Thirteen weeks and a Human hand recipe after the fall.

  Regrowing parts of your body sucks. You would think a magical process to regrow missing tissue from nothing but the wave of a cosmic middle finger would be easy, but you would be wrong. It’s not like the old tabletop games where a cleric could just wish it back into existence and poof, there it was. And it’s damned sure not as easy as slapping on a sweet robot hand and fighting your robot dad on a big spaceship in the name of freedom. I wish it was that easy, but I’m not even close to being that lucky.

  When it happens, an itch worse than gonorrhea starts in the amputated stump. Like a thousand angry fleas biting all at once, it signals the start of regrowing a limb as skin stretches over the wound and stops the flow of blood. Then, rapid bone growth begins and what I can only describe as a baby hand pokes its way out of the constantly expanding skin covering your wrist.

  Much as I want to tell you a heroic story of breaking free from my bonds the moment my hand returned to normal, that was not what happened.

  Instead, I slipped my baby hand free of the restraints, made miniature shadow puppets out of my tiny fingers, and made them dance. Not the most gallant response to having your hand free for the first time in days, but I needed to entertain myself for a few minutes while waiting for the soft tissue to reform.

  When the fingers on my baby hand were strong enough to hold something, I hiked up the hem of my dress and fished around for the box knife strapped to the small of my back. It took a few minutes, but my fingers eventually closed around the rubber gripped handle and pulled the weapon free.

  The next part — freeing myself — was going to be a little more difficult.

  The accountants had a routine, and if I timed this right, I could get free while they were busy getting busy in what remained of the freezer aisle. Luckily, they didn’t even bother posting a guard. I’d done such a good enough job at making them uncomfortable, they only came to visit me when it was time to eat.

  Apparently, thanking your attackers and telling them how to best cook your ribs was too creepy for cannibals. Who knew?

  I kept one eye on the entrance of my prison as I sawed at my restraints with abandon. It didn’t take long. Ever since finding my box knife, I’d gone out of my way to ensure it stayed extremely sharp. Luckily, the creepy hand loving guy hadn’t taken both extremities. While doing so would make getting them free a breeze, I didn’t fancy trying to escape with two baby hands and a box knife.

  Granted, I’ve had worse escapes. Being sealed in a stone box with your lover's body for a few centuries with only a skull to talk to could drive a man insane. I was lucky those barbarians decided grave robbing was an acceptable hobby. If not, who knows how long that tomb would’ve remained sealed? I still giggle when I remember the look on Alaric’s face. His men had just finished breaking open the sarcophagus, expecting to find the treasure of Ceasar. Instead, they found a man covered in grime and singing to a skull like it was just another Thursday. Which, coincidentally, it was.

  , I straightened my dress and tucked the box knife into a loop on my leather harness. My hand was strong enough to be useful, and I planned on making the grandest exit possible. They’d gone out of their way to ensure I was secure. But that wasn’t saying much, considering they made my prison out of old grocery store furniture and caution tape. If their normal pattern held, I would have roughly two hours to get away before someone came to get another snack. It was more time than I needed, but it was still a time limit.

  I crouched down and slipped through a small gap between two shelves. Outside, this nightmare hellscape was even worse than I’d imagined. Dozens of people were laying on mattresses, caked in dirt and other bodily substances. Even from a distance, I could see the blankness of their faces. Each too far gone from drugs to even consider standing.

  I clenched my fist as I looked around the drug den for a pathway to the exit. I was outgunned and out manned. If there was ever a chance to save anyone, it was long gone. Even if I could squash their high, it would be cruel to take away their bliss.

  I made my way to the back door, knocking over everything in my path as I passed. Some of them were bottles of alcohol and others were piles of laundry or empty boxes of microwave meals. Honestly, I wasn’t paying close enough attention to know which was which. At the end of the day, all that mattered was that most of it was flammable.

  The plan was a good one, with a single major drawback. I had nothing to spark it. No lighter, no matchbox, and no torch. As it often does, the universe listened to my problem and ensured that I would trip over a bundle of metal power cable and drop it directly into a large patch of fuel. A grin split my face as I scrambled back to my feet and grabbed my box knife, cutting deep into the cable while trying to ignore the biting sensation of electricity running up my arm. I could almost visualize the current flowing through my body, cooking my insides as it ripped through me.

  With a grunt, I forced myself to let go and dropped both cable and knife into a puddle of kerosine at my feet. If there was anything that was always reliable, it was the knowledge that the WalStore always had more than enough material to start several fires.

  Sparks jumped and flames rose as the first stage of my escape was reaching its climax. I knew how I needed to escape. At this point, it was more a matter of not getting caught than it was about getting out in one piece. There weren’t many advantages to being immortal, but the ability to come out of an incredibly stupid situation with no lasting damage was one of them.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  The fire and metal exploded as the flames reached a ten-foot-high pile of canned lighter fluid. Burning liquid spread like Greek fire, igniting anything in its path. Part of me wanted to watch as the building came down around me, but I remembered the last time I watched a fire burn and did nothing to stop it.

  I really missed that library. I tried to rebuild it in Atlantis, but there will never be a place of learning as great as Alexandria.

