Page 55

Dust and silence. They cling to this place like a memory no one can let go of, the ghosts of old life trapped in cracked pavement and sagging rooftops. Every morning, I wake to it, and every morning, I step out of my shelter into a town that feels as haunted as I am.

The warehouse door grinds open under my weight, the shriek of rusted metal slicing through the dead air. I pause, my breath held, as if waiting for the town to notice me. But it never does, just the way I like it. Silence stretches back, swallowing the noise whole, and my boot crunches softly as I step onto the cracked concrete, littered with the remains of whatever used to be here. Old leaves, bits of broken glass—bones of what was left behind.

There are houses everywhere, lining the streets like weary soldiers who never made it home. Most are the kind of houses I used to imagine living in when I was a kid; quiet homes with porches and little fences, places where families lived before everything went to hell. They’re not for me, though. Even walking by them feels like trespassing, like walking into a life that isn’t mine. Sometimes, I swear I can almost see the shadows of people in the doorways, echoes of them floating through the windows, and I can’t bring myself to cross those thresholds. The past already haunts me enough; I don’t need theirs, too.

So I stick to my warehouse, a hollow shell where life hasn’t lingered in years.

It’s better this way.

I start my rounds, weaving through the empty streets with the same steps I’ve taken countless times before, my bat dragging on the ground behind me. My routine. My ritual. A way to keep my sanity in check and to make sure nothing rotten and dangerous has wandered into town. So far, I’ve been lucky with no new bodies, no shambling, dead-eyed monsters to deal with. It’s strange to feel thankful for something like that, but it’s all I’ve got to keep me going some days.

My thoughts drift like they always do when I get into the rhythm, and before I know it, I’m thinking about Adrian. If anyone could survive out there, it’d be him. Them . Adrian, Theo, and Kenji. They were made of tougher stuff than me, so maybe they’re out there somewhere, still breathing, still fighting. But the thought twists like a blade in my chest. Missing him hurts enough, but if I let myself think about my mom or my sister? It’s a pain that would rip me wide open, and I’d be left raw and empty in this place. I’ve had enough of that. Enough grief, enough heartache to last ten lifetimes.

If I’m going to continue to survive, I don’t have the luxury of ruminating in any sort of memories.

I reach the town square, what used to be the heart of this place, and stop in the middle of it. Once, there’d been a fountain here, its basin dry now, and benches where people must have sat and watched the world go by. Now, it’s nothing but cracked concrete and brittle weeds fighting to claim the cracks. Just as I’m about to move, a chill runs down the back of my neck, like a brush of cold fingers against my skin.

I freeze. The air feels different now. It’s charged and heavy, pressing against me like a warning. I turn slowly, scanning every inch of the empty street, my pulse thudding hard in my ears. There’s nothing to see—no movement, no shadow slipping around a corner, just the same quiet town as before.

The day stretches on, dragging its feet as I move through the town, checking the same spots I always do. The broken windows of the houses are still empty, the streets untouched, and the small stores have long since been looted and left to decay. The wind kicks up dust and carries it down the cracked roads, but everything else remains still. It’s the same as yesterday. And the day before that. The same cold silence. But something is gnawing at me, that feeling of being watched.

I keep moving through the streets, following my usual route, checking the places that could hide anything dangerous. Every corner, every alley, every cracked door frame. I’ve become methodical about it, even if it feels pointless some days. It’s habit now, like breathing.

But it doesn’t feel like just habit today.

I’m halfway through my patrol when I catch a glimpse. It’s just a flash of something, someone , barely a flicker in my peripheral vision. A man, standing far off in the distance. He’s hiding, trying to remain out of sight, but not as well as he thinks.

My stomach tightens. I keep walking, but I’m paying attention now. Every shift of the wind, every footstep, every slight sound. The man’s trying to move with the shadows, darting between buildings, doing his best to remain unseen. It’s cute , really, how he thinks he’s being clever. He thinks he’s the hunter, but I’ve been playing this game far longer than he has, and I know these streets like the back of my hand.

I take a turn, ducking into an alley I know well, a narrow passage between old brick buildings, and I press myself into a corner behind a door that's seen better days. It’s not obvious, not a place anyone would think to look. I set my bat to the side and hold my breath, my pulse racing just a little as I wait. It doesn’t take long.

I hear him. His footfalls are soft, almost tentative, but getting closer. The air feels thick with tension, and I can practically feel him brushing against my skin, his presence so close I could almost touch it.

I wait.

He steps past the doorway.

I move.

Quick, silent, like a predator closing in on prey.

The hunter becomes the hunted.

I jump onto his back, my legs wrapping around his torso, my arms locking around his neck. The world narrows down to the two of us—his startled grunt as I drag him into a chokehold, the feel of his struggling body beneath mine, the pulse of adrenaline thrumming through my veins. My hands tighten around his throat, every muscle in my arms straining, and his breath starts coming faster, sharper, more desperate. His hands claw at mine, but I hold on, squeezing until the fight in him slows. It feels like it lasts forever but it can’t be more than fifteen seconds.

Finally, his body goes limp. He’s unconscious, and he drops like a sack of potatoes, pulling me down with him. My breath comes in hard, ragged bursts as I stand over him, taking him in. His skin is tan like he’s spent the whole summer outdoors the same way I have. Freckles scatter over the bridge of his nose, and a thick but short beard frames his full lips. His black hair is a mess of waves around his face, and his arms and neck are covered in tattoos.

Fuck, why does he have to be pretty?

I spend so long categorizing his features that I forget one of the most important things: he’s not staying unconscious forever. He begins coming to, gasping for air. So I do the only thing I can do. I kick him in the head. The sound is dull, satisfying in its brutality, and I step back, watching him collapse, unconscious and still.

____

I don’t bother to check if he’s breathing—he is, I can hear it—but I don’t care. He’s tied up now, strapped to one of the pews in the old church that’s seen better days. The smell of dust and rot fills the air as I stand at the front, bat in hand, my expression hard. I don’t speak. I don’t need to.

He stirs, groaning, the sound of him coming to filling the otherwise silent space. I can tell he wants to reach for his head, which has to be killing him right now from that kick, but he can’t. His hands jerk against the rope when he tries, and his eyes snap open in fear as he registers that he’s tied up. He blinks a few times, squinting against the dim light as if trying to piece things together.

The moment his bright green eyes meet mine, there’s a shift. The fear in them dies, replaced by something...else. He smiles, a wide, goofy grin that makes my skin crawl a little, but I keep my face blank.

“Holy shit, I think you're the woman of my dreams,” he says, voice groggy, like he’s just woken from a nap.

I don’t respond, rolling my eyes.

He takes my silence as an invitation or maybe just an excuse to study me. His eyes trail over me, from the bat in my hand to my worn-out clothes, but it’s not the kind of look that makes my skin crawl in the way I’d expect. It’s more like he’s curious, sizing me up. I still don’t like it.

“Who are you?” I snap, cutting through the tension before it has a chance to build.

He grins wider, his teeth white against his tanned skin. “My name’s Holden. Holden Hill.”