People craned their necks to stare at me, some with mild shock, others with undisguised disgust.

  “Yo, buddy! Nice costume,” someone shouted from a bus stop bench, followed by snickers. Another voice called out, “Homeless dude?” and I heard a few catcalls that I couldn’t quite parse through the clamor of idling cars. My skin crawled; it felt like stepping onto a stage I’d never auditioned for, bright lights turned on me, exposing every wound and stain.

  Without thinking, I scanned the area—old habits from the apocalypse realm refusing to die. My gaze darted from face to face, from doorways to alley corners. Nobody looked half-eaten or mindless. No broken figures lurching for my throat. And yet my adrenaline wouldn’t settle; everything felt like it should be a threat.

  I edged along the sidewalk, hugging the building fronts, ignoring the stares. The city’s overwhelming presence—car horns, neon signs flickering, vendors hawking food—throbbed in my temples. I had to get home or somewhere safe. My foot throbbed from the missing shoe, but I pushed on, one stumbling step after another.

  The stench of my clothes felt obvious—like a thick cloud trailing me. Even in this swirl of traffic fumes and sweaty crowds, I caught whiffs of dried gore and stale fear clinging to my skin. Every time I passed someone, they wrinkled their nose or shot me a disgusted glance. A few snickered behind their hands. I muttered apologies under my breath, mind still half in that other world.

  Sucking in a steadying breath, I checked my pocket. The wad of bills was still there, hot from my body heat, crunchy with dried filth. I grimaced and huddled behind a bus shelter, trying to compose myself. With shaky fingers, I pulled it out, counting quickly. My breath hitched; as I suspected, it was all real, though reduced from the original sum. I mouthed numbers: “One… two… five… okay… that’s… six thousand five hundred.” My voice shook, relief tangled with anxiety. The 10% penalty. The weird cosmic note that cleared part of my debt. It all flooded back.

  “Hey man, you gonna spare a dollar or something?” a raspy voice cut into my thoughts. I looked up to see a middle-aged guy in a ragged coat squinting at me. His eyes flicked to the fat roll of cash in my hand, then widened. I must have looked insane to him, half-limping, wearing filthy rags, brandishing a small fortune.

  “N-no,” I stammered, tucking the wad hastily back into my pocket. “Sorry, I… I gotta go.”

  He scowled but shrugged, stepping back to the bus shelter. I winced, forcing the money deeper into my torn pants. People lined up for the next bus, some glancing warily at me. I half-expected one of them to call a cop. Or maybe they didn’t care—it’s a big city. People see weird stuff all the time.

  I needed a bus too, though. The cottage I moved into—the old place I’d inherited—was miles away, and I couldn’t exactly hail a cab looking like a horror show. My mind still reeled from the roamer fights, from the Key’s abrupt shift. I had to keep telling myself: No roamers here. No empire goons. Just normal people. But that sense of threat refused to leave.

  Struggling to maintain composure, I joined the queue, doing my best to keep a few feet of distance so the stench of apocalypse wouldn’t assault everyone. A few parted to let me through, muttering rude things under their breath—something about “freak,” “junkie,” “smells like a sewer.” My cheeks burned, but I kept my head down. This was almost as humiliating as dealing with Brenda’s stapler rants, but at least nobody pointed a gun at me.

  When the bus arrived, I fished around for pocket change, only to remember everything I had was in big, sticky bills. “Crap…” I muttered. The driver eyed me with suspicion, possibly debating if I was worth the trouble. Someone behind me in line huffed impatiently.

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  A wave of raw desperation crashed over me. “Look,” I said softly, “I’ll just… pay more than the fare.” My trembling hand pulled out a single hundred from the roll, ignoring the blackish smudge on one corner. The driver’s eyebrows arched, but he snatched it quickly, not bothering to question. Probably figured any big tip was worth the hassle. He gestured for me to find a seat, rummaging for change with a scowl.

  The bus interior reeked of sweat, cheap deodorant, stale coffee—but it was infinitely better than the reek of the dead. I sank into a plastic seat, ignoring the way people turned their heads to stare. My foot ached from the missing shoe, sock already wearing thin on the rough bus flooring. But I breathed out a sigh, letting the lurch of the vehicle calm me. No roamers. No ferals. Just a bus.

