《Abandoned Angels' Apocalypse》


 Introduction: One for the Vine.

    Drinking¡­blood. That was the first and most prominent visual I had to experience. Tackling cute, innocent women and then biting into their shoulders. Engaging in violence in such an animalistic way with honest men that they¡¯re left with hundreds of bite marks. Crossing distances spanning miles in minutes¡­ I passed by visuals of buildings falling, wooded parks burning, and bridges crumbling. Nothing stood in the way of the progression of these visuals. Military forces, barricades, even concrete walls knock over without needing any effort. Absolute destruction filled every second of this experience.


    What am I even looking at? What is on my other side, causing a natural disaster in the making? The perspective, specifically what angle I¡¯m witnessing from, jerks back and forth, honing into small details sometimes far in the distance. Each moment, I witness a new obstacle in this¡­thing¡¯s waking chaos, and then each moment after, they¡¯re obliterated. If that target is human, they tend to be eviscerated. If the target¡¯s a machine, they normally get tossed sometimes hundreds of feet in the air. And if they¡¯re stationary, they crumble like a thousand years of erosion hitting them in a moment.


    After seeing possibly a hundred bodies splat into pieces, I caught the first glimpse of whose carnage I was witnessing. They had these huge talons- well, actually they mostly looked like a human hand, but it was just so covered in blood that the actual talon-ey part blended in with the rest of their hand. I noticed it after it tore apart a metal guardrail and then, I guess, twirled it around or something insane. It felt like the only thing on my host¡¯s mind was to unleash as much anger as physically possible.


    The monster I was viewing this scene from appeared to lose all control of himself. He was jittering, clawing into nowhere, seemingly slobbering and completely out of fine motor skills. Upon collapsing and hitting the ground, my vision quickly transitioned to black.


    For everything to hinge on a single perspective, to miss the mark of his destiny is kind of pathetic. He could have changed everything. Actualizing what he could do in the form of mass bloodshed, he had nearly unlimited potential. It was like looking at a skeleton key. I felt like I was viewing someone scrape expensive furnishings with that skeleton key. He could have unlocked the solution, the key to salvation.


    I actually don¡¯t know who my host is.


    If not to unlock the gate to bridge our differences, he could have at least attained an ideal unlike ever seen before. He could have climbed the heights of the world. Maybe he could have led the survivors through the forest, where no one else knew how. At the very least, he could have made meaningful relationships. He neither settled nor found a connection to satisfy the reason he even came to the City. So, he didn¡¯t give himself any purpose.


    I don¡¯t even know what my host looks like.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    His peers settled for their preferences. They ate and felt merry. They held hands with others and found companionship. They built projects and marveled at what they had made. They gave him a chance to enjoy what they relished. None of it ever made sense to him. It bothered him. He knew their satisfaction was temporary. He knew what he built would be an agonizing struggle to pull from the worms in the earth. Ultimately, he didn¡¯t fit in with what their goals were. His hands couldn¡¯t make anything from the earth.


    As my thoughts wrestled against my hosts¡¯, or possibly some sort of narrator to my vision, what I witnessed began to speed up. Like, my host tore apart everything in front of him quicker: blood fell faster, dust kicked up into the air and settled sooner. Fleshy vines then wrapped around the periphery of my host¡¯s vision. People began to tumble around my host, and they all looked asleep. As my host sprinted at the speed of a train, every fiber in his body then was ribboned into a million pieces.


    One figure stood stalwart, not even fully facing my host, and shredded him into spaghetti. She twirled her curly, shiny black hair for a moment. My perspective stopped in front of her, watching heaps of person-pulp settle in a circle around her. The city my host had been destroying disappeared from view. The only thing between her and I was my host¡¯s disgusting flesh.


    Why did I have to meet her?


    I just don¡¯t know what to do. There¡¯s no way forward. Like, there¡¯s literally nothing I can do that I would call one of my own actions, something I intentionally did myself. Any direction I go in sabotages me, and doesn¡¯t even give a long-term benefit. There¡¯s nothing I can do that would be called human, or good, or, I don¡¯t know.


    If I can¡¯t become more human, then I guess I must become something like a monster. There is no third option, and nothing neutral or even balanced. If I try to retain my humanity, everything I do results in a humiliating loss. It¡¯s like being pulled downwards, where worms in the ground grip my skin and then drill holes into my pores just to melt together into my veins, pulling them out, twisting my arms, and unraveling my flesh like they¡¯re unwrapping Christmas presents, slowly reeling me into the dirt and putrefying my blood into a viscous, dry, brown substance. I can¡¯t just let that all happen to me. But what else can I do? Slash and swipe away those worms? Bash and punch the ground? Thrash in rage? Shake it all out and retaliate against my aggressors? I have to fight back. I need to draw blood. I should drink their blood. I need to neutralize all of them by drinking their blood. I want their blood.


    I then began to weep bitterly. I cried hysterically with all of these horrible thoughts coming into my mind. And for obvious reasons- I¡¯m a monster! I¡¯m something terrible; I¡¯ve become something that leeches purpose away from anything in my reach. Everything I do is vile. Everything I do betrays me. Despite my intentions devouring me from the inside, I''m calloused on the outside, my skin hardening like sun-bleached leather.


    My only thought back then was: ¡°Maybe I could rewind my steps to find my goal again, recuperate the parts of me that were scattered across the world,¡± but the other shards rejected me! I could only think they were more than me as if I could only drag them into the earth and not be of some mutual comradery. I couldn¡¯t justify myself. I paddled upward, what was left of my host and, I tugged at her ankles. I kept- He actually kept lunging to and up as the worms pulled-

 Chapter 1: Watcher of the Sky 1-1

    I then threw myself forward upon waking. I sat still, frozen for the moment I needed to process what I witnessed. Words couldn¡¯t come out of me from how shaken up I was. Even thinking was a choppy process. Did I really need to see all of that?


    I was sitting with my back to a rusted, cadmium-yellow gate. It had a single arm that looked like it could normally go up and down. A few chains lay beside it, hooked on one of the edges. If that gate was meant to keep people out, it didn¡¯t work. It was half my height at the most. It did, however, serve as a valuable marker, as it rested in the middle of a dirt path in a large, otherwise natural forest. No matter how far I went, I could see the loud neon yellow through the muted olive-colored forest.


