Chapter 5 (Joshua’s POV)

  I slept like the dead. No pun intended.

  After the brutal shower and the haphazard sandwich, my body just shut down. Despite the grime and clutter surrounding me, my limbs weighed a thousand pounds. I dragged an old blanket out of the closet—torn at one corner, musty with neglect—and collapsed onto the sagging couch, not even bothering to switch off the single overhead light. Anxiety still churned in my gut, but exhaustion smothered it swiftly.

  I don’t even remember my head hitting the cushion. One moment, I blinked against the flicker of the ceiling bulb. The next, I drifted into unconsciousness, mind swirling with half-formed images of roamer-infested streets and swirling copper fractals. Yet nothing fully coherent came—just a muddy dreamscape that felt equal parts terrifying and distant.

  When I finally woke again, the sun’s angle had shifted. Pale afternoon light filtered in through the dirty windows, illuminating dancing motes of dust. I sat up, heart thumping in momentary disorientation, sweat dampening my brow. For a split second, I half-expected to see a roamer clambering through the window or Anna standing guard with her bat. But no—just my father’s old living room, with mismatched furniture and piles of random junk. My breath eased out in a shaky sigh.

  I checked my watch—an old digital piece I’d taken off before showering. 2:30 PM. I hadn’t realized I’d dozed for that many hours. My stomach grumbled with renewed insistence, reminding me that the single sandwich earlier hardly quenched my hunger. But I had a plan.

  First bullet point: Deep cleaning the cottage.

  I hated the filth that lingered in every corner, especially after glimpsing the absolute chaos of that other realm. If I couldn’t maintain a sense of order here, how would I ever truly escape the nightmare lurking in my memories?

  Rummaging through a hall closet, I found old cleaning supplies: half a bottle of bleach, some generic all-purpose cleaner, a mop with fraying strands, and a couple of moldy rags. I wrinkled my nose, determined to make the best of it. Grabbing a trash bag, I started in the living room.

  Stacks of outdated magazines and newspapers spilled across the coffee table and corners. I tossed them into the bag without mercy, ignoring any faint pangs that I might be discarding “keepsakes” from my father’s era. Old fast-food wrappers, plastic cups, random receipts—all trash. The thick stench of mold and stale air kicked up as I shifted piles around, forcing me to crack a window. The breeze drifting in felt crisp, though it also carried a faint outside city tang.

  Next, I moved to the kitchen, ignoring my gnawing hunger. The counters were… well, a war zone. Sticky stains from who-knows-when, a thick layer of dust, a random crusted plate teetering near the sink. I set a pot to boil water—my father’s water heater likely had questionable pressure for cleaning. Using a mixture of hot water, bleach, and cleaner, I scrubbed the counters so hard my knuckles went white. The cloth turned black with every pass.

  A wave of grim satisfaction hit me each time a section of countertop emerged from the filth, revealing old, yellowish laminate underneath. Not pretty, but far better than the post-apocalyptic vibe it had. I lost track of time in the scrubbing, wiping, rinsing. My arms ached with the effort, my shirt clinging to my back with sweat. But the nasty residue gradually sloughed away, replaced by a passable surface.

  I tackled the fridge next, half-expecting to find a colony of sentient mold. Thankfully, it was mostly empty, aside from a couple of half-rotten items. I ditched them in another bag, nearly gagging at the sour smell. Then, I sprayed down the interior, wiping it until the plastic looked just slightly less sad. At least the fridge ran cold—some minor mercy.

  Finally, I headed to the bathroom I’d used the night before. A swirling tide of dried gore had left a ring around the tub, courtesy of my scrub session. Grimacing, I poured more bleach and water, scrubbing the porcelain until my arms threatened mutiny. The drain gurgled ominously but eventually cleared. If I’d had the money or the time, I might call a plumber. Then again, with six thousand five hundred on hand, maybe I could. Some day soon, but not right now. I settled for making it sanitary enough to endure another shower if needed.

  By the time I dumped the final bucket of murky water down the drain, sweat dripped from my forehead, and every muscle screamed. I took a look at my watch—3:00 PM. Perfect timing for the next item: Muay Thai gym. My second bullet point. Or… well, third or fourth, but who’s counting?

