The room seemed to freeze, even as Tatiana busied herself by the fire in the background, the heat from the flames now somehow more distant than the chill in the air.


    Jasper lowered himself back into his seat, reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out a battered voice recorder and a small notepad. The recorder had seen better days. Scuffed edges, a faint crack near the microphone. But it still worked, and that was what mattered. Across from him, Ms. Petrov sat rigid with her arms crossed, her sharp gaze unwavering despite the deep lines of age creasing her face. The years had not dulled her presence. If anything, they had chiseled her down to something even harder.


    The room was quiet except for the occasional creak of the old wooden floor beneath his chair. Outside, the wind rattled against the window.


    Jasper pressed record, clearing his throat. "I was hoping we could start with your earliest memories of the outbreak."


    Ms. Petrov exhaled sharply through her nose in a manner that almost sounded like a scoff. "You don''t say." She didn''t elaborate.


    Jasper waited, giving her room to continue. When she didn''t, he shifted in his seat, adjusting his grip around his mug, letting its warmth seep into his fingers. "I''ll start with the basics," he spoke. "You were all alone when it started? I heard you were barely out of your teens. Is that true? What was it like?"


    Ms. Petrov''s lips twitched. An expression that could''ve been mistaken for a smirk if it weren''t so harsh. "That''s a load of questions to be asking all at once."


    "Well, it''s kind of my job to ask questions."


    "Then ask better ones."


    Jasper inhaled deeply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He''d heard she was difficult, but experiencing it firsthand was something else entirely. He had spent weeks preparing for this interview, poring over survivor accounts, classified reports, even old radio transcripts. He thought he knew what to expect. He thought he was ready.


    How wrong he had been.


    Flipping through the pre-written questions in his notes, he searched for something, anything, that might crack through the wall of indifference keeping him at bay.


    "Alright. Let''s try something different. What was the hardest thing about surviving?"


    Ms. Petrov leaned back slightly, rolling her shoulders. "Keeping idiotic pricks from getting me killed."


    Jasper let out a disgruntled sigh, but rather than move on, he pushed a little further. "Was there ever a time you thought you wouldn''t make it?"


    Ms. Petrov arched a brow, like the answer was obvious. "Every damn day."


    He jotted something down in his notepad, though he wasn''t sure why. Her answers were curt, dismissive. She wasn''t giving him anything beyond the barest scraps.


    "What about supplies? How did you find food?"


    "I ate."


    Jasper clenched his jaw, exhaling with muted exasperation. "I figured as much. I''m asking how you managed it."


    A pause. Ms. Petrov studied him, the flickering firelight casting harsh shadows across her face. "I scavenged. I stole. Struck up a few partnerships... if you can even call them that."


    "And people? Did you ever-" He hesitated. "Did you ever have to hurt someone to survive?"


    Her expression didn''t change, but something in the air shifted, the tension stretching taut. Not quite defensive, but there was definitely a hint of challenge, like this was not the first time she''d been presented with that particular question. "And so what if I did?"


    Jasper frowned, pressing on despite the warning in her tone. "Let''s rephrase that. If survival was as brutal as you say, I imagine there were moments where you had to make tough choices. People you''ve left behind. Things you did not want to do, but were forced to anyway." He flipped through his notes, scanning for names. "I heard there was—"


    The cane struck the floor hard as Ms. Petrov pushed herself up from her chair.


    "Forget it. It''s always the same stupid questions with you people."


    The motion was stiff, but her movements were deliberate as she turned her back on him, heading toward the kitchen. The sharp clack of her cane against the wooden floor echoed through the small cottage.


    "I''ve got better things to do than entertain strangers," she said flatly. "And quite frankly, you''re wasting my time."


    Tatiana paused, a fresh mug of tea in her hands, watching the exchange with quiet interest, though there was a hint of disappointment as well. Jasper felt a flicker of panic settle in his chest. He could see the moment slipping through his fingers, the interview unraveling before it had even properly begun.


    Ms. Petrov''s voice cut through his thoughts, calm and final. "The apocalypse wasn''t a single event. It was a slow, miserable grind. You adapt, or you die. That''s all there is to it."


    And just like that, she was done.


