Chapter 8 (Anna's POV)

  The sun had barely clawed its way above the horizon, casting a sickly orange hue over the crumbling cityscape. I stood at the edge of the scavenger outpost, a once-bustling strip mall now reduced to a skeletal husk of its former self. The air was thick with the stench of decay and human desperation, a pungent cocktail of unwashed bodies, rotting refuse, and the acrid tang of burning refuse.

  I adjusted the straps of my pack, feeling the familiar weight of my compound bow pressing against my back. My fingers brushed against the hilt of my short sword, a comforting presence in this sea of uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward, the soles of my boots crunching against shattered glass and debris.

  Inside, the strip mall was a labyrinth of makeshift stalls and shanties, constructed from whatever materials the survivors could scavenge. Tattered tarps hung from the exposed beams, fluttering like ghostly banners in the stale breeze. The flickering light of oil lamps cast dancing shadows on the graffiti-covered walls, illuminating the gaunt faces of those who called this place home.

  I navigated the narrow aisles, my eyes scanning the wares displayed on battered tables and crates. A woman with sunken eyes and matted hair offered a selection of mismatched clothing, her voice a raspy whisper as she beckoned me closer. I approached cautiously, my gaze falling on a pile of threadbare garments.

  “I’m looking for clothes,” I said, my voice barely audible over the cacophony of bartering and murmured conversations. “Shirts, pants, undergarments... boots, if you have any.”

  She nodded slowly, her fingers trembling as she sifted through the pile. “Got some things,” she muttered, pulling out a stained tank top and a pair of frayed jeans. “Not much, but it’ll cover you.”

  I examined the items, noting the holes and faded fabric. They were far from ideal, but better than nothing. “How much?” I asked.

  “Three pearls,” she replied, her eyes darting nervously around the stall.

  I reached into my pouch, retrieving the small, iridescent spheres. As I handed them over, I couldn’t help but notice the way her hands shook, the way her eyes lingered on the pearls as if they were the last remnants of a forgotten world.

  Continuing through the outpost, I encountered a man hunched over a makeshift forge, hammering a piece of scrap metal into the semblance of a blade. Sparks flew with each strike, illuminating the sweat-soaked rags clinging to his emaciated frame. He glanced up as I passed, his eyes hollow and devoid of hope.

  Further in, I found a stall displaying an assortment of worn footwear. A young girl, no older than ten, sat behind the table, her eyes wide with fear and exhaustion. I crouched down, examining a pair of scuffed boots that appeared to be my size.

  “These yours?” I asked gently.

  She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “Five pearls.”

  I hesitated, then handed over the payment, offering a small smile in return. “Thank you.”

  As I moved deeper into the outpost, the atmosphere grew heavier, the air thick with despair. The survivors here were shadows of their former selves, their bodies ravaged by hunger and disease, their spirits broken by the relentless horrors of this new world.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the weight of countless eyes following my every move. Men with leering gazes and women with vacant stares observed me from the shadows, their intentions unreadable. I kept my hand close to my sword, ready to defend myself if necessary.

  The final stall I visited offered a selection of undergarments, a rare commodity in this desolate place. An elderly woman with a weathered face and kind eyes greeted me, her voice soft and soothing.

  “Looking for something specific, dear?” she asked.

  “Bras and panties,” I replied, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

  She nodded, rummaging through a box before producing a few items. “These are the best I have,” she said, holding up a simple cotton bra and a pair of panties.

  I inspected them, noting the frayed edges and faded colors. “They’ll do,” I said, handing over the required pearls.

  With my purchases secured, I made my way back toward the entrance, the weight of the outpost’s despair pressing heavily on my shoulders. The stench of human suffering clung to me, a constant reminder of the world we now inhabited.

  As I stepped back into the harsh light of day, I took a deep breath, trying to cleanse the grease and smoke as I pushed my way through the overgrown streets, clutching the plastic-wrapped bundle of my hard-won gear. Even the wind seemed tired here, dragging the stink of open latrines and human desperation in its wake. My boots slapped wet asphalt. Behind me, the strip mall shrank into the mist like a bad memory I couldn’t burn fast enough.

  I didn’t slow down. Every glance I’d endured in that place still crawled along my skin. That gaunt man picking his teeth with a fishhook while leering at my chest. That old woman muttering about “fresh meat” under her breath. The twisted grin from the kid who offered me a torn pair of panties in trade for “five minutes of fun.” The smell, the rot, the staring—it had curdled something in my stomach.

  By the time I reached the hedgerow near the cottage, my lungs were burning. My shirt clung to my back with sweat, and the bundle under my arm felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. I ducked through the gate, boots crunching dry grass and gravel, and let out a long, shaking breath when I finally saw the patched roof and warped porch of home.

