Chapter 13 (Joshua’s POV)

  I stepped away from the corpse of that feral with my stomach still churning, pushing the gruesome image to the back of my mind. A damp wind rasped across the decaying corporate plaza, carrying the steady buzz of flies that seemed to accompany every dead thing in this realm. My eyes flicked from one wrecked structure to another, scanning for any flicker of movement, any hint that Anna might have passed through here. An abandoned store sign jutted precariously from the twisted metal scaffolding of what was once the lobby entrance, its lettering scorched and unreadable. I’d guess it was some relic of a chain coffee shop or a tech firm—impossible to tell now.

  Clutching the war hammer in one hand, short sword strapped along my back, I edged further into the desolation. Shadows stretched at skewed angles under the overcast sky, giving everything a bruised, grim cast. The faint hiss of unsettled rubble or a piece of rebar scraping in the wind kept my nerves on a knife’s edge. The stench of stale dust and mold clung to the cracked pavement, every breath tasting faintly metallic.

  I’d hoped—naively—that I might spot some trace of Anna: a footprint, maybe a bit of charred cloth or a sign she’d scrawled. But the battered storefronts and shattered walkways yielded only rubbish and dried gore. If she had ever walked this way, the city’s shifting wreckage must have swallowed any evidence. Each corner I rounded, each wrecked hallway I peered into, turned up nothing but jagged debris and the lingering echoes of apocalypse.

  A dull ache of disappointment gnawed at me. Two weeks back in my world, and here I was, returned to a realm that seemed determined to prove no one survived for long unless they had a fierce, unbroken will. If Anna’s out here, she’s definitely… I tried not to finish that thought, letting the churn of my stomach speak for itself.

  The wind shifted, funneling between two half-collapsed skyscrapers, carrying a piercing whistle that made the steel beams overhead groan. A swirl of dust and soggy flyers skittered over my boots. My eyes drifted to a rusted car husk, gutted and warped by old fires, half-buried in chunks of collapsed concrete. The car’s interior looked like a tomb—charred seat frames, the rest eaten away by time and the elements.

  Suddenly, an odd squeaking noise rose from near the car’s trunk. I stilled, every hair on my neck prickling. My war hammer felt almost too heavy in my hand, tension flooding my veins. The squeak came again—a wet, high-pitched sound, followed by a faint scuttling. Roamer? I froze, scanning the gloom. No sign of anything upright. Then something black and sizable emerged from under the shredded undercarriage. My heart lurched. A rat—except… that’s bigger than a cat.

  It was about half a meter long, not including its naked, ropey tail. Patches of its fur had sloughed away, revealing glistening pink flesh. The creature’s eyes were milky in spots, and its incisors jutted forward in a grotesque snarl. A reek of rot and old sewage clung to it as it shuffled into view, squeaking and sniffing at the dust. A chunk of dried gore dangled from its teeth, partially chewed, leaving an unspeakable drool trailing from its muzzle.

  “God,” I muttered, forcing myself not to recoil. I’d seen large rats before in this dimension, but this one looked especially wretched—like it had survived on roamer scraps or feasted on things better left unmentioned. My chest tightened at the thought of it scurrying closer, but it seemed too preoccupied with the ground. Possibly it could sense me, its nostrils flaring, but it appeared half-blind, one eye clouded with white film.

  I took a slow step back, war hammer raised. The rat flicked its ears, letting out a shrill squeak. Flies buzzed around its patchy fur as though it were another corpse in the making. For a tense moment, we stood still—my breath shallow, heart pounding. Then, deciding I wasn’t worth the trouble, the monstrous rodent turned away and shuffled into the remains of a store, presumably searching for more carrion.

  Relief crawled through my limbs, but a sick sense of horror lingered. Even the rats are monstrous. This place had a way of twisting everything into a savage caricature of its old self, from the undead to the animals. Another reminder that my illusions of a “heroic rescue” might be naive at best.

  Pushing the unnerving sight aside, I focused on my next step: finding anything that indicated Anna’s whereabouts. Every new direction looked as bleak as the last—broken lobbies, collapsed stairwells, windows shattered into shards that crunched underfoot like malevolent confetti. I tried climbing a short flight of crumbled steps into an office foyer, only to find the ceiling caved in, a collapsed beam blocking my path. No luck.

  Shaking my head, I slipped out to the street again. A battered sign reading “NORTHEAST DISTRICT” in sun-faded letters jutted at an angle from a rusted post. The paint had peeled away in streaks, but the direction was legible enough: an arrow pointing along a thoroughfare lined with decimated high-rises. Northeast…

  I frowned, trying to recall Anna’s stories about her territory or any known safe zone in the city’s sprawl. She’d never been too specific, mostly referencing the various factions—Empire, Vagabonds, Anarchists, Scavengers—but not giving me a map. Still, something in my gut said that drifting Northeast might bring me closer to the heart of the realm’s conflicts, and thus maybe to Anna, who always seemed to gravitate toward the worst danger. Better than wandering aimlessly south.

