Day 10.5: Gnawing emptiness


    The hunger is worse now.


    It’s not just an ache anymore. It’s a deep, twisting pain, pulling at my insides like something alive, gnawing and hollowing me out. My stomach clenches, a sharp stab with every movement. My hands feel empty, weightless, like they might forget how to hold the crowbar. My legs feel slow, like I’m dragging myself through deep water. Every step is heavier than the last, and if I stop—if I let it dig too deep into my bones—I might not get up again.


    I can barely see the van near the bar through the store’s shattered window. The street outside is still. Too still. The kind of stillness that presses against your skin, that makes the air feel heavier, thicker. It’s the quiet before something happens. My mind drifts back—back to that thing I saw. The one I thought was human. The one that wasn’t. The memory clings like a cold hand on my spine, whispering doubts, making me question what’s real and what’s just fear twisting in my head.


    It felt real. I heard it. I saw it. I felt its breath against my skin, warm and too close. But it was a lie—just my mind breaking under the weight of exhaustion, hunger, fear. A trick, a cruel whisper of something that was never there. My head throbs, my vision swims for a second, but I shake it off. I can''t afford to lose focus. Not now. Not when every second counts. I need to move. I need to survive.


    The van won’t make it far. I knew it the second I pulled in, the way it barely rolled to a stop before the engine let out that awful, rattling wheeze, like an animal taking its last breath. But now that truth sits heavier, pressing down like a weight on my chest. If I don’t find gas, if I don’t get out of here, I’m done. No food, no strength, no way to fight back. Just a slow, painful fade into nothing. I can feel that future clawing at the edges of my mind, whispering that it would be easier to just stop now, to just let go. But I can’t. Not yet.


    The junkyard is my only chance. A last, desperate gamble. A place where forgotten things rot away, where rust eats through metal and time swallows everything whole. It could have what I need. It could also be the place I die.


    I don’t like it. I don’t trust it. It’s the kind of place where things are left to rot, where the world turns its back and lets time swallow everything whole. Rusted-out husks piled high, jagged metal lurking in the shadows, waiting to slice, to trap, to punish. The air feels thick, stale, like it''s been holding its breath for years. Too many hiding spots, too many corners where something could be crouched in the dark, waiting. The kind of place where if you scream, the sound just dies, swallowed by the emptiness. I can feel it in my bones—this place wasn’t made for the living. But I don’t have a choice.


    I tighten my grip on the crowbar, but my fingers feel stiff, like they don’t belong to me. The hunger makes my hands shake, my grip weak. I press forward, careful, slow, every step placed with purpose. The last time I moved too fast, my mind twisted the shadows into ghosts. I can’t let that happen again. I pass the body on the floor—the thing I killed. The thing that looked human. The thing that wasn’t. I don’t look at its face. If I do, I might see something familiar, something I don’t want to recognize. My throat is dry, but I swallow hard and step over it, forcing my legs to keep moving. The past doesn’t matter. Only what’s ahead.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Outside, the air is thick, sour with the stink of rot. It clings to everything, heavy and suffocating. I breathe through my mouth, but it doesn’t help. The taste seeps in, bitter and foul, coating my throat like a film I can''t swallow away. The air itself feels wrong, stale and unmoving, like this place has been left to die along with everything in it.


    I keep low, moving through the shadows, each step slow, careful. The world feels too still, like it''s holding its breath. My muscles are tense, wound tight like a spring ready to snap. My eyes dart between every doorway, every alley, every car that sits abandoned, silent. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl, the kind that whispers that something is watching, waiting.


    Empty.


    That doesn’t mean safe.


    I move slow, keeping low, every muscle tense. The broken signs sway, their rusted chains creaking, and empty bottles clink together in the gutter like bones shifting in the dark. Every sound is sharp, cutting through the silence like a warning. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, steady but too fast, like a drum calling something closer. I force myself to breathe slow, to move even slower. One wrong step, one mistake, and I might not have the strength to run.


    I don’t run. Running means noise. Running means mistakes. So I move step by step, creeping forward, forcing myself to stay patient. The junkyard is ahead, a mess of rust and decay, its fences sagging under years of neglect. Old tarps flap weakly in the breeze, torn and stained, barely clinging to the broken chain-link. Stacks of dead cars lean against each other, their shattered windows like hollow eyes staring into nothing. It looks like a graveyard, forgotten and left to rot. The air is thick with the stench of oil, rust, and something else—something sour, something dead. My grip tightens around the crowbar as I step closer, my stomach twisting. The gate hangs open, bent at an odd angle. Something forced its way through. Or something never left.


    I grip the crowbar tighter, my knuckles aching from how hard I’m holding it. The metal feels heavier now, like the weight of the last few days has sunk into it, pressing down on me, making my arms weak. My breath is slow, steady, even though my chest feels tight. I tell myself it’s just the hunger, just the fear, but deep down, I know it’s something else too. The junkyard looms ahead, its gate hanging open, bent like something forced its way in. Or maybe something tried to force its way out. The chain that once kept it shut is snapped, the links twisted like broken fingers. My stomach clenches. The air stinks of old oil, damp dirt, and something worse—something sickly sweet, something that clings to the back of my throat and makes me want to gag.


    I scan the space between the rusting, broken-down cars. They lean against each other like corpses piled up after a battle, their shattered windows dark and empty like dead eyes. Some still have scraps of paint, names of old businesses, half-torn stickers from a world that doesn’t exist anymore. Everything is covered in grime, streaked with rust. It’s a maze of decay, a place where things are left to rot and be forgotten. My gut tightens. I don’t know if there’s gas in there. I don’t know if there’s anything useful at all. I don’t even know if I’ll make it out. But I know one thing.


    I can’t stay here. If I stop now, if I let the hunger, the exhaustion, or the fear win, then it’s over. There’s no waiting for a better time. There’s no one coming to help. There’s only forward.