Chapter 11 (Anna’s POV)

  I kept going, because that was all I really could do: keep my head down and my feet moving, day after bleak day. I’d long since drifted beyond what I knew of the city’s outer rings, past the battered plaza where Joshua had vanished weeks ago. If I had to guess, I was at least ten or fifteen blocks from that spot—maybe more. Distance in this twisted landscape felt elastic; each street might as well have been a mile, given the obstacles and the constant need for caution.

  Everything around me bore the callous stamp of Empire territory. The old graffiti and bullet-pocked walls had begun to display the Empire’s twisted insignia more frequently, sprayed in harsh red scrawls. I could see vestiges of their presence everywhere: half-burnt outposts, crude barricades, rotting corpses left as warnings. The deeper I ventured, the heavier the air felt, as though every building exhaled a rancid breath of oppression.

  The sky had turned a murky gray, the sun’s weak light barely filtering through sagging clouds overhead. Ahead, the high-rises loomed, a jumbled horizon of broken silhouettes. Their skeletal frameworks rose ominously, upper floors gutted by flame or explosives. The winds up there whipped and funneled through the crumbling rooftops, channeling gusts down the narrow corridors of the streets. I could practically taste the metallic tang of rust in every breath. If I shut my eyes, the wind’s keening moan sounded disturbingly like the low groan of a roamer.

  Despite the ever-present hunger gnawing at my gut, I forced myself to maintain a slow, silent pace. My left leg still throbbed from the laceration I’d sustained, the fabric of my makeshift bandage stiff with dried blood. Each step felt like an invitation for infection to bite deeper, but letting it slow me down entirely wasn’t an option. Empire patrols had a habit of combing these areas sporadically, seeking out anyone foolish or desperate enough to scavenge on their turf. The roar of gunfire or the echo of heavy boots could come at any moment, from any direction.

  And so, I moved carefully. Whenever the wind whistled between the concrete canyons, I used the noise to mask my own footsteps. Whenever a chunk of debris shifted under my feet, I held my breath, scanning for shadows—imperial or undead. The air in these corridors smelled damp, tinged with the salty tang of decaying metal. Every so often, a rancid gust carried the whiff of rotten flesh from a neglected corpse. It stung the back of my throat, making me want to gag. But I’d long become acquainted with that bile-raising stench.

  At one intersection, the remains of a toppled building blocked most of the road with a mountain of rubble—twisted rebar, shattered concrete, a labyrinth of rusting wires. High above, battered curtains fluttered from the gaping windows of what might have been an office. Rain or wind had likely worn the place down further, leaving precarious ledges and sagging floors. I dared a brief glance up, the swirling wind scouring my cheeks, howling eerily through the corridors. Then I pressed on, hugging the edge of the debris to keep from stepping on anything too unstable.

  Something caught my eye in that tangle of wreckage: a length of steel, likely once part of a window frame or some structural beam. It had fallen at an angle, jutting up from the rubble in a jagged, triangular shape. The edges gleamed faintly under a trickle of sickly daylight. Curiosity warred with caution—I needed a weapon, given my bat was basically worthless now. And that hunk of metal, if not too heavy, could serve as a makeshift blade or spear.

  I glanced around, checking every dark recess for movement. The wind whipped a rag of plastic across the pavement, scraping it noisily. No moans or footsteps. Sucking in a breath, I inched closer. My leg screamed with each shift, but I gritted my teeth. Close up, I could see the steel looked torn from a larger piece, each edge twisted, one side sharper than the rest. If I angled it just right, it might hack through decaying flesh—or maybe even parry a small blade. My heart hammered, half-expecting some hidden roamer to jump out from behind the rubble. But the only thing waiting was a scrawny rat that scurried away, squeaking in surprise.

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  I wrapped my fingers around the base of the steel, testing its weight. Heavier than my old baseball bat by a good margin, but not too unwieldy. I tugged, dislodging it from the tangle of concrete chunks. Jagged rust flaked off, dusting my hands. The stench of mildew and corroded metal wafted up, stinging my nostrils. The wind battered me from behind, nearly making me lose my footing. But I managed to steady myself, brandishing the steel piece in front of me. It was crude, a savage wedge of metal that might slice or stab with enough force.

