CHAPTER ONE: THREE DAYS IN
There was no real silence anymore—just the kind that rang after a car alarm finally died, or when the last panicked dog stopped barking three blocks away. It always felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for someone to mess up. I eased through the broken front window of Keller’s Pharmacy, glass crunching under my boots even though I tried to be careful. The door had been kicked off its hinges, probably on Day One. A chain of bloody footprints had dried into the tile like someone tried to make it to the back room and didn’t. The shelves were wrecked. Cough syrup bottles shattered, vitamins spilled, painkillers gone. What was left wouldn’t save anyone—unless I was planning on OD’ing on expired antacids.
I muttered to myself, “Great. Two for one deal on despair.”
Then—something. A glint of metal behind the register. I ducked low and crawled over. Jackpot. A dented tin of spam wedged beneath the counter, and next to it, a small box of unopened gauze and a half-full bottle of what I thought was antibiotics. I sniffed the lid—smelled like rubbing alcohol and rotten mint. Good enough.I stuffed it all into my pack and stood up, turning—
My foot caught. It wasn’t a shelf. It was an arm. Gray fingers curled around my ankle, nails like broken chalk. I didn’t even scream—just made this sharp inhale like I’d been sucker-punched. My leg jerked back. I hit the floor hard, my breath knocking out of me as the thing began dragging itself from under the shelving unit. It was half a man—torso shredded, one leg missing entirely, intestines trailing behind like old rope. His eyes were gone, just sockets filled with dark red pulp. But his teeth? Still intact. Still gnashing. I kicked hard. Once. Twice. My boot connected with its jaw, but it didn’t slow. It hissed, grinding out a moan that didn’t sound human. I reached for my pack—too far. The thing lunged, faster than it should have been able to. I scrambled back, slipped on broken glass, arms flailing— Then—
A blade whistled past my ear and buried itself in the creature’s skull with a wet, final thunk. The corpse twitched once, then sagged against my legs like an empty coat. I lay still for a second, not breathing. I could feel its blood soaking into my jeans, already going cold.
Someone stepped over me. She yanked the knife free with one sharp motion and wiped the blade clean on the dead thing’s shirt. Black combat boots. Tight black pants. A small utility belt slung low, nothing flashy—just a few pouches, a second knife, a stubby black pistol with a suppressor. Her red hair was tied up loosely. She glanced down at me with a look that said: You shouldn’t be alive, but here we are. I sat up slowly, not sure what to say. “Thanks,” I managed, voice rough from not talking all day. “You always sneak up on people like that?”
“If I didn’t, I’d be dead,” she said flatly.
Her accent was American, but faintly off. She offered a gloved hand, and I hesitated just long enough for her to retract it on her own. I stood up without her help. She nodded toward the body. “He was tracking you since the alley. You’re lucky he was missing a leg.”
I tried to play it cool, brushing glass off my palms. “Yeah, I was, uh… just waiting for the right moment.”
Her eyes didn’t move. “Uh-huh.”
I took a step back and raised my hands a little. “Not looking for trouble. Just food and medical stuff.”
“You already made enough noise to get trouble,” she said. “If there are more of them nearby, they’ll come now.”
“You think we should leave?”
She looked around the shattered pharmacy, then back at me. “There’s no we. You do what you want. I’m moving on.”
She turned like that was the end of the conversation and started toward the door, moving fast, efficient, like she’d done this a hundred times already. Something in me kicked up. A mixture of frustration and fear. “Wait—just tell me your name. In case I run into you again.”
She stopped. Just a beat too long. Then:
And with that, she slipped out the door, leaving the rest unsaid. I should’ve let her go. Any normal person would’ve. But normal was a luxury that didn’t make it past Day One. I slung my pack over my shoulder and followed. She was already half a block ahead, cutting across the street with that weird, fluid way of moving—like a shadow that had learned to walk. I jogged to catch up, boots thudding too loudly on cracked pavement.
She didn’t look at me. “I didn’t ask.”