  Several accountants looked up as I passed, torn from their acts of debauchery by the noise. Naked, a group of them clamored to their feet, pulling themselves from a grim covered mattress and the drug laden body below. As I ran, I dodged attacks thrown at me from the shadows, not allowing myself to be imprisoned again. It was good they knew I was here. That way, they would know why they died.

  “Hey! Grab the snack! Make sure he don’t get away!” a big man in a sailor hat and ass-less chaps shouted.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I yelled, sprinting toward the rear of the store, reaching out and knocking over anything that might slow my pursuers. Racks of clothing, chairs, even a pile of boxed kitchen appliances. Nothing was safe, everything was a target.

  And while I ran, they followed in relentless determination to catch me. It was a perfectly acceptable reaction to someone burning down your apocalypse house, regardless of how warranted it was.

  open the warehouse doors, slowing only to break through the glass of an emergency box containing a fire-axe. I reached in, clutched it with my baby hand, and threw it over my shoulder like a lumberjack. The exit wasn’t far, but neither were the accountants.

  I slammed my shoulder against the fire exit, cursing the cheap chain holding it shut. I stepped back, lifting the axe above my head and tightening my grip.

  “You bastards went and made me use my strong hand!” I shouted, swinging the weapon with all the strength I could muster.

  The blade dug into the cheap metal and split the chain with an audible crack. Behind me, another explosion rocked the building as the fire continued to spread. Face twisted in rage, the Accountant in the sailor’s hat screamed, digging deep as he sprinted toward me with his head lowered like a. I quickly ripped the chains out of the metal handle and slipped through, unwilling to be hit by the oncoming wall of flesh.

  I knew the door wouldn’t stop this beast of a man without help, so without hesitation, I wedged the shaft of my axe between the door handle and the safety railing. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but if it got me away from these beasts and trapped them inside a burning building, then all the better.

  A loud thump followed by cursing came seconds after I finished securing the handle.

  Not willing to hang around to see how many more hits it could take, I ran down the ramp toward one of the armored air-cars parked in the lot below. With the amount of modification done, the chances of any remaining security that could stop me from stealing one was almost zero.

  I vaulted over the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and slammed my finger into the button that would bring this behemoth to life. As the machine vibrated with power, I saw the handle of my axe give way as the Accountant in the sailor’s hat stumbled through the door.

  As I rose into the air, one of tore through the building, blowing out the windows and sending balls of fire out in every direction. I hadn’t killed all of them, but I had managed something.

  Hovering over their burning tomb, I raised my still growing baby hand and extended my middle finger. I destroyed their base, and even better, I avenged Jim.

  ~~**~~

  “We can’t take much more of this,” the runner panted, hardly able to stay on his feet.

  The feeling wasn’t new amongst the survivors, though. Ever since Vandre left, they’d faced wave after wave of mutated monsters trying to destroy their home. The twisted bodies of the enemy force littered the street in a vomit inducing pile that served as yet another barrier protecting the entrance to their building. Scorch marks dotted the street, but their stockpile of ammunition was shrinking by the hour.

  It didn’t matter what they did to stop it, this new world of ash and darkness seemed hellbent on destroying the only remaining pockets of human life in the city. Even if they abandoned this place to find other pockets of survivors, there was no guarantee they could handle the number of people that would show up.

  “Give it one more push, then seal the doors. Use whatever you can to block it off and evacuate the stairwells. If they get through, we will lead them to the roof and burn them with vodka and fire,” Chuck said, trying his best to direct the chaos.

  He didn’t sign up for this. When he stepped up to lead the survivors, it was out of necessity, not qualification. There was no part of him meant to be a leader, and there was damned sure no part of him that wanted to be a tactician.

  “Got it, Chuck,” the runner said around a mouthful of sandwich before forcing the bite down his throat.

  The man turned and ran back down the stairs, repeating his orders and clearing the main stairwell. Yesterday, they’d been forced to send the children and the elderly underground for their safety. But just because they were safe didn’t mean they were idle.

  “Build team, this is Chuck. How many more bombs do you have?” he radioed, knowing the time was coming when the answer would be zero.

  “Not many. Supplies are getting thin for making them,” a voice Chuck didn’t recognize replied.

  “Alright, bring them up… We’ll have to figure out how best to use them. Good work.”

  There was nobody here to help, no Vandre to give advice from a seemingly endless source of personal experience. Nor was there a leader trained in dealing with these sorts of problems. If they made it another day, he would honestly be surprised.

  Maybe the people underground could find an old bunker down there to turn into their home? Yeah, he would tell himself that was the plan. At least it would remove a small portion of the burden of death on his shoulders.

  “Um… Chuck?” A radio squawked, “You’re gonna wanna come up here.”

  He grit his teeth in frustration and walked up the stairs to receive whatever terrible news the scouts found this time. Maybe the mutants had a bomb of their own and were waiting for the right time to blow their way into the building. If that was true, it was eerily similar to what Chuck had planned for getting away.

  “What is it?” the leader said tersely.

  “Well, it seems a portion of our city is on fire, and the smoke is driving the Mutated away.”

  Sure enough, on the street below there was a group of Mutated that stopped attacking their building and were now following the scent of smoke in the air. In the distance, a massive black column of smoke reached for the sky, trying desperately to reach the hand of god.

  Chuck never really believed in luck, but in that moment, he knew that fire had saved his and everyone else’s life in exchange for one meal.

  It was bittersweet, but survival often was.