    After steadily getting my footing, I was off to the races. By races, I mean I walked along the path very quickly. There really weren''t any notable details or anything particularly awe-striking about the forest. If anything, every tree appeared to be spaced evenly with every other tree.


    I passed by a few steel rails almost buried in the ground. They cut through my path, specifically by making a gradual turn through. If some mud-covered relic was the only other notable marker, this forest had to be alive. Metaphorically- not literally, there¡¯s no way an entire forest could be one big predator with its jaws open and me putzing around on its tongue.


    Brushing against the trees makes them rustle. They swayed and echoed their movement after I had passed by them. Endless rows of trees stretched beyond my vision, dissolving into one color. And as I couldn¡¯t see any tangibly moving being, nothing else disturbed the forest from what I could hear, either.


    But what trees give off did not align with what I thought I smelled. Neither dew, nor pine, nor wood, nor sap was what invaded my attention. It was something stale. It hit me like a foam wall. It was a lingering smell that coated more of me as I proceeded along the path. What was it? Trees don¡¯t smell like this.


    Upon complete distraction, the smell became like a mist. It was too thick to avoid. Metallic taste. More iron than sulfur. Can¡¯t avoid it. I began to stumble, nearly hitting tree to tree. My concentration broke, accidentally scraping my hands upon a tree leaking sap. Juices that congealed nearly instantly, putting one finger to the other and like glue, made a ripping feeling between the two. My hand grazed a bush. My attention shifted to my now uncleanable hand. No matter how much I tried to rub the feeling onto my clothing, I only made it worse.


    Hold up. Pause. Cutting my disgust short, I looked up and ahead. I gave ample time to analyze what I had missed. The trees began to form more of an organized path. Hills gave elevation to an equal number of trees spread from above and below. They nearly hunched over me, some of which even twisted to face me. Were twisted, not to twist, to my understanding. If they were to twist, then I would at least know something other than myself existed with any degree of awareness.


    Crossing what felt like miles, I finally found flowers: something that was meant to be viewed. I began to focus on their stems, and thought of the strung out guts I witnessed.


    It would be strange to believe I was looking at myself in that trance. That¡¯s not me. Sure, maybe I have it in me to harm. I¡¯m sure there are plenty of situations where someone would say it¡¯d make sense if they had to hurt someone else. On top of that, I know I¡¯m not the perfect guy, I mean that¡¯d be crazy to say. But the kind of viciousness I saw looked like an intention of its own. The targets I saw, the movements and lack of hesitation they had, the velocity of carnage all pointed to being something else. I don¡¯t know.


    I moved on from mindlessly appreciating the trumpet-shaped flower. The moment of concentration dissolved away. It was the smell that caught the majority of my attention. Nothing could possibly prepare me to identify the source of it. For all I knew, it was everywhere. Or, it could be just how I smelled. But I can¡¯t smell like that. Nothing about me could suggest I was the source, nor was the outfit I wore. Examining what I could of myself, I barely even had anything which could produce an out-of-place smell. I had my clothing, and I had me. None of my clothing was particularly damp, chalky, sticky, or stiff.


    Maybe the flora. What few flowers there were gave off nothing- the smell lingered more while I stood straight up. Was it the leaves? It couldn¡¯t be them either. As I continued to walk, the smell neither strengthened or weakened.


    There was a certain point that I attempted to accept it. If I didn¡¯t think about it, possibly I could ignore it. Minutes of walking went by. I couldn¡¯t ignore it. Nothing I could do avoided the cold, poisonous taste in my mouth. Every step I made wrapped more layers of my exposed skin to musty, spider-web-like air. There has to be a source.


    Other notable details- light was more ambient than coming from any particular direction. Leaves were more open, delicate, a brighter shade of green, and looked like they could sprout an occasional fruit. I could pick a leaf off if I wanted to or hang on a branch if I wanted to stop walking. No pinecones on the ground. No acorns on the ground. There¡¯s no fruit, either. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    But that smell. There has to be something that can take my mind off of it. My surroundings are all the same- there¡¯s nothing else to focus on. There are no mushrooms on the ground. There are no actual cobwebs. No ants. No birds. No chipmunks. There¡¯s only a partially set dirt path that twists a little the further out I look. The forest isn¡¯t even dark. There¡¯s plenty that I can see. What I can see are the exact same tree, duplicated hundreds of times, sometimes in neat, organized single-file lines.


    Time isn¡¯t even passing. Honestly, I just don¡¯t believe time is passing. I see trees, dirt, and grass. That is it. This is a forest. This is what I¡¯m led to believe is a forest. Every step I make is just the same - well, feels like the same - point in space. No progress, too much progress, all the negatives, and none of the positives.


    In some sense, I¡¯m not sure what I¡¯m supposed to be progressing towards. Progress¡­that was a part of what ideas were trying to fill my head during that trance. I guess I don¡¯t have any direction that I was supposed to go toward. But I guess if there was any direction I¡¯m supposed to go in, it¡¯d be to be myself. What harms me and what numbs me, surely they would help indicate what I should be doing. Maybe I don¡¯t know who exactly I am, but I can vaguely guess that if my body is reacting violently to something, I¡¯m probably not that something. That¡¯s not to say what my body has adapted to or what I¡¯ve trained myself to endure would become a part of myself. Maybe if my body was already inviting to it- something I could ingest only a small bit of at a time, that might be considered a part of myself. What interactions I have, what tasks I could handle could all be considered somethings as much as any physical thing.


    That smell¡­I know I can¡¯t be that. Whatever it is, whatever is causing it isn¡¯t me. It¡¯s painful. My skin crawls every moment I¡¯m exposed to it. I feel like it tries to fight my internals, not to assimilate with me but replace me. Every single fiber in my body shrieks in shocking agony as it is being turned into something it isn¡¯t. Something foreign. No matter if what I am being turned into or how I am being controlled is benevolent or malicious, I simply cannot exist if I am not me. After all, if I become something other than me, I am not me.


    Some sort of figure danced along my vision in the trees. Although I welcomed a change in my environment, moving figures in my mind didn¡¯t appear docile or willing to co-exist with me. As if I was a moving lamp, and they were shadows, they moved far more urgently than I did. My first instinct was to try and identify them. No luck on that. My now conscious, less instinctual action was to move at a faster pace.