    Jasper''s mind raced. He needed an angle. Something to hold her here, to keep her engaged before she disappeared into another room and left him with nothing but a dead recorder and a wasted journey.


    Something personal.


    Something that mattered.


    His gaze flickered to the slippers by the fireplace. Worn, small. Not Ms. Petrov''s. It finally clicked.


    He hesitated, then asked, "And April?"


    The room stilled.


    Ms. Petrov''s eyes snapped to his, and for the first time since they''d met, there was something other than indifference in them. Something raw, buried beneath years of silence. Even Tatiana seemed to hold her breath.


    Jasper leaned forward slightly. "There was a little girl. Her name was April, wasn''t it? She was important to you?" He said her name carefully, desperation gnawing at his insides.


    A beat passed. Then another.


    Ms. Petrov''s gaze drifted to the slippers. She was quiet for a long time, long enough that Jasper wondered if she''d even answer.


    Then, finally, she spoke. "You heard about her, have you?" The tone in her voice shifted slightly, but it was hard to tell if it was vulnerability or irritation. Ms. Petrov''s eyes-both of them this time-focused on him, but there was still something hard in her gaze, something defensive. No. Not defensive. Protective. "She doesn''t need some half-arsed sob story, much less one for your amusement," she replied curtly, turning away from him to glance out the window, her back to him. "I agreed to this interview," she added slowly, her voice less abrasive but still guarded, "because Tatiana insisted. But don''t get it twisted. I''m not here to help you feel good about yourself, so if publicity is what you''re after, you best walk out that door right now. I don''t owe you anything."


    Jasper shook his head. "It''s not like that. I''ve read the reports," he responded, a little more quickly than he intended. "A lot of it''s... incomplete, though. A lot''s missing. But you''re the one who''s seen it all. So I''m asking you. Not the rumors. Not the theories from the papers. You''ve lived through it. You know what it''s like. What it''s really like. The parts that people who are too comfortable don''t want to acknowledge? That''s what I''m here for."


    Her expression faltered for the briefest of moments when she finally turned to face him again, before she quickly disappeared behind her usually stoic composure.


    "I''m just curious," Jasper continued, lowering his voice as if speaking more quietly would somehow make the following question less intrusive. He had found his opening, as unstable as it was, and he was not about to let it disappear on him. "Not many people talk about her. I just want to know... who was she?" Jasper didn''t move after that. Barely breathed, afraid that if he did, she''d retreat back into her shell.


    Silence settled over them. He let it.


    This time, when Ms. Petrov breathed again, it was shaky. Slight, but shaky. "She was everything."


    Ms. Petrov''s fingers curled tightly around the handle of her cane, her gaze distant with careful contemplation. "She was eight," she said at last, her voice quieter, rougher. "Smart. Stubborn. Too damn cheerful for the world we lived in." A mirthless chuckle left her lips as she gazed out the window to the icy garden beyond. "Drove me crazy sometimes."


    Jasper nodded, careful. "How did you meet her?"


    "An old apartment complex," she said. "Broke through the window. I was scavenging. Thought I was alone after dispatching two infected bastards." Her fingers drummed against the back of her knuckles—a slow, rhythmic beat. "Then I heard something. A rustle. Small. Thought it was a rat at first."


    Jasper stayed quiet, letting her continue at her own pace.


    "Turns out, it was a kid. Half-starved, curled up behind the curtains." Ms. Petrov''s jaw tensed. A ghost of a dark smirk flickered across her face. "And she was in a wheelchair. Can you believe it? A damn wheelchair."


    --------------


    The suburb was quiet, or at least as quiet as it could get. Thorn''s sneakers hit the pavement with a dull thud, the negligible weight of her gear a constant presence in the back of her mind, making each step feel like it might be her last. She stood in a narrow alleyway between crumbling buildings, her breath fogging in the cold, early morning air, ignoring the distant sound of wailing a block or two behind her. She had been out here for hours, picking through the remains of stores and homes, searching for anything edible, anything useful.


    She glanced up at the apartment complex across the street from her. Four stories tall, its brick facade cracked and weathered by time. A crumbling monument of what once had been. Most of the windows were broken. Yellowed. Jagged edges catching the weak afternoon light, the paint around them peeling away in long strips, as though the building itself was trying to shed the haunting tales that had clung to it over the years. The air smelled stale, damp, and faintly metallic, like blood that had dried long ago and never been wiped away.


