Chapter 6 (Anna’s POV)

  I stared at that battered door for an entire day and a night, half-expecting—half-hoping—it might do something. That he might do something, maybe come stumbling back through like a dazed rookie who suddenly realized he’d made a mistake. But it never budged. By dawn, all I had to show for my vigil were stiff limbs, a throbbing head, and a stomach that felt like it wanted to consume itself.

  Hunger gnawed me hollow. With no sleep, no food, I was a fuse on the verge of burning out—exhaustion creeping through my veins, making every blink an effort. The city wouldn’t let me rest easy. Not with roamers, scavengers, and God-knows-what else roving the streets. I couldn’t risk staying in the same spot much longer; eventually, something big or someone mean would sniff me out.

  So as the faint light of dawn crept over the skeletal skyline, I forced myself to move. My back ached from huddling behind a half-broken shelf in the rubble of this building. When I finally stood, a wave of dizziness nearly took me off my feet. My stomach twisted, a loud gurgle echoing in the silence. If I didn’t eat soon, if I didn’t find water, I would collapse—prey to the next predator or just my own failing body.

  “Alright,” I whispered, voice rasping through cracked lips. “He’s not coming back. Time to find… something.”

  Flies buzzed around a corner of the room where a roamer’s carcass had lain. I ignored them, ignoring too the pang in my chest that I kept pushing down. Anna, you idiot—he’s gone. Another day here is suicide. With a deep breath, I checked my battered bat, rubbed at a sore spot under my ribs, then slipped into the corridor, mind churning for where I could scavenge next.

  The building I’d squatted in overlooked the door. It had once been an office complex—desks, conference rooms, all gutted now. I descended cracked stairs, each step sending dull shocks up my legs. My mouth felt sticky, parched. The dryness in my throat almost burned, and each breath carried a stale, sour stench. The smell of fear and emptiness.

  At the exit, I inched aside a broken panel that served as a makeshift barrier, peering into the street. The early morning sun cast long shadows, the horizon tinted orange and pink, a deceitful beauty overlaying a city of rot. Nothing stirred but drifting dust.

  I hurried across the open stretch of rubble-strewn asphalt, hugging broken-down vehicles and half-collapsed walls. The door—just a battered hunk of metal in the plaza behind me—lingered in my peripheral vision. Part of me wanted to glance back, but I fought the urge. No time for ghosts.

  Every step drained me a little more, my knees quivering, lungs tight. The gnaw in my belly felt sharper now that I’d started moving. If I kept going like this, I’d pass out. I’d become an easy meal for roamers or a target for the Empire’s scouts. My eyes scanned the surrounding buildings for anything that might house a vending machine, leftover canned goods, maybe a half-collapsed water tank.

  An ugly voice in the back of my head whispered I could scrounge from a corpse if I found one with a bag. But that was a gamble—others probably stripped bodies ages ago.

  I remembered a small corner store a few blocks away. I’d visited it a few times, always slim pickings, but it was my best bet. The city loomed in distorted ruin around me, hollow windows like vacant eyes. My pace lagged, forced to stop every few minutes and lean on my bat for support. A faint headache pulsed behind my eyes.

  Finally, I reached the corner store. The facade had caved in long ago, leaving the interior exposed to the elements. My throat tightened. If there had been anything left, others would have raided it. But I had no choice.

  Stepping through twisted metal that used to be a doorframe, I scanned the gloom. Dust motes hung in the shafts of light. Broken shelves and shattered glass littered the floor, the faint odor of mold tickling my nostrils. I picked my way through the debris, each footstep stirring stale air. My heart sank at the sight: the shelves were mostly bare, packaging torn open or rotted away. But maybe in the back…

  I nudged aside a toppled shelf, rummaging through what might have been a storage area. My arm brushed a sticky puddle that smelled rancid. Ugh. My stomach lurched. No luck here—just worm-eaten cardboard and an explosion of old seasoning packets. A single can of… something might still exist. I checked corners, shifting debris with my bat. Nothing but crumbling plastic bags and scattered vermin droppings.

  “Damn it,” I hissed, the hopelessness heavy in my chest. A wave of dizziness threatened to topple me. I clutched the edge of a broken counter, breathing shallowly through parted lips.

  My mind flitted to the possibility of water—any puddle or pipe. But the city’s infrastructure had gone to hell. The best bet might be those half-intact buildings that still had rooftops collecting rain. Yet climbing floors in my state? Risky.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  I left the store, stumbling back onto the street. The sun had climbed higher, bathing everything in sharper light that made my eyes ache. I needed shelter, needed to rest, needed food. The next building over was an office tower, maybe had a lounge or break room I hadn’t fully raided yet. Or it could be another skeleton picked clean.

  With leaden steps, I made my way there. Each block I crossed felt like a mile, the scorching pavement reflecting searing heat into my face. A swirl of dust parted to reveal a glimpse of a battered sign on the building’s front: “Cunningham & Associates.” Never heard of them, but I didn’t care about the name—just the possibility of a fridge or vending machine inside.