    If greeting me wasn¡¯t an option, these figures had different business. Were they on all fours or just twos? What did their heads look like? Did they have tails? Although I caught another glimpse, I just couldn¡¯t tell. Not even the colors. Concerning- but what could I do? Was I supposed to call out? Nothing worked; nothing changed my situation. Breaking out into a sprint would surely give them the chance and reason to pounce. Stopping would be stopping. So I pressed on.


    Maybe they were the source of the smell. But it wasn¡¯t any stronger now than before. It didn¡¯t help. In fact, I felt labored to breathe. I called out and attempted to ask. Maybe they were irritated by the smell? No answer.


    The trees began to catch on me more often. Or, as I should responsibly say, I clumsily hit branches more often. Cuts, lacerations, brushes, everything appeared as I pressed on. My environment fought with me- the dirt changed elevation constantly, sometimes making little mounds all over the place. I couldn¡¯t move as quickly as I would have wished.


    I saw one closer. I still couldn¡¯t make out what it was, but it appeared to have quite a bit of clothing. It didn¡¯t breathe. At the very least, I was breathing noticeably more heavily than them. The only noise it did make was from its heavy robes. One of them bumped into a tree, making a knocking noise.


    Out of any change of pace, being chased is not the change that I preferred. Although my jogging was controlled enough to see what environment passed by, I knew I was going to lose something- my belongings, my thoughts, or my life.


    I believe the first time I looked back was now. I saw for a brief moment one of those things scuttle by. It was a hunched over set of robes with hands hooked in front of them. Two hands, two feet. Maybe it was a person?


    As I was being closed in upon, I worked on my pace, from jog to run. Ambient light became natural light. The trail widened and the trees gave way as if they began to open curtains. Was I to wake from this nightmare? Monotony, confusion, then urgency, will this chapter come to a close? I wanted to leap out. I wanted to claw my way into the open air. And with one big, violent breath, I embraced what blinding sunshine enveloped me afterward.


    Many people overestimate how much it¡¯d take to knock them down. Slight hills don¡¯t make people tumble. Taking one wrong step doesn¡¯t lead to a dramatic fall. Even being attacked doesn¡¯t instantly make you lose your footing. On the other hand, when you¡¯re running, sliding down a hill, and can¡¯t remember for the life of you the last time you ran, staying upright is a little harder. I would like to suggest I stayed on my feet for longer than I did, but I believe it was about halfway down the hill. It was the patches of grass that got me. Molehills, snakehills, you know how it goes. My head. I had to focus on my head. When falling, I believe I need to focus on making sure my head doesn¡¯t get hurt.


    A branch in the ground told me otherwise. My shirt snagged on it, and although not ripping, I did change directions and lost all control of myself. It took until the ground was literally flat again to move by my own command. Scanning around, turning around, and swiveling all over, I didn¡¯t spot a single pursuer. From what I saw above, not a single soul had followed or loomed over in the shade of the forest.

 Chapter 1: Watcher of the Sky 1-2

    I took a breather.


    If I wasn¡¯t me, I would have no reason to try and exist. Sure, they would¡¯ve probably killed me. But if they weren¡¯t going to kill me, I would probably kill me on accident. If I lost who and what I was, there¡¯d be no reason to continue to be me. Why eat? It¡¯s not me anymore. Why breath? Only I would need that, I believe. If I¡¯m not me, it''s not necessary. If I lose me, there is no reason for me to exist, as I wouldn¡¯t, in reality, exist already. I would be mere substance, formless material, slithering aimlessly. What I was would be looted, like an abandoned temple. What I was would be disintegrated, like a long-vacant junkyard. Alternatively, it¡¯d be as if I were a tangled mass of flesh, ready to come apart once something with an actual essence came into contact with me.


    You know, maybe all of the smells, the feelings, the tastes being separate from me would suggest who I am, who I truly am, isn¡¯t tangible at all. Although I am my body, what goes in it isn¡¯t me, and may even affect me physically or emotionally. I guess it¡¯d be hard to say what substances would return me to my natural resting state. Conversely, I could only assume a vast landscape of my environment would technically be toxic to my very essence.


    Maybe¡­whatever that city was wasn¡¯t made for him. They got along like oil and water. He rejected what it offered- stuff, achievements, companionship, and none of it fit like a puzzle piece. It just feels weird. Wouldn¡¯t that mean that everything would be incompatible with him? Like as if what I saw was trying to tell me I was viewing antimatter trying to get along with matter.


    I can¡¯t see myself becoming that walking natural disaster. My essence, what I believe to be, should, in theory, be a blueprint that then generates some sort of shape. My colors, shapes, and lines form in reality from the essence that I believe me to be. In other words, if I believe I exist at all - and since my authentic thoughts are proof that I am Ishmael - then I should have a body. Although my body might be an acquired thing from what I believe me to be, what it tends to be and what feels right to me would be the existence of me. What urges me to act, whether or not that action is easy or simple, has to be me.


    In some sense, maybe it is the substances around me that try to nip and pull me away from what I am. Maybe that trance had a point. Maybe, like a poisonous mixture, my continued attempt to integrate into an environment that isn¡¯t me has made me less of who I am. My present state would erode. My future would become less clear. My operation between the present and the future slows, halts, or stutters due to confusion. I operate suboptimally, becoming vulnerable. Vulnerability allows more poison to seep in.


    Conclusively, what body I have is not a problem. Every machine has flaws and weaknesses. Cars operate best when they have crumple zones, after all. What it becomes is not a problem as well, as I do not know what my existence should be. In fact, the existence of me is not the essence of me. The essence of me is the blueprint; it is what I should be and, what I tend to be, and what I feel most comfortable to be. But not every day is the same. Not every river I step in will be the same as I¡¯ve done before. Plus, many things that I operate within or in proximity affect me, as well as reveal more aspects of me. How I may react to my environment may not be me, as it is the existence of me and not the essence of me. It may not be what makes me me. But it can be informative of what I am.


    What I present to others could be aspects of me, but they affect me: such as harming me, manipulating me, speaking over me, engaging in any physical contact with me, and such. So, others, being instruments to spread an environment that is foreign to what I am, may input themselves onto me, making my existence less of me and more of them. Whether or not they may claim to be like me, their foreign nature removes aspects of me.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    What can only matter, if I am to continue to be me, is to filter all else that is not me. My goal is my essence. If I ever ingest poison, in other words, any foreign agent that operates differently and independently of me, then I will be less of me. Do I seek oblivion? Oblivion is not me, as it is obviously a foreign agent and will lead to me becoming exactly what I am not. Therefore, to be me is to preserve me. To disallow any poisons to enter in me. To disallow anyone forcing themselves onto me. I must be me, and everyone and everything else that is not me, which is to say everything in my environment must be quarantined by physical, mental, social, financial, and emotional rejection.