We moved in silence for a few more blocks. The wind pushed garbage across the road in little spirals. A shopping cart full of wet clothes sat abandoned in the intersection. Somewhere in the distance, a baby was crying—or maybe it was a cat. Hard to tell now. We passed a small deli with the windows blown out. Natasha stepped in without a word and motioned for me to stay low. She cleared the front, then the back, in seconds—quick checks with her knife drawn.
I peeked inside. “You clear rooms like a damn cop.”
She crouched near the shelves and started rummaging with gloved hands. “Better.”
I joined her, digging through a box of cereal that had gone stale before the outbreak even hit. Still—empty calories were calories.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Her face didn’t change. Not once. Not when she found a can of peaches, not when she passed over a bag of rice with a tear down the middle. Just pure calculation. She moved like someone who didn’t hesitate. I hated how much I respected that.
I tried again. “So… Natasha. That’s a hell of a name.”
“I mean—like the Natasha? Red hair, knives, espionage? Ringing any bells?”
This time, she looked up.
Her eyes were tired. Not bloodshot, not weepy. Just… tired. And not interested in games.
“I don’t do autographs,” she said, deadpan.
I raised both hands. “Not looking for one. Just trying to make conversation.”
“People who talk are usually less likely to stab you.”
Her mouth twitched—almost a smile. “That depends who you’re talking to.”
We finished sweeping the place and ended up with a mostly-dead flashlight, two protein bars, a box of band-aids, and half a bottle of whiskey from under the counter. Outside, she checked the sun. Still high, but starting to tilt west.
“I’m heading north,” she said. “Higher ground. Less open streets.”
“Mind if I come with you?”
Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes scanned the horizon, then dropped back to me.
“You keep up. You stay quiet. You don’t get in my way.”
“That’s a maybe,” she said, and started walking.
I followed. What the hell else was I going to do?
The sun was low enough now to glare through the cracks in the skyline, casting everything in that sharp, orange light. We moved fast but quiet, ducking through alleys, crossing side streets only after listening for at least ten seconds. Natasha didn’t explain her methods. She just moved like she’d memorized a playbook I’d never seen. We reached a parking garage—a squat, five-level concrete shell that overlooked the surrounding blocks. One of those places you never noticed until you needed a view or a place to die. Natasha cleared the stairwell with the kind of caution that made me feel like I’d been living on borrowed luck up till now. By the time we reached the top, I was sweating and my pack felt twice as heavy. The roof was empty. Birds scattered as we stepped out. And there it was. The city in full view—silent, broken, breathing smoke. Buildings hunched over the streets like they were ashamed of something. Cars sat in every direction like they’d been sneezed out by some careless god. One had crashed halfway into a coffee shop. Another was still on fire, the flames small now but steady. Somewhere to the west, black smoke twisted into the air, lazy and thick. And far off in the east, a blinking red light atop a radio tower still worked, for some reason. Probably solar. I sat on the concrete ledge and pulled out one of the protein bars. It tasted like chalk dipped in regret, but I chewed anyway. Natasha crouched near the edge and scanned the streets below with a small pair of folding binoculars.
She nodded slightly. “Movement near the overpass. Not infected. Not walking like it.”
I let the silence stretch. It felt like she was used to it—comfortable in it, even. I wasn’t. Not yet. She pointed north. “There’s a bridge a few miles up. High ground on the other side. Residential. Might be easier to defend.”
I followed her gaze. Beyond the tangled city core, trees had started reclaiming the edges—branches reaching over rooftops, vines curling up brick. It looked like a different world.
“You’ve been there before?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then:
“Because staying here isn’t a plan.”
I nodded slowly, watching the skyline twitch and shimmer in the heat.
“You always talk like that?” I asked. “Like you’re narrating a survival manual?”
She didn’t smile, but her voice softened—barely. “You always ask questions no one has time to answer?”
I smirked. “Only when I think someone might know what they’re doing.”
Her eyes cut to mine, sharp and assessing. “And you think I do?”
“No,” I said. “But you’ve got a better knife than I do.”
She stood and checked her gear. “Eat fast. We’ll move before the sun drops.”
I looked down at the streets again, at the wreckage of a world that had stopped pretending it could be saved. Then I looked at her. And for the first time since this started, I didn’t feel completely on my own.