  Resolving to keep my profile low, I moved in that direction, hugging what remained of the sidewalk. My eyes flicked constantly for roamers, Empire patrols, or more gargantuan rats. Each ruinous block offered new hazards: precarious scaffolding that creaked ominously overhead, sinkholes in the pavement, broken glass shimmering like malevolent confetti under the dull light. The wind gusted intermittently, carrying scraps of refuse that made me jump at every rattle or scrape.

  A deep hush lay over the place, broken only by the rasp of wind, the occasional swirl of flies around some rancid object, and the faint clank of twisted metal in the distance. If humans still lived here, they must be hidden well—and with good reason. A sense of foreboding snaked down my spine. What if the city was emptier than Anna had implied? Or worse, what if the only people left were monstrous factions that’d shoot me on sight?

  I shook the doubts away, refusing to let fear paralyze me. The memory of Anna’s face, her scorn at my old cowardice, gave me a shaky resolve. She can’t be that far. The stench of rot, the battered architecture, the giant mutant rats—none of it dissuaded me from hoping she was out there, somehow surviving. I just had to find a clue, any clue, or keep pressing on until I reached deeper into the city.

  Despite my heightened awareness, the bleakness weighed on me. The horizon’s outlines blurred under a grayish haze, making it impossible to see far. Shadows flickered in the corner of my vision as battered signposts swayed, battered by the wind. A desperate sense of emptiness clung to everything—an oppressive hush that felt more surreal with each step. This realm truly has no mercy.

  Eventually, the road veered left, funneling me into a narrower corridor of collapsed buildings. The signage declared it was some main street once, but the words were half peeled away. I paused, pressing against a chunk of toppled stone for cover, scanning the gloom ahead. No sign of movement, no sign of Anna. Just the echo of my own breath. Taking one last glance back at the monstrous plaza, I resisted the sudden urge to retreat. Too late for that.

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  Setting my jaw, I moved on toward the Northeast, hoping that some sign of life—particularly Anna’s—would materialize. My shoulders ached from the pack’s weight, but I refused to drop anything yet. If I found her, these supplies might be the difference between life or death for both of us. Keep going, Joshua. Just keep going.

  I pressed deeper into the desolation, each step slow and deliberate, keeping my war hammer within easy reach. My eyes scanned the broken facades towering overhead, skeletal frameworks of once-proud buildings. A gust of wind whistled through a decimated row of glass-and-steel towers, stirring scraps of debris that clattered across the pavement. The swirl of dust made me squint, the taste of old rust and damp concrete lingering on my tongue.

  As I moved north and east, a nagging thought tugged at the back of my mind: How were these roamers still roaming? The city had died some seven years ago, if Anna’s rough timeline was to be believed. That meant anything reanimated by whatever outbreak happened should, logically, have withered away by now—muscles needing some source of fuel, bodies needing water, some measure of sustenance. Yet, the damned creatures still lurched around, half-rotted but possessed of unholy energy. And it wasn’t just one or two. I’d seen entire packs, throngs of them in my first trip here. So how did they keep functioning?

  The question festered in my mind as I took another turn, stepping carefully around a sagging archway. High above, shards of broken window glass caught the cloudy sunlight, glinting like malevolent stars. Flies droned near some unidentifiable lump of decay in the corner, fueling that omnipresent stench of rot. I wrinkled my nose, focusing on my breathing through my mouth. Even with the war hammer at my side, I felt more vulnerable than I cared to admit.

  The population of New York City—millions—where were they? Yes, I’d encountered roamers, but not in the nightmarish numbers one might expect. Anna once mentioned entire hordes. So, was that the key? Hordes hidden in the heart of the city, or sealed away in subways and collapsed districts? Maybe. The possibility left a cold pit in my stomach. What if every block or alley I turn could erupt with a tide of undead, starved yet somehow still able to tear me to pieces?

  I paused beneath a twisted streetlamp, forcing a moment to think. The sign overhead, half peeled and bullet-riddled, read “42nd…” something. Hard to decipher. A battered bus, collapsed to one side, lay across the intersection like a makeshift blockade. A swirl of pungent wind kicked up, carrying the reek of damp, corroded metal and old ash from whatever fires once raged. The gloom made it easy to imagine thousands—millions—of roamers massed in some corner of the city, shambling in silent darkness, waiting. Or am I letting paranoia run wild?