    I began to spiral.


    All my peers seek to put themselves into me. They seek to aggrandize themselves, although possibly unimpeding their own essence, they endanger mine. I am not like them. I do not naturally find comfort in what they do, nor can I adapt to their comforts. I writhe in pain every time I even think about attempting to indulge in their comforts. They may be of the environment I occupy with them, but they are compatible and essential to this environment while I am not.


    There are those that are better than me. And there are those who are like me. And by all accounts, they could be. But they are not me. They are like them, and I am like me. Therefore I do not want to emulate them. They''re not me. I can''t even be them, as I would no longer be me. They could be the best in the world, but they are them and I am me and thus I don''t want to be or try to be them. I am me and in order to not become something else and vanish as consequence, I would never try to be like them.


    I could be strange. I could be dysfunctional. By all accounts, I am both of these things, considering how foreign and hostile my environment is to me. Perhaps I am worse than everyone else. But because I am not them, and I am me, I will continue to have my rough edges, and stubbornly keep the barbs on me that catches on danger. And maybe it will bring the end of me. But becoming not me also brings the end of me. Thus I will either bring the end of me now or later. And since I must be me, or else I would not be me, I must attempt to forestall the end of me for as long as I can.


    With what I was given, I wouldn¡¯t call any of it talents, enviable, or worth having. I feel like a hoarder rather than a dragon guarding its riches. These aren¡¯t riches. I¡¯m ordinary. Ordinary by my impact rather than my uniqueness. If anything, my allergy to my environment is a sign I am weak. Weak, and there is nothing I can do to become strong, resilient, or valuable. I am a decaying pest. I suck.


    Whatever tasks I could do is the dying breath of my essence. What abnormal tasks I can accomplish simply proves the difference in my essence. It may not be better, and as I suggest I have proven, it is worse, but it is me. I am me. I am no one but me. I cannot wake up one day as someone who is not me, not even me 2.0. I can only be me, or otherwise I would not be me.


    I am like this, and I cannot stop ¡°being like this¡±, since it is me. So what talents and what maluses I am mixed with is what my essence will leave me. Not my riches, not my connections, not my place and time in society could even define what my talents and maluses are. They are independent of me, and quite frankly irrelevant. My talents are within me. Some may marvel at them in such uniqueness. Some may scorn them in their alien nature. They all desire to flip me into what I am not.


    In other words, my existence is that which will always be prey. I am threatened. I am hunted. And I cannot hunt, as it is not my essence to spread me-ness. I am me as much as I can be, and being me only sprouts one of me. To be me does include my body in theory, but does not allow the proliferation of me, as it would then not be me. It would be an existence independent of me. Even then, what my body produces is not me, rather an existence of me. Me, I, am influential on what I produce, but my production is a foreign agent to me. Often, what comes from me, as it is so alien to my environment, quickly is devoured and subverted. It becomes not me as quickly as my environment can make it be.

 Chapter 1: Watcher of the Sky 1-3

    Turning behind me, I saw farms ahead. Farms, that is, a large path splitting between a few fields of crops, washed out wooden buildings, and even an occasional windmill. Change of pace. Potentially: food as well. Between eluding people, arduously traveling a forest until the end of time, and simply not remembering my last meal, I knew food was the most logical progression.


    Everything from the grass, to the ground, to the horizon and sky looked organized. Except for the clouds and sun; the fluffy and even mighty titanium white clouds appeared wherever they saw fit, and the sun was in its usual spot. Otherwise, every blade of grass looked too scared to fight with one another. White fence posts protected the crops from anything running into them. Buildings often ran parallel to each other.


    Speaking of buildings, I knocked on one. It was clearly a barn with what giant door it had. I tested it anyway. Nothing, so I moved onto the next door I could knock on. And the next. And the next. I didn¡¯t hear barn animals though, nor any of what would¡¯ve been them call out when I made noise. I knocked on another, and another. There had to be something. Farms don¡¯t just exist without someone to tend to them.


    Unlike the forest, I could see for potentially miles. Well, I could see the horizon for miles and miles. I couldn¡¯t see the very flat ground, which was obscured by the crops and the other ground that was at the same height. Flat. All flat. No bumps, no hills. In the distance, I saw what appeared to be more urban buildings. There were maybe one or two skyscrapers. The one had some sort of diamond, or complex pyramid shape that topped it off. The other had a flat roof. I bet the parties up there must be wild. Nothing really stood out. All of it could be categorized, broken down, and appeared less impressive than something scraping the actual sky. Not even the skyscrapers were that tall. Even if they were, their shape, their glass, and everything that made them what they were looked to be meant for utility. Function over form.


    Very clearly, I found myself a city to dwell in. Perfect for living. The horizon gave promise to no other settlement. In fact, most of the buildings spiked up more around a particular epicenter, making the shape of the city a cone. Maybe it wasn¡¯t even a city. No, that¡¯s ridiculous. All buildings should have people in them. And people inside buildings mean living, meaning its a city.


    Back to finding food. The crops were out of the questions. They weren¡¯t processed enough to be edible. They didn¡¯t smell like it, they didn¡¯t look like it, and I wouldn¡¯t even dare taste a single stalk of them. So, another person.


    I called out. I called out again as loud as possible. Even nearby houses: actual homes that had windows, walkways, front porches, and everything needed to look liveable. No one would come out, if there was anyone. What is the point of farms if there aren¡¯t any people to tend to them?


    There was one person. I think. I thought I saw a silhouette from one of the windows. Approaching that house, they went out of view. Maybe they just hate me. What a way to be greeted in a new- I guess, city. No matter how much or in what way I called out, nothing would get them to reappear. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    I lingered. I stopped, I tried moving on. I ran back. Running in circles and circles, deciding between finding food inside the city, or right now. No one was here to help my decision. Maybe everyone going forward would treat me this way. Breaking in would be a viable option with how remote and quiet it was here. That would be crossing the Rubicon.


