Chapter 1
The July sun beats on me like an unstoppable furnace as I pick through abandoned cars and ransacked shops, sweat dripping down my back. With each step glass crunches beneath my heavy boots, the sound echoing off the silent ruins.
Abandoned cars line the streets, their windows shattered, interiors stripped bare by desperate hands. Shopfronts gape open, ransacked shelves dusty and desolate.
I pass the shell of a diner, its sign swinging mournfully in the hot breeze. The door hangs ajar, revealing a scene of chaos within—overturned chairs, a counter littered with broken dishes.
Scavengers already picked the place clean.
Same old shit, different town.
I can’t wait to ditch this wasteland of a town and get back to the mountain cabin where I’ve been staying. Not sure why I picked it. Place reminds me of Mac.
Can’t believe my best friend chose to settle down.
But the cabin is safer. Secluded. A far cry from where Carrionites roam. The cannibals prefer populated parts of towns and cities.
My molars grind as bile claws its way up my throat, my chest constricting.
Talia.
Even after all these years, the pain of losing her haunts me. Came across a large pack years back. My teammate sacrificed herself so Mac, Colt, and I could get away.
We wanted to go after her, but it was no use. There were too many, and those fuckin’ cannibals are deadly. They will gut each other over a damn stale cookie. Even eat their own dead.
Just another bitch to deal with in this world gone to shit.
All it took was for some super virus to wipe out most of the world’s population.
Now electricity is gone, cities are breeding grounds for serial killers and cannibals, and loyalty flew right out the fucking window, especially when it comes to food.
It’s like living in a zombie apocalypse without the damn zombies. Thank fuck for that because not sure I could take another obstacle to fight against. Lucky enough to not have gotten sick, or maybe I’m immune.
Who the fuck knows why some survived and some never got sick. Isn’t my field of expertise.
Staying clear of the urban sprawl in Massachusetts, I’ve been trekking through the southern Vermont stretch of the Connecticut River Valley. It’s mostly rural here, with fewer people around, which suits my need to avoid encounters with any living person.
When it comes to survival, most of the time humanity gets thrown out the window. Saw it in war and saw it after the viral outbreak.
Doesn’t make my choice to be alone any easier.
Still miss human contact. Miss my friends.
But not sure I can deal with losing another.
I turn to head out of town when a scrappy young man jumps between two trucks, knife pointing right at me. My gaze goes from his blond, unkempt hair obscuring half his face to the blade he wields with an understated confidence that betrays his skill with it.
I smirk.
Kid’s got no clue who he’s fuckin’ with.
And apparently no one’s taught him you don’t bring a knife to a gunfight. Though, not sure I’d draw my Sig and waste a bullet. Easier to disarm the kid and slit his throat.
I study him closer. While his clothes are ragged, they’re clean. The knife’s blade appears sharp as if he’s taken care of it. And he holds the weapon like it’s part of him.
Maybe he’s not such a dumbass after all.
His face is lean and hollowed but not starving. He’s beating the odds, finding a way to survive.
