Chapter 4 (Anna’s POV)

  Dawn had broken like a deep bruise across the sky. Through the cottage window, bands of violet and crimson had crept along the horizon, like open wounds leaking light. I pressed my forehead to the warped wood of the frame and stared at the far skyline—twisted girders and shattered glass glinting in the half-light. Even in its silence, the city beyond looked half-dead, poised between night’s last gasp and the brutality of a new day.

  I stepped back and surveyed my shabby refuge. Mist lay heavy on the ground outside, oozing through cracks in the rotted siding to coil around the barricaded windows. The boards and sheet-metal I had hammered into place gleamed dully under the single, sputtering bulb. And there, amid the peeling wallpaper and buckled floorboards, stood the copper door—its burnished surface untouched by rust, its carved reliefs mocking the ruin around it. It had seemed absurdly regal the moment I first saw it; now it felt like my only hope.

  I needed to leave. My clothes—they had once been a simple tank top, cargo pants, and scuffed boots—were shredded beyond repair. The elastic in my bra had died weeks ago; panties were an indulgence I could no longer afford. I swung my pack over one shoulder, rattling empty water bottles clinking inside, and lifted my compound bow with the other hand. My short sword—an arc of polished steel—hung at my hip, the leather grip worn slick by sweat and fear.

  Outside, the air tasted of damp earth and corroded metal. I slid into the stiff boots and nudged the bike off the rail—its warped frame groaning, tyres buckling under my weight but still rolling. As I pushed it down the porch steps, wild grasses blackened at their tips by last night’s fires swept around my calves. A rancid breeze whispered through the collapsed fence boards, bringing the sour stench of rotting rubbish collected in back-alley dumps. Somewhere a crow rasped its warning; my heart thudded in response, that ancient drumbeat that had carried me through every ambush and roamer hunt.

  I strapped my bow across my back, swung a leg over the saddle, and pedaled awkwardly down the dirt lane. Each wobble threatened to pitch me forward; I gripped the handlebars until my knuckles ached, breathing deep to steady my nerves. Puddles of brackish water splashed against my shins, each cold bite a reminder that this land was dead and the few of us still standing were trespassers in our own home.

  As I turned the corner onto a cracked asphalt road, the stench shifted: leaking antifreeze from abandoned cars mingled with the sour tang of decomposing upholstery, like death trapped in synthetic foam. Cars lay desiccated along the curb, doors pried open by scavengers, upholstery eaten away by moisture and time. I navigated around a lone roamer staggering through someone’s once-tidy front yard—its limbs twisted, head lolling, arms outstretched. My breath caught in my throat. For a heartbeat I half-expected its jaws to snap, but it lurched past me, mindless and indifferent, and I forced a shaky exhale before pedaling on.

  The road widened into the skeleton of a once-busy commercial strip. To my left, a collapsed shopfront gaped like a broken tooth; to my right, piles of splintered furniture and rusted appliances had been dragged into the weeds by desperate hands. Charred billboards, their messages burned away, flapped in the wind like tattered prayer flags.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Somewhere overhead, a door slammed in a half-standing storefront, metal reverberating against crumbling brick. I inhaled, choking on a swirl of dust and acrid smoke—someone five blocks over must have lit a cooking fire, frying the last scraps of canned meat they could find. The aroma of rancid oil drifted over me, conjuring hunger and disgust in equal measure.

  I had turned northeast, toward the scavengers’ new outpost—but not the open camp of tents I had first scouted. This time they had claimed an abandoned strip mall at the edge of town, as forsaken as a graveyard. I coasted to the corner where an overpass had buckled and collapsed, its concrete ribs thrusting skyward. Beneath its shade lay rusted shipping containers stacked two high, spray-painted with crude sigils: crossed arrows, thorned skulls, and the stenciled words “SCAVENGERS ONLY.” Beyond the containers, I glimpsed boarded-up storefronts whose windows were black with soot and coated in grime.

  I steered the bike through a broken gate—its iron hinges twisted off—into a courtyard littered with shattered glass and bleeding oil pools. The ground gave the sensation of walking on bones, crunching under each wheel. Ragged tarps draped between light poles formed a makeshift awning; beneath them, scavenger-built benches and tables groaned with spare parts: mismatched chairs, salvaged barrels turned into stools, a battered barbecue rigged on cinder blocks.

  The smell here was overpowering: sour milk leaking from dented tin cans, boiled beans rotting in overturned pots, the faint coppery tang of blood in those who had traded or fought for scraps. Sweat and urine and fear coagulated into a single oppressive cloud that clung to my clothes, stung my eyes, and made my stomach lurch.

  From a gap in the containers, I heard muffled voices—haggling over pearls, water, clothing. A man’s harsh bark cut through the murmur: “No boot-laces without trade!” followed by a low, throaty laugh that crackled with desperation. Somewhere close by, a small child whimpered.

  I dismounted, the gravel crunching under my boots, and leaned my bike against a concrete pillar. My hands, roughened by wire and wood, trembled as I unshouldered my pack. Each breath was heavy, laden with the stench of broken lives and burned-out futures. My pulse pounded so loudly in my ears that I almost mistook it for distant gunfire.

  Just beyond the next row of containers, the old neon sign spelling out the strip mall’s name sagged half-dead on rusted chains. Its flickering remnants spelled “_AVE” before sputtering out, leaving me in the dim half-light of a world gone dark.

  I drew a slow breath and swallowed hard. Pearls rested in my pocket—seventeen of them, each heavy with the cost of another life. I needed to trade them for clothes, for boots, for anything that would protect me on the road back to the cottage. I needed to build a buffer against the endless hunger and cold. And yet I hesitated at the threshold, the silence pressing in like a jury.

  Despair was as thick here as dust—in every cracked tile, every shattered pane, every hungry glance. But I had no choice. My bow felt lighter on my back, my sword’s curve less foreign against my hip. I stepped forward, into that stinking courtyard of rust and ruin, determined to carve out whatever scraps of dignity remained.

  Because at the end of every desperate sunrise, we carve our own fortresses—one negotiated pearl at a time—and forge hope out of the bone and metal of a world that has forgotten how to live.