    I pressed on. I noticed a few streams. Maybe it was irrigation. Maybe they were from a natural river. I slid down to get close. Water, at the least, would be nice. It was salty. The water tasted salty. Why? Even the water has something against me. That¡¯s not real water, I also thought. Either it hates me; let me correct myself, either everything hates me, or none of this is a real city, I was not in a real forest, and that is not a real running stream of real water.


    Maybe I was experiencing only partial reality. Everything could be off, or could be a setup. Maybe I was a ghost in the process of accepting his death. Maybe I was in a game, and someone was playing me. It really didn¡¯t, and doesn¡¯t, matter what level of reality I was in. For all I care, I was in opposite world. I just needed food. Food, or maybe I needed a concrete objective to reach. The city ahead didn¡¯t count, as it could be more than willing to wait for me.


    I passed by more farms. I saw more silhouettes that would actually die rather than to greet me. Sometimes they would double take, moving and then coming back to where I first saw them. Others would walk from one side of my vision to the other. None of them really had features I could identify. Was I speaking the wrong language? Was I speaking the wrong kind of language?


    Streams became more common as I approached the city. Nothing blocked the path, but the perfectly organized farmlands began to lose their geometric shapes. One stream led to a puddle. With curiosity, I attempted to look down at it, conversely to look up at me. It wasn¡¯t running, and without any ripples in the water, I could see my reflection. I looked like me, surprisingly unharmed and nearly unblemished. My skin was made of me, and my clothing fit me like me. I checked for any other cuts, finding possibly one at most. I also washed my hands as best I could.


    The only thing between the city and I was a river. It was clearly manmade, as concrete protected its sides. Sewer outlets, or some sort of cylindrical set of holes also notified what kind of river it was. A few bridges connected the outside in. From what I could see in the distance, a few bridges were made to transport cargo. Before me, there was a bridge made for people. It had large wooden planks, polished and painted to appear new but natural.


    I want to stick around. This environment is new and has plenty of information to learn on its own. I see no reason to scorn it, or abandon it. It¡¯s not that I fear change so much as I feel like something is missing. In quiet, puzzle-like locations, a key would normally be found to lead them to unlock a puzzle. Puzzles take time to think through. Plus, whether or not they are a puzzle often confuses me. Plenty of secrets pass right over my head. And although I might figure out that there is a secret, I would need that secret spelled out to me. Spoken to me, ideally, directly. I¡¯m sorry to this world for not being clever, but I¡¯m not sure what to do in order to be accepted and greeted, saying-


    ¡°Welcome, you¡¯re free to feel at home here!¡±


    But I¡¯m given no such greeting. I turn towards the city again, and press on.

 Chapter 2: Looking for Someone 2-1

    Far in the distance, I see the first tangible person I could interact with. As anyone could guess, I waved. The creaks on every step of the bridge didn''t hamper running over. This was a person, just a little way over. Of course, a little bit of fog obscured what exactly they looked like, but I nonetheless knew it was my next step.


    Approaching them, they didn''t so much as turn to me. They were frozen¡ªmaybe not entirely frozen, but they sort of twitched and swayed. I basically got a few feet from them.


    "Hello?" was the most generic and open way I could have tried to get their attention.


    Unrequited. Unreturned. Ignored, even. Maybe I wasn''t being polite enough. So I tried- and that didn''t work either. Maybe I should say something harsher. Circling them, nothing would work. I tried to look right at them, right in their face. They had a few burnt splotches on their skin. A few wrinkles here and there from what skin was exposed. Their breath stunk.


    Not frozen, and certainly moving. In fact, when I tried to call out to them right in front of their face, they turned. They turned at a random angle: anything just to avoid me. I tried facing them again. They turned again. With my hands behind my back, looking up at them was the only effort I was willing to make. After exhausting that effort a dozen times or more, I left. I crossed from the middle of the bridge, now to its completion.


    Packed dirt roads became stone and concrete. Concrete expanded with a slice of reddish asphalt in the middle. Buildings finally populated my vision. Brick storage houses, bars, banks, leasing houses, and other nondescript buildings welcomed me. Nothing quite wanted to open enough to welcome me personally, but I pressed on.


    The first sign of humanity appeared at a park. It had a few slides, benches, a pavilion, wood chips and fake grass for the ground, among other means to justify its existence. It was a few guys, a few girls, deep in the middle of discussion. Some are idly playing on the playground set. Some sat. A few stood. One stood on a bench, who appeared to direct most of the conversation as the rest of them oriented themselves toward her.


    None of them noticed me at first. I was inconspicuous, anyway. As if by a premonition, she turned a one-eighty to greet me. She outstretched one of her arms-


    "I haven''t seen you before. I''m Phoebe." She followed up by giving me a confident smile.


    "I think I''m called Ishmael," I responded.


    I exchanged my story first. She went next, and others jumped in when she faltered.


    "We''ve been looking for people like you. Welcome to the City, by the way. Out of nowhere, one day, I noticed people left and right losing their minds. Maybe I lost my mind, really. Anyway, I looked first for my friends - that was mostly a downer - then I looked for my extended family - something that''s generally a nightmare. Honestly, they were really creepy. The people who lost their minds, I mean. They were all like- not talking, and grunting, but still doing normal person things." She had her hands firmly gripping her waist while speaking.


    "I found Phoebe first while she was crying her head off. It was really funny. It''s like her world was ending. It sort of was, but it''s not like something I would cry about." One of the boys moved forward to say.


    I raised my hand. Phoebe pointed to me.


    "Yes?" She included.


    "I''ve seen them too!" I reported.


    She waited a moment to let me continue. "Okay. Cool, what did they look like?"


    "I''m not sure. I only passed by one of them, who looked kind of hurt. The rest of them just didn''t even try to acknowledge me." I concluded.


    "Okay¡­ who''s the rest of them? Ten, twenty, a crowd? What does that mean?" She tried.


    "People, I think, who lived in houses near those farms."


    One of the others spoke up. "Yeah, anyway. A few of us were in pairs at some point. When I noticed Momma hadn''t been back in a while, and I was real hungry, I looked out. I saw a few guys picking through a trash can. I thought - yuck, aren''t trash cans gross? Can''t you get sick from ''em? So I knew something wasn''t right, packed my stuff, and looked for my friends. Found her and found my friend." He said.