    She made her way around the corner to the front entrance, scanning the area for signs of movement, but stopped short when she pressed against the door. It was unlocked, but refused to open all the way. A peek through a small crack in the frame quickly revealed why. The ground floor was barricaded, makeshift defenses of old furniture and metal scraps shoved against them. Her lips pressed into a thin line. It was not just locked. It was sealed off. Presumably to keep something out... or to trap something in.


    Thorn stepped closer, placing a calloused hand against the warped wood of the entrance door. Beneath her touch, the surface was brittle and damp, the metal hinges rusted through as she forced it open till it could go no further. She did not achieve much. Peering through a gap in the barricade, she glimpsed the darkened lobby beyond. It was worse than she expected.


    Chunks of ceiling had collapsed inward, spilling jagged beams and shattered brick across the floor. A stairwell yawned open, half-swallowed by rubble, its steps vanishing into a cavernous pit where the foundation had given way. The whole lower level had suffered some kind of structural failure. Whether it was from time, weather, or something else, she couldn''t tell. A breath of cold air swept through the broken entryway, carrying with it the scent of damp concrete and decay.


    She let out a silent grunt of disappointment, dragging her hand away. That ruled out the lobby, and given where the mess originated from, the first floor as well. Even if she could clear a way through, she''d be stepping into an unstable mess with no quick escape. It did not mean she was willing to walk away, though.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Her gaze flicked upward. The upper levels, while still potentially risky for the same reasons as the lobby, were still enticing. If the entrance was closed off, then it likely meant that whatever loot had been left behind during evacuation had remained untouched. She absentmindedly adjusted the strap of her bag. Food was running low. She wasn''t about to go back empty-handed.


    The fire escape laid on the ground in a twisted heap beside the building, like a tangled mess of rusted bones. No good. But the second-floor ledges, their window sills, were still intact... mostly. One of the windows had a jagged crack running through the glass. It was high, but not unreachable. The building itself appeared to follow a slightly older theme. Victorian bay style windows adorned the ground floor. Each protruding frame formed a potential checkpoint, a makeshift ladder of architecture. This, she could work with.


    With a steadying breath, she took a few steps back to prepare, and without missing a beat, sprinted forward. Her shoe hit the wall first, then her second one joined the fray, both legs fighting for traction then propelling her upward. She hit the first ledge hard, fingers gripping the cold stone; she hoisted herself up in one, fluid motion. The second ledge was higher still, just out of reach. Up here, her run-up was shortened, her options more limited-but not impossible. She crouched slightly, coiling like a spring, before launching herself upward again. One foot darted up the wall after the other, pushing against gravity. She deftly found purchase on the appropriate window sill protruding from the brick, dangling for a second. The second ledge crumbled slightly. Her grip tightened, then after a drawing a steadying breath, she hauled herself up once more.


    She swung one leg up, wriggling into place on top of the narrow outcrop. The cold wind bit at her exposed skin, but she ignored it, focusing on the window. The sun created a harsh reflection against its cracked surface. She drew her knife, its handle worn smooth with use, and braced her free hand against the crook in the wall for balance. Before attempting to pry the thing open, she knocked against the glass lightly with her knuckle, just enough to draw the attention of anyone—or anything inside.


    No response. No shadows moving inside. That was a good sign.


    Thorn waited a second longer, and just when it seemed like she might be in the clear—


    Slam.


    A cold, grimy hand flattened itself against the window, splitting the crack into multiple, jagged sections that spiderwebbed across the surface. Thorn recoiled, heels testing the sill''s edge, knife raised, her heart hammering in her chest.


    A mass of pale skin and torn fabric stared at her from the inside. Two infected. Their faces, once human, were twisted, mouths slack with hunger. Their skin had the sickly, translucent sheen of something long malnourished. One of them—taller, leaner, male perhaps—dragged broken fingers across the glass, leaving behind smeared streaks of something dark and unnamable. The other pressed closer, nostrils flaring as if it could already taste her, muttering something that was too muffled to make out from her position on the other side.