  A sour taste spread across my tongue—a mix of fear and relief. This wouldn’t solve the hunger or quiet the Empire’s guns, but maybe it would give me a fighting chance if I ran into trouble. A day ago, I might have felt a flicker of triumph. Now, it felt more like a grim necessity, another reminder that in this realm, survival hinged on whatever scrap you could salvage from the wreckage.

  The wind rose to a howl, swirling dust in a choking spiral around me, peppering my exposed skin. I coughed, pulling up the collar of my worn jacket to shield my mouth. The taste of grit and rust stuck in my throat, each breath rasping painfully. This pocket of the city had formed a wind tunnel—maybe from the partial collapse of those high-rises, funneling the weather through narrow canyons. A savage voice inside me almost appreciated it; the noise would mask my footsteps if the Empire was near.

  Cradling my new steel shard in the crook of my arm, I limped onward. The memory of Joshua flickered at the edge of my thoughts—he’d been so naive, but at least he had hope. Had. Maybe he found a way to stay safe wherever he ended up. Meanwhile, I’d strayed from the battered plaza, from that mysterious door, by at least a dozen blocks. Possibly more. With each new block, the city felt more oppressive, the presence of Empire patrols more likely. But my stomach demanded food, my mind demanded a place to rest, and forward was the only direction that made sense.

  A nauseating swirl of hunger tightened my gut, black spots dancing in my peripheral vision. I forced myself to focus, one careful step at a time. The steel in my grip felt cold, the edges biting into my palm whenever I squeezed too tight. My thoughts drifted bitterly to the worthless money stashed in my pack—thousands in old-world bills, a hollow relic of a better time. If only a fraction of that could buy me a ration pack or a day’s respite from this endless scrounging. Meaningless now.

  A high, whistling gust hammered against the looming high-rises, slicing between them like a blade, sending bits of loose debris tumbling across the street. My eyes watered as I blinked away grit. The thick tang of corroded metal filled the back of my throat, a taste reminiscent of old blood. It was a grim metaphor for this reality: stale, metallic, biting.

  So I moved, slowly, quietly, but constantly—staying near walls, pausing whenever the wind died, listening for any sign of footsteps or a roamer’s moan. The anxiety sat heavy in my chest, a tight knot that refused to loosen. The city felt more alive in its death than it ever had in its prime—every half-fallen beam or twisted alley bristled with threat. And I was determined not to become another corpse littering its streets.

  As I turned a corner, the rancid smell of something long-dead washed over me. I swallowed convulsively, forcing back a gag. The swirl of wind changed direction, kicking up an even heavier stench. Maybe a roamer lay in wait. Or maybe it was just a remains rotting in some shadowy recess. Either way, I had to keep going. My leg burned, but there was no point in lingering. Danger was a given.

  Each clang of steel or rustle of collapsed debris sent my nerves twitching. The Empire was out here. The roamers, too. My newly acquired chunk of steel felt minuscule protection, but it was better than nothing. And as the taste of dust and rust coated my tongue anew, I reminded myself I’d made it this far by not giving in. By not letting them kill me. By refusing to let the memories of my destroyed family or the cursed weight of this savage realm bury me alive.

  Wind howled again, funneling violently through the high-rises, rattling broken window frames high above. The city’s vantage dwarfed me, made me feel like an insect scuttling through a dead giant’s bones. But I was an insect with a weapon now—rough, savage, enough to make a difference if it came down to it.

  My focus narrowed to survival: find the next possible hideout, scavenge a meal if luck turned, avoid the Empire. And if the battered door was miles behind me, so be it. I wasn’t about to trek back just for the faint hope that naive city boy might reemerge. Not when the Empire’s territory spread like a poison in front of me, demanding I keep on the move, keep invisible.