    "So, you get it, I hope. They''re weird, like they don''t have a single care in their entire little miserable life. I think they''re still people, well, duh. Actually, of course they''re still people, but they sure don''t act like it. I''ve been trying to talk to them, but I''ve gotten shut out so many times. It''s so rude. Surely someone can talk sense into them. That''s why we''re together. If a girl like me can''t get these people to talk, maybe a whole bunch of us can. Plus, a lot of us have been missing our parents." Phoebe explained.


    "Phoebe is like a mom to me!" Interrupted one of the girls.


    "I think she''s actually kind of weird!" One of the boys added.


    "Well, it''s been a while at this point. We''re pretty much convinced our parents are gone. We''ve even had enough time to grieve about it, well, most of us, anyway. We''ve found people our parents'' age, but they were in their own groups. Too many people gave them too much of a hassle, so we tend to split ways." Phoebe explained.


    "Well, I was in a group with all the old people, but they were so slow that I said screw it! I joined Phoebe''s group instead. She knows how to make plans! She knows how to take the lead!" One of the boys exclaimed.


    "For your information, we''re personally still accepting newbies to our group. We even have a secret hideout. It has pretty much everything stashed from our parents'' places. So, welcome aboard." Phoebe opened her arms to let me join the group.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    When we mingled more closely, I found they were just like me. Phoebe was even the same height as me. They explained their current plan to me. Honestly, it seemed less like a plan and more like they were all just hungry. Hungry, just like me. Naturally, we became friends. Only a few of them really had money, so we were trying to think of how to split everything up. I had nothing, only two big pockets without even a single speck of dust in them. Oh, and a pocket on one of my pecs. Maybe people gave out food for free in this city. What was normal here went over my head.


    They really knew their way around. We traveled door to door, through back alleys, and through some main streets. It''s like they never had to take a detour. We even jumped over a fence. Some establishments looked entirely abandoned. Some businesses looked totally wrecked- debris on the floor, scrapes on the walls, and blood in spots.


    Some businesses were still inhabited, but the residents were despondent. There was no rhyme or reason for how some of them acted: sitting on the ground, walking around in a circle sobbing, seemingly laughing, droning, babbling, or anything.


    Either way, I was more surprised they broke in and entered wherever they felt.


    What I did see never had a unified theme. Some buildings had colorful decor. Some buildings decorated themselves in sterile but calm furniture. Some buildings just looked old and dusty, with wooden or grossly cushioned furnishings. I saw repeating patterns, but it''s not like I saw the same thing twice in a row.


    Some of them marveled at the trinkets they found. Anything unoccupied and somewhat abandoned, they considered taking. Not everything they took was essential, either. Even then, what they did consider essential, they exuded a great deal of excitement from doing so. They offered space for my stuff in a few of their backpacks, but nothing stood out to me that I''d care to take. Was I not creative enough? I felt like something they felt couldn¡¯t connect in my mind. We exited our trek through the stores and took to the street.


    Admittedly, they preferred taking the main roads more than anything. They could cross more land, but only where the roads dictated. Small problem: larger crowds. Crowds of loiterers. As they said, some sat around trash cans, others idly sat against walls. Some looked like they were interacting with each other, but as we shuffled somewhat near them, I couldn''t make out anything they said, nor was any of it loud enough to be overheard.


    Despite taking an uncomfortable route, our first pitstop was in the form of a corner store. It was no supermarket, but it had plenty of food for everyone. When we went inside, I smelled food. Actual cooking food. Fresh bread, meats, eggs, and cheese. There were two employees running it. They didn''t exactly look well, but we didn''t pay them any mind. After being assured they could cover what I got, I decided to grab a pastry. Simple, neat, and easy to eat while moving. Others really stuffed their bags. One of them even asked the employees to make something for them, to which they complied.


    Phoebe counted our cash, and dropped it on the counter. The cashier slowly dragged it to their register. No response. Was that enough? It wasn''t my problem, I guess. The employees didn''t greet us. They didn''t watch us leave. They barely even moved. All they could do was their job.


    "Now, we''ll give you the privilege of coming to our hideout. Do not, and I really mean this, tell anyone else about it. Word gets around. And our base can only fit so many people. I''d love to feed more mouths, although we''d have to find more food to do so, but we just don''t have enough space. We have enough space for, like, let me think, I believe, three more or so." Phoebe explained.


    One of the boys grabbed my hand and exclaimed we could room together. He was one of the few who could assemble a bunk and was proud to have done so. I didn''t care where I slept, but I tried to match what he felt for his comfort. He clearly looks excited. Is it the achievement, despite living in a seemingly temporary location? Is it the wisdom, ignoring whether or not I value wisdom at a level he does? Even if it''s the possession he cares about, it''s not like some grand, amazing treasure. It is a bed.


    I unwrapped and ate my pastry as we walked.


    Some appear to be lagging behind. Some have messy hands and don''t know what to do. Some are sort of nibbling away at their food, clearly desperate for a fork or spoon. They all caught up with the rest of the group eventually. Some even have the luxury of asking for us to slow down, as they seem to be more acquainted with the group than others. Would they do the same for me? Would I be included, or would I be neglected, distanced, and thrown away at first sight?


    Some appear to be attracting the attention of freaks. It''s obvious, with what burn marks, bruises, and unkempt outfits they have. Our group is being followed. Dozens of people trudging toward us, refusing to speak, refusing to walk normally. It almost looks painful. Some look like they haven''t eaten in months. Others look like they haven''t eaten in minutes. I can''t help but observe, unlike the majority of the group. What kind of custom is it to look so beat up in such a large group? Whatever it was, Phoebe began directing us towards a safe exit. A tunnel.


    Thankfully, it wasn''t a sewer grate. It was a staircase leading to a door underneath a bridge. She had the key. The door had some sort of "Authorized Personnel Only" sign, but it was hard to make out, aside from an illustrated red bolt of lightning. Inside, instead of sewers, was more human-friendly land, I think. The floors were white linoleum tiles with small black flecks. The ceiling had arches nearly twice our height. Elevation descended slowly, as staircases with small flights and wide frames allowed us to be careful. Nondescript doors with windows by either side lined the vast hallway. My focus honed in on a water fountain, where all tiles appeared to lead and cross through it.


    "Don''t get too close to it. It might give you a disease- a sewer sickness!" One of the girls said while nudging me.


    I stepped away. I was still taking in the scenery when their touch yanked me out of it. I refused to look at them afterward, much less respond.


    Floating over to one of the other boys next to Phoebe, I asked what they knew about this tunnel system.


