semi-plotted w/ @godstrayed
The stench of mildew rots the air, decay woven through the motionless aisles, where sunlight slips in only as an afterthought. The only merchandise left is a stratification of filth: the layered accumulation of mold, dust, and the occasional fine sifting of ash that drifts like snow through shattered skylights. What’s edible or usable has long ago been claimed by the desperate, but Hannibal moves through the aisles as if there still might be something of value if he looks precisely enough.
If there is anything he finds beautiful now, it is the insistence of nature on reclaiming these spaces. Fungus sprouts in creamy white fans along what remains of the perfume counter, and a stubborn green moss spreads across an entire display of imitation leather purses. It reminds him of the way blood seeps, slow and inevitable, staining all it touches. Human touch, so eager to dominate, to make everything clean and bright, had finally lost the contest. He can almost hear the laughter of the earth, a steady, root deep chuckle that outlasts bombs and bullets alike.
The machete that fitted into his palm was used to lift wooden boards up and clear the ceiling debris. This city really took a beating, no doubt the all out war that the non infected dealt with on the infected. Like fallout bunkers, they tucked away in underground pockets. Hannibal chose to keep to the surface, finding the signs of humans comforting in some way.
There are trinkets left in this place, hardly worth the effort of looting, but he takes what he can: a pocketknife with a half-broken hinge, a small jar of Vicks VapoRub (a treasure beyond price, both for its medicinal properties and its ability to mask less pleasant scents), and a once expensive scarf, moth eaten but still soft against the neck. The latter he turns over and over in his hands, remembering the tactile pleasures of luxury, the way silk used to slip through his fingers like water. He had been a man of discriminating taste once. He had hosted dinner parties in a house filled with rare art and finer wines. Now, the wine is vinegar, the art is damp, and dinner must be hunted or bartered for in the ruins.
In the distance, he could hear the popping of a gun, still miles away from where they stood. Though it was always a warning to move out. He checks his wounds by rote; he had not come through the last encounter unscathed, and his shirt clings damply to a scabbed gash along his ribcage. It will heal, if he eats well. He is determined to eat well.
“Are you ready?” He spoke, his voice loud enough for someone within range.