    Thorn clenched her jaw, forcing down the cold knot in her gut.


    The taller one struck the glass again, forehead first, splitting the skin down the center. The wound hardly bled. Or it did, but its blood-viscous and nearly brown-could barely breach the tiny opening to the surface. Its cloudy eyes locked onto her, and with another heaving lurch, the fractures in the glass deepened. It wouldn''t hold much longer.


    Thorn let out a displeased grunt. This was the last thing she wanted to deal with right now. She had seconds. Maybe less.


    She glanced down, minding the drop lingering just a hairs breath out of reach. A single misstep, a slip of balance, and she''d be the one crashing down, either to the pavement below or in the other direction into the waiting hands of flesh-hungry abominations. At best she would escape with a broken bone. At worst, Thorn would wind up an unsavory meal. Neither option sounded acceptable.


    She shifted, shimmying on the ball of her foot to adjust her stance as far as her precarious position would allow. Then, gripping the knife tight, she struck first, driving her elbow forward, smashing through the weakened pane.


    The glass shattered inward, raining over the infected.


    The smaller one reeled back from the impact, but the taller one, its support now gone and still leaning forward, tumbled halfway through the opening right beside Thorn''s feet, jagged shards slicing into its already ruined skin. She didn''t give either of them time to recover.


    With a sharp drop of her hip, she drove the knife down into the valley between the taller creature''s shoulder blades. It sunk in deep. The body spasmed violently, and after securing the fingers of her opposing hand around its belt, or what was left of it, Thorn gave a sharp pull, hauling it through the rest of the way. It teetered unsteadily, dangling legs over head, prying off what was left of its finger nails in a desperate bid to stay rooted, before slipping in slow motion over the side. Its arms flailed wildly, an enraged screech ripping from its throat before it hit the concrete head first.


    One down.


    The smaller one, female by the looks of it, was already scrambling back, its bony limbs moving with frantic energy. Its jaw stretched unnaturally wide, a manic cackle spilling out between ragged breaths.


    "Sweetheart," it crooned, voice thick with something sickly, almost sing-song. "My sweetheart... rest your head..."


    Thorn barely had time to brace before it lunged, slamming into the window frame with such force that the old glass shuddered in its rusted housing. A filthy hand shot forward, fingers curling, desperate to latch onto flesh.


    "Dreams will... keep you-"


    Thorn jerked back on instinct. The fingertips barely brushed the edge of her chin.


    The ledge beneath her crumbled.


    Her foot slipped, her balance vanishing in an instant. Gravity pitched her backward, and for a heart-stopping moment, she was falling.


    Her hand shot out, fingers locking around the top of the window frame. Glass tore through her skin, a wet sting blooming across her palm. The infected shrieked, clawing for her again, its movements jerky and relentless.


    "Sleep... sleep so... sound..." it whispered this time, like a lullaby twisted into something wrong. "... Sweetheart." Then it cackled again, a sharp, erratic sound.


    Thorn gritted her teeth, forcing her grip to hold, a single foot dangling precariously over the ledge. The creature glanced a finger over the edge of her jacket zipper. She lashed out, her knife carving a large line into the back of its knuckles. Nowhere near enough to pass straight through but it spared her a second. After steadying herself with both arms, Thorn lifted her heel and speared it forward with bone crushing force.


    Her sole connected with its chest, and it staggered back, ankles tangling with one another till its spine hit a grime infested carpet.


    She wasted no time, ducking through the window to invite herself inside to safety, shoes grinding against the glass strewn floor. The sooner she got off the ledge, the better. With a flick of her wrist, she discarded her knife off to the side, changing it out for the lengthy kukri strapped to her back. Its superior weight felt reassuringly familiar in her grasp.


    The creature let out a wet, rasping chuckle from where it lay sprawled. Its fingers twitched, spasming against the carpet as it tried to right itself.


    "Sweetheart," it rasped again, voice fractured like a broken radio. "You—you—"


    Its head lolled to the side, dead eyes gleaming like marbles in the dim light. Its mouth twisted into something that might''ve been a grin, if not for the blackened gums and teeth filed down by rot. Thorn wasn''t about to let it finish whatever nonsense it was choking out.


    With one, giant swing, she brought the kukri down.