  My stomach rumbled loudly. “Alright, okay,” I grunted, rummaging in the freshly wiped fridge. I snagged a bottle of water, draining half in one go, and forced down a granola bar from my father’s old stash. It tasted stale, but it would keep me going. I didn’t want to be late.

  Time to face the world again—sans apocalypse. I changed into what I could: a pair of ill-fitting sweatpants and the only clean T-shirt I’d discovered rummaging in a closet. My heart pounded with a mix of excitement and dread. I had done a bit of martial arts in college, but Muay Thai? That might be new territory. Still, if I wanted to stay alive—mentally and physically—I needed this.

  Lacing up a battered pair of sneakers I’d unearthed from a shoe rack, I stepped outside, locking the cottage door behind me. The bright afternoon sun bathed the quiet neighborhood in warm light. The slight breeze felt alien on my freshly showered skin, carrying distant city hum rather than undead moans. I rolled my shoulders, ignoring the faint twinge from bruises and cuts. With cautious steps, I navigated the cracked sidewalks, heading toward the address I remembered from a flyer I’d once glimpsed: “Iron Elbows Muay Thai.” About eight blocks away, give or take.

  The walk felt surreal—everything so… normal. Houses, some more rundown than others, yards with overgrown grass, a few people out walking dogs or chatting on porches. My pulse twitched each time someone moved too quickly in my peripheral vision, but they just were normal folks. A wave of embarrassment flushed through me, thinking of how I must look, scrawny and bandaged in places, awkward as hell.

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  Eventually, I spotted a small strip mall near the corner of a busier street. A faded sign above the door read “Iron Elbows Muay Thai” in chipped lettering, the glass front plastered with various martial arts posters. Through the windows, I caught a glimpse of a matted training floor, a heavy bag or two. My heart sped up—both nervous and excited. This is real.

  I stepped inside. The smell of sweat and disinfectant hit me instantly, reminiscent of old gym locker rooms. A few fighters in shorts and gloves stood near a heavy bag, practicing knee strikes and elbows with rhythmic thumps. The front desk area had a battered laptop, a battered ring bell, and a scuffed bench. A broad-shouldered man wearing a tank top sat behind the desk, flipping through a clipboard. He looked up as I approached, mild surprise crossing his features.

  “Hey,” I began, voice cracking. I cleared my throat. “I’m, uh, interested in Muay Thai classes?”

  He raised an eyebrow, taking in my disheveled, tired appearance. “We got a beginner class on Monday, Wednesday, Friday. I’m Marco, head coach. You have any experience?”

  My mouth went dry. “Some martial arts back in college, but that was a while ago,” I admitted, scanning the gym. White fluorescent lights glared off the padded floors, and the muffled whap, whap of gloves on pads punctuated the tension. “I… I really want to get in shape fast.”

  Marco nodded slowly, setting his clipboard aside. “Well, Muay Thai isn’t just about ‘shape.’ It’s technique, discipline. You sure you’re up for it?” His gaze flicked over the faint bruises on my arms and the battered sneakers.

  I forced a small smile, ignoring the swirl of nerves. “I need to do something. I—had a rough patch. I want to learn how to protect myself. And… get stronger.” That last word quivered with more meaning than I intended, memories of that undead city flickering in my head.

  He regarded me for a moment, then sighed. “Alright. We can do a trial. Cost is eighty bucks a month for unlimited classes, but if you’re not sure, we do a drop-in fee.” He rattled off some details about gear: gloves, shin guards, mouthguard. “We got some loaner gear you can use. When do you want to start?”

  I swallowed, heart fluttering with relief. “Today, if possible. I know the next class might not be until tonight or tomorrow, but—”

  Marco shrugged, gesturing over his shoulder. “We got open gym right now. I can put you through some basics, show you stance, a few strikes, see if you’re serious. That cool?”

  “Yeah,” I said quickly, ignoring the pinch of worry about more physical exertion on my battered body. “I’m ready.”

  He smirked. “Great. Fill out a quick waiver,”—he shoved a wrinkled paper across the desk—“then get changed if you want. There’s a locker room at the back. We’ll do a quick warm-up and see how you handle the basics.”

  I signed my name on the form, hands shaking slightly from adrenaline. The lines about “risk of injury or death” made my stomach churn, but I forced myself to sign. After everything else I’d been through, this was hardly the scariest place.