  I tried to recall how many stops until I’d reach the outskirts near the cottage. Ten… maybe twelve? My sense of time and distance was scrambled, the events in that other realm overshadowing everything. My nerves stayed on high alert, scanning each passenger for rotting flesh or vacant eyes. But all I found were bored expressions, a half-asleep college kid, a mom with a fussy toddler, a couple of businesspeople tapping frantically at their phones.

  At the third stop, catcallers outside shouted something about my clothes. “Yo, Dead Man, you lose a fight with a dumpster?” They burst into laughter as the bus door hissed shut again. I hunched lower, cheeks burning, gripping the seat with white knuckles.

  My mind kept drifting to the Key. That swirl of fractals. Anna’s silhouette in the gloom. She had saved me, or tried to. And I’d left her in a city of corpses. My chest tightened, and I forced a long exhale, pressing my sweaty hands to my face. Focus on now.

  I fidgeted with the wad of cash again, making sure it was still there. Counting it was the only thing that anchored me to the moment. Six thousand five hundred. Enough to kill my debt, maybe find a new start. That is, if the rest of the world believed my story. No, they wouldn’t. I couldn’t say a thing about roamers or copper doors without sounding insane.

  The bus jarred to a halt at another stop, more people filtering on, pressing me against the window. Someone muttered an insult about my smell, but I couldn’t help that. My clothes were stiff with dried gore. I need a shower. Then new clothes. Then… maybe a meal that doesn’t taste like desperation. My stomach twisted at the realization I was starving. So many days in that other realm had left me half-famished.

  I counted the stops carefully, forcing each breath to come slow and measured. My foot throbbed with each lurch of the bus, but relief fluttered in me as we finally approached the outlying neighborhood where the cottage lay. Not exactly prime real estate, but at least it was mine now—where I had a roof, a locked door, some semblance of safety.

  Eventually, the bus slowed in a quieter district, letting me off near a stretch of older homes. I stumbled out, ignoring the driver’s sour glance as he thrust some crumpled change into my hand. “Kid, you need a doctor or something,” he muttered, eyes flicking over my ragged form. I murmured a feeble thanks, mind already racing.

  The street felt almost unchanged—sidewalks patched with mismatched cement, leaning fences, overgrown lawns. A wave of bizarre comfort washed over me. At least it’s not the apocalypse.

  But my nerves remained raw, scanning every shadow for roamers. Each flicker of movement caught my eye—a feral cat or a piece of trash in the breeze—and set my heart pounding. “Calm down,” I told myself. “Not that world, not here.”

  God, I hoped not.

  I limped along the cracked sidewalk until the cottage came into view. A sagging porch, chipped paint, windows that hadn’t seen a decent cleaning in years. One corner of the roof leaned ominously, but it held. The yard was nothing but a patch of weeds, dotted with stray debris. I remembered how I’d found it after my father’s will was read—never much, but it was mine. And the place I’d stepped through that cursed door in the basement.

  My foot throbbed with every step up the warped porch. I braced myself for some confrontation with reality, half-convinced I might see roamers inside or open the door to another realm. But the battered wood responded with normal creaks. No moans, no cosmic fractals.

  Clutching my money roll in shaky fingers, I counted again: six thousand five hundred. The Gate or Key or whatever had robbed me of the rest, but it still felt like a small fortune. Enough to handle my past debts—if the Gate’s weird message rang true. Enough to start fresh—if I could keep it together.

  The front door groaned when I unlocked it, the stale scent of old wood and dust rolling over me. Inside was exactly as I’d left it—musty furniture, peeling wallpaper, an overall sense of gloom. No roamer waited to lunge. No rotting body. Just… my father’s neglected inheritance.

  I pushed the door shut behind me, turning the lock with trembling fingers. Then I slumped against it, every muscle giving out in relief. I was home—if this rundown cottage could be called that. But at least it was safer than the undead city, safer than the uncertain stares on the bus.

  My eyes slid closed, a swirl of guilt and uncertainty gnawing at me. Anna was trapped in that nightmare. I exhaled shakily, clutching the cash roll as if it could anchor me to this moment. I survived. I made it back.

  My reflection in a dusty mirror revealed torn clothes, filth-caked hair, a haunted look. I shuddered. Shower, new clothes, food… then figure out the rest.