    The curved blade whistled through the air, meeting with the downed infected just as it managed to sit up. The edge hit home with a dull thunk, splitting skin, skull and brain tissue. The creature''s laugh choked off into a liquid gurgle. Its fingers clawed feebly at the carpet before falling still.


    Silence finally shuffled through the room.


    Thorn exhaled sharply, wrenching the blade free. Then the body slumped, collapsing bonelessly to the floor. Dark, sticky blood seeped onto the floor, soaking into years of filth.


    She turned, rolling her shoulders to shake off the tension as she took quick stock of the room.


    It seemed she had stumbled into a bedroom. An intact one at that... mostly. It, just like many other places, had seen better days. A large bed stood in the center, once white sheets now stained an unsightly brown. A pungent, very distinct odor filled her nose. It was not hard to figure out why. Small piles of human feces laid scattered about, some of it trudged into the very fibers of the carpet.


    Thorn didn''t let herself linger.


    She wiped the blade clean on the nearest scrap of fabric before side-stepping the filth to retrieve her knife, still abandoned on the floor. It had thankfully landed somewhere relatively untouched by the mess. Her gaze flicked toward the door. Still shut. Her movements were still cautious as she made her way over. It looked like it had been abused, its surface marred by chips and scratches. She exhaled slowly, pressing her ear against the worn wood, listening. The building was silent save for the wind rattling through the cracks. And then—


    A sound. Faint. Small. A rustle from deeper inside the apartment. Thorn''s grip tightened on her kukri. A rat, perhaps? No. It was too controlled. Too careful.


    Someone else, or something else was here.


    When she tested the handle, she found it locked.


    Thorn clicked her tongue in irritation, brow furrowing. That complicated things.


    She stepped back, gaze shifting to the room''s ruined remains, searching for anything that may be useful. Her eyes trailed across the grimy sheets, the disturbed furniture—a wrecked armchair and a sagging bookshelf—the floor littered with debris. A toppled nightstand sat beside the bed, its single drawer half open. Thorn moved toward it, kukri still in hand. The wood was swollen from moisture damage, its varnish peeled away in jagged strips. She crouched, hooking two fingers inside the drawer to pry it open the rest of the way. Inside, a few objects lay in disarray. A cracked phone, a bundle of yellowed tissues, a family photo, something that looked like an old wedding band. And, nestled beneath the junk, a small key.


    She plucked it out, turning it between her fingers. It edge was rusted, unsurprisingly, the teeth worn down from use. It was worth a try.


    Thorn stood, brushing the grime off on her jacket before moving back to the door. She slid the key into the lock and gave it a twist.


    Click.


    A satisfied, flicker of a smirk pricked at her lips, but she quickly shoved it back down. She needed to keep focused. Whatever was on the other side, she needed to be ready for it.


    Thorn eased the door open, blade poised.


    Beyond it, the apartment stretched out into a small, cluttered living space. The curtains were drawn, drenching the scene in minor darkness. Compared to the bedroom, the air smelled cleaner, or at least not choked with the stench of decay and human waste. Still stale. And the best part? The place looked untouched by the carnage in the lobby.


    The sharp tang of dust clung to the back of her throat, but there was something else, too. Faint, but unmistakable. The sight of food, or remnants of it, lay scattered about.


    Her eyes swept over the room. A low coffee table sat in the center, its surface littered with open cereal boxes, torn wrappers, and half-empty containers of dried fruit. A spoon rested inside an overturned can, its contents congealed and long past appetizing. The floor was relatively clear, save for a few stray crumbs and a single plastic bowl resting on it side. Still, there was no sign of whatever had made the sound earlier.


    Thorn continued to move carefully, barely making a sound as she rounded the edge of an old couch. She kept close to the walls, listening, eyes regarding every nook and cranny.


    A rustle broke the silence.


    She stopped cold, her gaze snapping toward the source. A shadow hunched in the farthest corner of the room, barely visible behind the curtains. It was surprisingly small. Not too small to be considered a threat, though. Thorn''s grip on her kukri adjusted, her stance shifting ever so slightly as she took a step forward.


    The figure shrank back.


    Slowly, she peeled the drapes back with the tip of her blade. What she saw was anything but expected.