  My boots scraped over a fissure in the asphalt as I skirted the bus. That creeping question still itched: How did the undead sustain themselves for seven years? Some primal logic told me it was impossible, that rotting tissue, especially in the summer heat or the freeze of winter, should crumble away. But this realm had no shortage of the impossible. From Anna’s battered presence to the twisted ferals to entire factions waging war in a dead city, the normal laws of nature felt compromised. Maybe the virus? Some kind of mutation that halts decomposition? Or do they feed on each other, devouring every scrap to keep going? The thought conjured horrifying images of undead cannibalizing their own kind, a perpetual cycle of rot. God…

  I tried to swallow back the anxiety. If the living population had been decimated, maybe the roamers used to be more numerous but died off as time went on. The ones still roaming might be a fraction of the original horde. Still enough to kill me in an instant. I shook my head, stepping over a collapsed chunk of rebar that jutted from the rubble like a jagged tooth. Stay focused, keep moving.

  A swirl of gritty dust swept past me, carrying a hint of something chemical—like old cleaning fluid or perhaps the residue of bombs used years ago. My throat itched, forcing me to cough. The city felt more ghostly with each block, wind funneled between towering skeletons of skyscrapers, moaning as if the buildings themselves lamented. Rusted cars dotted the cracked roads, doors flung open or wrenched off entirely, interiors gutted. Almost no signs of living creatures, except for the occasional caw of a distant crow or a scurrying rat behind fallen debris.

  As I continued northeast, the hollowness of the city weighed on me. If millions once lived here, how many roamers still lurked? There had to be pockets somewhere—maybe sealed in collapsed tunnels, maybe locked behind barricades built early in the outbreak. Anna mentioned entire enclaves waging war, but aside from the occasional fresh bullet hole or smear of gore, I’d seen no direct evidence of large groups. The day felt too quiet, as if the entire metropolis crouched in anticipation of something vile.

  I caught a fleeting glimpse of my reflection in the fractured window of a battered coffee shop. My face looked hollow, eyes wide with fear and resolve. The war hammer’s silhouette at my side gave me a fleeting sense of strength. But behind that reflection, through the smeared glass, I saw nothing but ransacked counters, rusted chairs, and a half-burnt menu sign. No sign of life.

  The hush deepened, as if the city recognized an intruder in its midst. A swirl of flies rose from a corner, droning past my face with lazy menace. The stench in the air thickened: some hidden corpse rotting deeper inside a building, or maybe just the residue of seven years of decay. I forced the bile down, wiping sweat from my temples.

  Anna’s face intruded into my thoughts—her scowl, her fiery gaze. The city boy, she’d called me, incompetent but salvageable. I prayed she was out there, battered but alive, clinging to her own brand of survival. The hopelessness of not having found a single sign of her—nor a single living soul for that matter—gnawed at my confidence. What if I’m walking in circles?

  Squaring my shoulders, I pressed on. The wind battered me again, rattling loose metal from a rooftop overhead. The squealing of twisted steel echoed like a tortured scream, making me flinch. The dread that maybe half the roamer population still lurked in some hidden place wouldn’t leave me. The idea that they might burst forth in some unstoppable wave felt too real. But you can’t stop now, I reminded myself. Forty-eight hours are ticking away.

  A bitter aftertaste lingered in my mouth, a combination of anxiety, dry-throated thirst, and the city’s thick air. Slipping between two gutted vehicles, I checked each vantage for any sign of movement—factions, roamers, or that monstrous rat from earlier. Nothing. Just emptiness. A deflated hush that made me wonder if the entire city had truly become a tomb. The notion hammered home how incongruous it was that a few roamer stragglers still twitched, let alone monstrous ferals. How do they keep going?

  It made no sense, biologically. Unless the virus changed the rules. If so, then it might also have transformed everything else, twisted it all into an endless cycle of undead motion, unstoppable decomposition. The question sank in, leaving me unsettled: If the city once had millions, maybe they’re somewhere else—maybe I’m straying from the real center. Perhaps I was wandering the outskirts while the true hordes roamed the interior. The notion rattled me enough to make my steps falter.

  Gritting my teeth, I forced my pace steady. Northeast. If I was lucky, I might stumble on some clue, or intercept someone from the living factions. The wind spat more debris in my face, dust stinging my eyes. The taste of rancid metal deepened. My sweat felt cold on my skin, adrenaline never quite leaving my system. Focus. With a final glance at the deserted street behind me—an ocean of cracked concrete, empty shells of cars, and battered signage—I moved on, letting the city’s labyrinth swallow me further.

  The buzzing in the back of my mind wouldn’t quit: So many dead. Where are they all? But I had no answer, only a quiet dread that told me if I found them, it might be a fate worse than not finding them at all. My hammer felt heavier than ever, the quiver rubbing against my shoulder. The hush pressed in, each crunch of gravel underfoot a lonely echo. And still, I trudged onward, every block a small act of defiance against the world’s monstrous secrets.

  As I crept into the deeper shadows of the battered cityscape, a final gust of wind tugged at my coat, swirling grit into my eyes. The distant buzz of flies, the squeal of tortured metal, the reek of rot—this place was a haunting graveyard, a labyrinth that tested every nerve.