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  Safe. For now.

  The door groaned open under my hand. I slipped inside and kicked it shut behind me, setting the makeshift lock back in place. Inside, the silence was holy. No murmurs, no footfalls, no predatory eyes.

  Just me and the slow thump of my heart.

  I dropped the bundle onto the floorboards and peeled off my sweat-streaked shirt. The air inside the cottage was cooler, but it still stank of oil, rust, and old blood. My ribs ached from hauling and walking, and my thighs burned with fatigue.

  I sat on the edge of the makeshift cot and opened the bundle like a relic. The clothes weren’t pretty. Nothing in this world was. But they were intact. Clean, mostly.I quickly undressed, my fingers deftly untying the knots and straps of my worn, practical clothes. They fell to the floor in a pile of dusty, faded fabric, a relic of my past life—a life of constant survival and movement. I stood naked in the firelight, the warmth of the flames casting a golden glow on my skin. I took a moment to appreciate my reflection in the small, tarnished mirror.

  My body was tall and lean, every line and curve a testament to my journey. My skin was a light olive tone, marked with scars and bruises—each one a badge of my new life in this ruined world. I ran my hands over my body, tracing the lines of my muscles, the curves of my hips, and the softness of my breasts. I felt a sense of pride and ownership over my body, over my strength and my femininity. I was a survivor, and my body told the story of my journey.

  My breasts were full and round, my nipples a soft pink that hardened in the cool air. My waist was narrow, flaring out to hips that were soft and feminine. My legs were long and muscular, scarred from years of running, fighting, and exploring the desolate landscape. I turned slightly, admiring the way my body moved, the play of muscles beneath my skin. My brown hair, a wild cascade of curls, fell to my mid-back, framing my face and contrasting with my striking green, emerald eyes. My pubic hair was a matching curly brown, neat and well-groomed, a small triangle that pointed down to my most intimate place. I took a moment to run my fingers through it, feeling the soft curls against my skin.

  I started with my new undergarments, a soft, lacy bra and matching panties in a deep, rich red. I slipped the bra on, the soft fabric cupping my breasts perfectly, lifting them slightly, making them look even more enticing. The panties were a perfect fit, the lace teasing my skin, making me feel sexy and desirable. I took a moment to admire myself, my hands on my hips, a small smile playing on my lips. The red lace contrasted beautifully with my olive skin, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of confidence.

  Next, I donned a pair of tight-fitting leather pants that hugged my curves like a second skin. They accentuated every line and muscle of my legs, making me feel powerful and confident. I paired them with a matching leather vest that laced up the front, the soft leather molding to my breasts, emphasizing their fullness. The vest left my midriff bare, showing off my toned stomach and the delicate curve of my waist. I tied the laces tightly, ensuring a snug fit, and took a deep breath, feeling the leather against my skin.

  I strapped on my weapons, the short sword at my side and the quiver of arrows on my back, the bow slung across my chest. The combination of leather and metal made me feel invincible, like a warrior ready to conquer the world. I checked my reflection one last time, my eyes meeting my own gaze in the mirror. I saw a woman who was strong, capable, and ready to face whatever came next. My green eyes sparkled with determination, and my full lips were set in a firm line. I was Anna, A survivor, and if Joshua could do half of what he said he could well then I have prey to conquer my lips twitched up into a small smile.

  I stood, stretched, and tested the fit. No pinches. No tears. Nothing to fix. Just gear I could trust for a few more miles.

  Outside again, the sun had started its crawl down the edge of the broken skyline. Gold bled into ash on the horizon, casting long shadows from crumbling towers.

  This run wouldn’t be for food. Not today. I had enough MREs to keep me upright. What I needed now was leverage—items that Joshua could take back through the Gate. Jewelry. Precious metals. Loose cash. Things this ruined city had plenty of, if you knew where to look.

  I headed northeast, keeping close to alleyways and side streets, my breath steady and my eyes scanning. The city felt brittle in the waning light. The wind shifted and brought with it the coppery scent of dried blood. Somewhere nearby, a feral shrieked—short, sharp, cut off too quickly.

  I didn’t flinch.

  Each step was practiced. Quiet. Measured. A ghost moving through the bones of a dead world.

  I’d start with the upper floors of the old brownstones. Jewelry boxes tucked in closets. Purses left hanging on coat racks. Maybe even a cash drawer hidden beneath a floorboard. People used to hoard their wealth. Some still did. Their skeletons didn’t need it anymore.

  And if I found someone else scavenging?

  Well, I had new boots. A sharp sword. A working bow.

  And I wasn’t in the mood to share