    "Well, if there''s anything I know, I know it''s boringly long! It just goes on and on, and I feel like you can wrap around the whole City this way. None of us know any other doors to enter this place. No entrances, no holes to fall into. Only out of." The boy said while stretching.


    "That''s not exactly true. We had one- well, one of us who hung around me showed a few doors. They''re gone now. They also only left me with the one key, though. It''s so inconvenient to take this path, considering how far our base is from here. I do know at least another way to get inside if I had another key. It would be nice- oh, and we don''t know who runs this facility. I know you said you''re from that forest, but do you remember- actually, maybe not." Phoebe rambled.


    I think I had an idea of what she was asking. It took a few tries to attempt to answer her, but I cobbled together: "I can''t think of anything before the forest. Even in it, nothing stood out to me that might be connected to this place."


    Some of the group had to weave around painted concrete pillars. On the other hand, the group sort of stayed scattered. They didn''t appear to be in a hurry. A few of the girls left the main group to investigate somewhere else. Others made small circles while walking.


    "Maybe you''re one of them. I mean, like don''t take this the wrong way, but you''ve felt pretty different. Although, the others we''ve seen don''t seem to talk- well maybe they can talk, we haven''t really tried. Like, it''s not a bad thing, right? They seem weird, and they''re not really doing much with themselves. I guess a lot of our parents, partners, and the like have gone missing. I don''t know- maybe you can talk to them." She continued.


    "But I haven''t-" I interrupted while making hand gestures.


    She made a disappointed hum. "I meant, like, the weirdos who aren''t talking, not our parents. We can''t find our parents. Man, it would be awesome if you could be our little diplomat." She wouldn''t stop.


    "I''m nothing like them. I''m treated entirely differently from how I am around them. I don''t even look like them; they look beat up and hurt." I sputtered out.


    "Awkward," was the comment Phoebe aimed at me, bringing the thread of consciousness to a knot.

 Chapter 2: Looking for Someone 2-2

    ¡­


    We took a snack break. I took an apple. It was more on the dry side as if it had been picked weeks ago, and none of the skin looked bruised. It was an insulated object, unable to get juice on my fingers. Thankfully for me, we sat around a small tree, where woodchips covered mulch underneath, and a small ring of bricks prevented its growth. I finished before the others, and buried the core next to the tree.


    "It looked like you were gunning for that apple¡ªare those your favorite fruit?" one of the girls asked.


    I stuttered through the answer, with my words like tracks being set on a railroad while the train was operating through them. "I''m not sure, not really. I don''t really care."


    With the selection I was given, it made sense to me. I don''t get what''s so hard to understand. The others clearly looked like they were struggling to eat, and some of them had to take restroom breaks while traversing this strange corridor. It''s not like we have all day. Besides, I''m a guest. Many of the others could be guests. Why bother taking what they like if the entire rest of their experience sours in impracticality?


    "What do you guys like?" I asked them.


    Disinterested, nearly having floated over to one of her friends, the two girls received a question. Initial rejection was turned around to be probing. With what level of secrecy there was, they almost wanted to respond with mimicry.


    "I dunno, I kind of wish we had chocolates. I really like the white chocolates with the cherries inside, you know?" One answered.


    She played nice, friendly, and in an attempt to be blameless. There was nothing I could respond with. What was the point? It was a closed box, while her friends took it as a gift for me. Locked, with no key. After sputtering and attempting to close the loop on my end, I moved on.


    I scooched closer to the main group: a few boys, a lot of girls, and the leader. I believe they were going in a circle talking about what sports they missed. One of them noted how some people were acting so strangely, and I found my in.


    "All those loiterers, do you think we should do something about them if we could?" I asked.


    The others paused for a moment. None of them really wanted to make eye contact with me.


    "I think we should give everyone a chance. It''s not like you can read people like a book. Even then, like with books, it''s not like I, you, or other people know, knows, whatever, what is inside of them. Everyone has value, and we should try and love everyone. Just because a few people are different from us doesn''t mean we should treat them any different." Phoebe explained with her hands folded in her crossed lap.


    "But you do. Treating these odd ones out differently. Its fine, but don''t you-" I interjected.


    Others looked my way. Phoebe got quick with me. "What do you mean by that? There are plenty of people all around us, and all of them could become a friend if we tried. I promise you we can work with anyone, and make friends with them. You can''t just close a door on an opportunity. So, what are you trying to say?"


    Does she want me to back down or be exiled? Something''s wrong, but I can''t put my finger on why or what would then be right. If I were to back down, would I continue to be me? Would I still be the Ishmael who sees the world in the way I do? Or would I have a different pair of eyes at that point, one detached from my face and miles far ahead of me? Or behind me, but overall somewhere else than where mine are.


    "I''m new, and I stand on unsteady ground. I hold no real opinion about those I believe I''ve never been surrounded by. But you''ve ignored them. You''ve avoided them. You''re leading us to a hideout. A hideout, for one, and for two, a hideout underground locked away for only the people who have the key. What I believe does not matter compared to what I''ve observed you do." I responded without moving otherwise.


    She gave me a look of scorn and a stare that would take an instant popcorn''s amount of time to cook. "Let''s just move on."


    It felt like another mile before we arrived. At some point, the infrastructure began to show. We were beside running water at some point. Offices appeared sporadically, I would assume, for either security purposes or water testing reasons. They looked like they had enough windows for it. When we did, a hallway shuffled us into a smaller line around a single, heavy door. Was it locked? No, it was not. It was cracked open. Light, or in this case, darkness, hid us somewhat. A few windows protected by metal bars gave us away, though. Phoebe held the door open and counted us as we went in. She welcomed us every few people who walked by.


    Office. That was the first word to come to my mind. Office smell: between what faded green carpets they had, the industrial ceiling, and the metal air conditioners. Office sound: Our footsteps were absorbed but not lost overall, our voices didn''t really travel much, and there was the hum of fluorescent lights, among other appliances.


    It wasn''t just one floor. We were in a sort of foyer area. There were two flanks, presumably one for a kitchen or break room, the other possibly for meeting rooms. In the middle was a large set of stairs, carpeted and seemingly meant to be sat upon. They looked loungy. A few couches, shelves, coffee tables, and such populated the foyer as well. On, I guess, the second floor was a proper round. There was a large table that every other piece of furniture and the walls revolved around. The upper area split off in multiple ways. Laundry chutes also seemed to exist, as well as vents and holes to potentially dump water, I guess.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Before being introduced to those who were left behind, I tried deducing what else might be on the upper level. Not much, it seems. Just two more hallways, possibly one for living quarters, and the other¡­ maybe more living quarters. I was then given a proper tour.