  Once done, I stepped into the dingy locker room—a cramped space with battered wooden benches and graffiti tagging the walls. The reek of stale sweat assaulted me again. Another wave of relief flooded me—normal sweat, not the stench of rotting flesh. I didn’t have proper workout clothes, so I just took off my T-shirt, folded it up, and stowed it under a bench. My sweatpants would have to do, though they weren’t ideal for kicking. My chest bore faint bruises, and I caught a glimpse of the shimmering mark on my back in a small mirror. I grimaced, hoping nobody asked questions.

  Returning to the front, Marco waved me over to the matted area, rummaging in a bin for some well-worn gloves. He handed me a pair of black, scuffed 14oz gloves, plus shin guards that smelled like year-old cheese. I tried not to gag, strapping them on with shaky fingers. The fighters near the heavy bags cast curious glances, but mostly left me alone.

  “All right,” Marco said, leading me to a free spot. “We’ll start with footwork. Muay Thai stance—narrower than, say, a boxing stance, but you want that front foot light for checks. Keep your guard high. Show me what you got.”

  I tried, adjusting my feet as best as memory served. He corrected me, tapping the inside of my ankle to get me to pivot. My bruised arms whined as I raised them to cover my face. We went through basic jabs, crosses, front teep kicks, checking posture in a mirrored wall. My thighs burned quickly, muscles still reeling from the cleaning spree. But a fierce determination pushed me on.

  After about twenty minutes, sweat poured down my back, and my breath came in ragged gasps. Marco nodded, occasionally stepping in to physically adjust my elbow or foot. He showed me how to rotate my hips for stronger kicks, how to keep my guard up. My mind whirled with details, but I latched on to each, craving the sense of control. I messed up half the combos, but every small correction felt like progress—like building a barrier between me and the helplessness I’d felt in that other world.

  Eventually, Marco stepped back. “Not bad for day one. You’re clearly exhausted though, and I see you’re favoring that left foot. You sure you’re good?”

  I nodded, panting. “I… can handle it,” I insisted, though my calf threatened to seize. “Need this.”

  He gave me a measuring look, then snorted softly. “All right. Just don’t kill yourself. Here—throw combos on the bag for five minutes, light to moderate power. Focus on form. Then we’ll call it a day.”

  My arms trembled as I turned toward a heavy bag, battered tape flaking off its surface. I settled into the stance he’d shown me, exhaled, and began a rhythm of jabs, crosses, low kicks. Each impact jolted my battered body, sending shards of mild pain up my side. But with each blow, my mind flashed to ferals and roamers. My determination hardened. The Key might have left me physically in the same shape, but emotionally? I wanted to be stronger.

  When the five minutes ended, I was drenched, arms feeling like wet noodles. Marco clapped me on the shoulder. “Good enough for day one. I can’t say you have a ton of natural talent, but if you show up consistently, you’ll improve.”

  I offered a shaky smile. “I’ll be back. Promise.”

  We chatted briefly about membership fees and class times, me trying not to cringe at the cost. Still, with the roll of bills stashed at home, I could afford it for now. I promised to return the next day for a beginner group class, ignoring the ache in every limb.

  Finally, I peeled off the borrowed gear, my skin crawling from the unholy stench inside those shin guards. Setting them aside for disinfecting, I waved a thanks to Marco. He just nodded, already turning to help another student.

  As I stepped out onto the street, the late-afternoon sun hit me full in the face. A pleasant breeze cooled my sweat-slick skin. I glanced at my watch—nearly 4:30 PM. The day slipped away, but for the first time in what felt like ages, I felt a shred of normalcy: routine, improvement, a sense that I could shape my future rather than just survive it.

  “Next up,” I muttered to myself, a tired grin forming. “Groceries. Maybe clothes.” My bullet points loomed in my mind. But for a moment, I stood there, letting the city’s non-apocalyptic life swirl around me, savoring the victory of just… existing without fear of the undead.

  Yes, I hurt all over, and the memory of that World haunted me. But I’d cleaned my cottage, started Muay Thai, and begun forging a path toward something better. That was more than I could say about the last four years of my life. If Anna could see me—well, hopefully she’d see I wasn’t completely hopeless. A pang of guilt tugged at me again, but I shoved it aside, focusing on the present.

  Tomorrow… tomorrow I’d handle the rest. Or at least try