  The lobby doors were jammed, glass spiderwebbed with cracks. I pried them open with the tip of my bat. Inside, the air felt stale and thick, like no one had breathed it in years. A toppled metal detector lay across the floor—maybe they’d had tight security once. Now it was rusted and useless.

  I inched past broken furniture, scanning for any sign of roamers. The place was eerily silent, except for a faint drip of water somewhere deeper inside—that made my pulse jump. Could there be a leak or reservoir I can drink from? My lips cracked a grin.

  Moving quietly, I followed the drip, weaving around cubicle partitions that had collapsed into each other. Papers and old memos littered the floor, smears of dried gore marking a few spots—someone had died here long ago. My heart thundered. If there were roamers, they might be lying in wait behind any corner.

  At last, I reached what looked like a small staff lounge. A battered fridge stood against one wall, half-blocked by a toppled filing cabinet. The drip echoed from the far side, near a sink with a missing faucet handle. Water or some fluid puddled around the pipes, suspiciously dark. I approached carefully, bat raised, stomach roiling with need.

  The floor was slick, the water—if it was water—unappealingly murky. Possibly mixed with decades of rust or old pipe residue. But I didn’t have the luxury to be picky. Kneeling, I dipped a finger in. The color was off, reeking faintly of metal. Might be better than nothing. I eyed it warily, then parted my lips to taste a tiny drop. The bitterness made me gag, but it wasn’t quite putrid. Probably not lethal.

  I cupped my hands, swallowing a few mouthfuls. Not exactly refreshing, but it soothed the dryness in my throat enough that I didn’t feel like I’d pass out. My stomach fluttered with slight nausea, but I forced it down. Could be a gamble, but dying of thirst was guaranteed if I found nothing else.

  Next, the fridge. My arms trembled as I wrested the filing cabinet aside, metal scraping the linoleum floor. The fridge door hung halfway open; the smell of mold wafted out. I grimaced, hand over my nose, and pulled the door wide. Of course, the interior reeked. Disintegrated lumps—once food—lay in a tray, fuzzy with grayish mold. I gagged, eyes watering. But something on the lower shelf caught my eye—a sealed plastic container, maybe untouched?

  I fished it out carefully, ignoring the slop that squished around the rest of the shelf. The lid was cracked but still on tight. Through the milky plastic, I could see lumps of something… maybe old protein bars or dehydrated fruit? Hard to tell. My heart hammered. Please don’t be rotten. Easing the lid off, I sniffed—an earthy, stale smell, but not purely rotten. They looked like lumps of dried fruit or vegetable chips. My stomach rumbled so loud I was sure the undead could hear it.

  Swallowing my disgust, I popped a chunk into my mouth, bracing for bitterness. It tasted like dust and old cardboard, but edible. Probably rancid in a normal sense, but still something that might keep me going. “Better than starving,” I muttered around a mouthful, forcing it down with a shudder. Then another piece, trying not to think about possible mold spores. Survival didn’t leave many options.

  Once I’d had a few bites, I tucked the container under my arm. I’d need the rest for later. The faint energy from the questionable water and dried lumps made my vision a little less dark at the edges. Enough to keep searching. If I was lucky, maybe I’d find more. But luck rarely lasted here.

  My knees still shook, but at least the hunger pangs dulled to a manageable throb. I exited the lounge, scanning the office floors with my bat held ready. Time was never on my side. The city had a way of punishing lingering.

  Sure enough, a distant moan rose from somewhere on the second floor. My pulse leaped, adrenaline flooding my veins. Roamers. Or something else. I wasn’t about to wait around. I hurried back to the lobby, each step echoing in the hollow corridors, but I didn’t care. My battered body craved rest, but not at the cost of an ambush.

  Bursting out onto the street again, I squinted at the bright sky. The day seemed too warm, the roads too silent. I needed a safer location to rest, maybe a building with a vantage point or an old safe house some of my fellow scavengers had used once. But mostly, I needed to keep walking, find a corner or rooftop to hole up in until I could muster the energy to push on again.

  I glanced over my shoulder, letting my gaze linger on that damned plaza in the distance—where the door had been. He’s not coming back. Face it. A fresh ache twisted in my chest, but I swallowed it down. The memory of him flickering away still stung, but regrets wouldn’t fill my belly or quench my thirst.

  “Move, Anna. Survive,” I told myself, turning resolutely toward the next block.

  My bat bumped against my thigh, each subtle clang a reminder of the roamer skulls I’d crushed and the fights I’d endured. My body screamed for me to slow, but the apocalypse wouldn’t listen. So I limped onward, hugging the shadows of leaning buildings, ignoring the trembling in my limbs.

  This was my reality. The city devoured the weak. If I wanted to live another day, I had to hunt down my next meal, or a place to rest, or more water that wasn’t laced with whatever filth lay in old pipes. Step by step, I moved farther from that battered door, my mind flickering with annoyance and longing all at once