    A pair of blue, wide eyes—too bright, and full of life—locked with her own. It was a girl, no older than seven or eight, curled up tight in a wheelchair that looked far too big for her small frame. Her brown, tangled hair fell over her face, her breathing uneven. A smear of crumbs dusted her chin, and an open box of cereal rested on her lap, the flaps crumpled at the edges. She didn''t speak. Didn''t cry. Didn''t dare move.


    Neither of them did.


    Thorn''s grip on her kukri didn''t loosen, but she didn''t tighten it, either. She just stared.


    A kid. A freaking kid.


    The girl just sat there, huddled in that oversized wheelchair like some kind of frail stray animal, fingers clenched around the crumpled cereal box. Thorn''s mind worked through the situation mechanically, tilting her head in contemplation. Her expression never changed, not hostile, but certainly not soft. Just a cold detachment.


    The kid was alone.


    It was weak. It wasn''t going to last. Not in this world. Not in that condition.


    Her shoulders tensed at the thought, fingers tightening around the hilt of her blade. The logical thing... the smart thing, would be to end it quickly. A clean cut, a swift strike, before the kid suffered more than she already had. But Thorn didn''t move.


    She wasn''t a killer.


    Not like that.


    Thorn''s jaw tightened, exhaled sharply through her nose, then turned away, walking briskly toward the mess of supplies strewn over the coffee table. Whatever had been here before was already picked clean, but maybe there was still something worth taking. A few unopened snack packs. Some canned food. Water, if she was lucky. Thorn crouched, sifting through the scattered remains, ignoring the weight of the girl''s stare burning into her back.


    Thorn had her own survival to worry about, and in this world, that was already more than enough.


    The coffee table was a disappointment. Nothing about the empty wrappers and skewed cereal boxes presented anything worth keeping. She clicked her tongue, rising back to her full height. She did not so much as spare the kid a glance as she strolled toward the kitchen.


    A few of the bottom-most cabinets hung slightly ajar, their contents rifled through. An old fridge stood in the corner. Thorn did not know why she did, but she checked it anyway. The moment she cracked it open, she almost had to fight the urge to gag. Apart from a half empty bottle of soda in the door and a mixing bowl—just the mixing bowl—everything else had long turned rotten and unrecognizable. The smell wrinkled her nose, making her eyes water.


    Her hand whipped out, snatching up the bottle, making sure the cap was screwed on tight, before slamming the fridge shut and shoving the item into her backpack.


    "Are you gonna kill me?"


    The voice was small, hoarse as it broke the silence. The kind of hoarse that came from days without water, from swallowing down fear over and over until it settled deep into one''s bones.


    Thorn froze. Slowly, she turned her head. The girl hadn''t moved. She still sat hunched in her chair, but her fingers now gripped the armrests instead of the cereal box. Wide, wary eyes, just a shade darker and more vivid than her own, stared up at Thorn.


    Thorn let loose a heavy sigh, but beyond that, she did not bother to offer a response. The girl swallowed, gaze flicking toward the blade in Thorn''s left hand, then over to the bedroom.


    Thorn stepped over a pile of discarded cans, sneakers crunching softly against scattered crumbs, and stopped by the cabinets. Some of them were conveniently out of reach for a kid, much less one stuck in a wheelchair. Thorn set her kukri down within arm''s reach and started rummaging through them.


    A single can of beans. Some oatmeal. A bag of jerky and a few small chocolates hidden inside an empty tissue box. Better than nothing.


    Behind her, the silence stretched thick until—


    "Are they..." The girl''s voice was barely above a whisper. "Are they still in there?"


    This time, Thorn didn''t freeze. She didn''t even hesitate. "No," she answered simply.


    Not a complete lie. It did not matter, though. The kid would figure it out on its own soon enough.


    Her fingers brushed the edge of a box of crackers, stale but not inedible. She tossed that into her bag as well. The girl still hadn''t moved.


    "Mommy used to sing," the kid murmured, voice barely audible. "Before bed. Every night." Thorn''s hands stilled inside her backpack for a fraction of a second. There was a sniff. She turned just enough to catch a single tear drop onto the kid''s tiny lap.


    "She never stopped singing," the kid whispered. "Not until today."