    It seems like I wasn''t the only one who joined Phoebe''s gang of friends on this trip. Plus, this trip apparently took a few days. The other new ones introduced themselves at random. They were asked their name, age, a hobby, and some other icebreaker that I couldn''t remember. When it was my turn, I simply gave my name and my background. Most of the gang flocked towards them.


    Those who did surround me consisted of two boys and a girl. The one was the boy who built the bunk. In his mind, I guess my next step in this hideout is to see his room. The other two were new to me but well acquainted with the rest of the group. We had small talk. Nothing notable. Time passed. Once the icebreakers fully thawed the rest of them, we sat to have a proper supper.


    Dinner was in the break room. It was a big break room, to be fair. Plus, some of the others went off to their rooms or to work on projects. How quaint, living here must be like a workshop. I explored around while everything was being prepared. Paintings along the walls. A few potted plants here and there. On the other hand, paper plates were left in random corners. Tin cans lined a few of the walls. I saw one pizza being claimed in action by nature. Some of the wooden trim had pen marks: names and small symbols etched in.


    I peered into some of the larger public rooms. Purpose of each room was relatively organized- one held all of the arts supplies, another attempted to mess with and learn about technology, one was for record keeping and business, and one was a storage room. At least one person, aside from the business room, occupied each of these spaces. Most of them had a plate of dinner next to them.


    A digital chime rang out throughout the entire premise. How dinner was called out was impressive in its own right. It didn''t take long for dishes to be served. Meat- a large shareable cut of beef; Fruit- mostly finger foods; Vegetables- of varying kinds; Carbs- such as bread and rice, had their own bowls and baskets, as well as a small dessert for everyone. A few servers asked what we wanted to drink- between water, a soda, tea, or beer. No one asked how much of what is stocked. The dessert looked more like an experiment than something one would find at a store.


    I mostly watched and listened.


    "I really liked that bakery too. It''s like they won''t let you in now." One said.


    "I actually camped out there for a day, just out of curiosity, and there were people who stood in the same spot for a whole day. I''m serious. They''re really weird. I asked about it, and just like the others, no response. You''d think they would get tired, but no. I''ve only seen a couple of them eat anything." Another added.


    "It''s like this everywhere. Some people are just freaky. I think I saw one person try to bite someone else, too." A third noted.


    "That can''t be legal. Maybe we really should keep some distance from them. It''s so easy to spot one out. They look like they''ve been out in the sun for days, or like weeks. They''ve got all these bruises and marks like they''re the clumsiest things you''ve ever seen." The first concluded.


    Phoebe peered over from across the table. "Maybe talk about something else. There''s been a lot of people acting weird, sure, but hearing these rumors over and over has gotten to be a bit much."


    The rest of us on the other side looked at each other in bewilderment. It took a few minutes to regain the traction that was lost. Someone else did the labor, being the first to finish their plate.


    "The next trip we should make should be a bit closer to Main Street. For your information, Ishmael, that''s essentially the middle of the city." He brought up.


    I''m not sure I really asked where a ''Main Street'' is as if I couldn''t guess where it was. What would he want me to respond with, anyway? My dinner became an obfuscation from my involvement in the new conversation.


    He continued: "It''s probably where the most people are. Everyone''s favorite brands sell there. A lot of people work there. Some people even live there. That street never sleeps and never wakes. Even I used to work there. I wanted to go back to work - maybe not to work, but the pay is nice. There have been too many barriers. I was never able to go back without getting scared and running off again. So, I chose a new job."


    Other sections of the table had their own drama they attended to. I estimated the average group was in fours. Three listeners, one speaker. Most of them talked about current events- not necessarily their own lives, not anything enlightening, but gossip that was unrelated to them.


    I feel like in atmospheres where bunches of independent groups chat among themselves, it begins to be hard to focus. I don''t know why. The person in front of me becomes quiet. Rather, I tend to slip out of their frequency, like a radio. Like a bumpy trip using a radio, I accidentally change channels. Sometimes, I just get static about what new channel I listen to. Sometimes I can actually hear something. I don''t, however, get to focus on the person across from me. It''s like they''re an entire valley away from me.


    "I miss my coworkers." He said.


    Oh- I was supposed to listen to him.


    People left one by one. They excused themselves, often without expressing it. Plates, drinks, scraps and utensils were left behind scattered and unorganized. One even left a drink sideways and spilled a little. As people left more frequently, the growing mass of dirty dishes looked like a grueling task.


    Once I completed my meal, I noticed no one else was taking away plates. I lingered for a while, ultimately deciding to organize the dishes myself. No one spoke against me or acknowledged what I was doing. I didn''t see anything wrong with a little extra effort, plus it didn''t take much time from my perspective. Plates were stacked on plates, and once a reasonable stack was created, I placed utensils on top.


    Again, no one came to take away the dishes. Although I didn''t bother asking around whose duty it was, no one stopped me from completing the next step: taking what was done to get washed. Slowly but surely, I detached myself from the rest of the group. It''s not like we have anything to say to one another anyway.

 Chapter 2: Looking for Someone 2-3

    ¡­


    Every dish was spotless, both by Phoebe''s account and by my account. I ended up staying behind to wash everyone''s dishes. Some had multiple dishes, asking for two portions preemptively. Some had multiple utensils, as they might have dropped theirs on the ground occasionally. There were dozens of plates, forks, spoons, glasses, and such, all organized in multiple, large drying racks. Everyone, save for Phoebe and a few of her assistants, left for their rooms. No one had invited me to their space, save for the one I''ll be rooming with.


    There were a few who lingered as much as I did. Namely, Phoebe and one or two of her assistants. I tried walking by, and as she saw me, I received a brief ''Thank you.'' I tried passing off the compliment to move on, but the space didn''t allow me.


    I became trapped in the hallway. Phoebe sealed off my entrance. Her friends sealed off the exit. I was forced against my will¡­ to have a light conversation with her. None of us wanted to. Clearly this was a liminal space, and I couldn''t help but feel as if they wanted to move on. But all of us, mostly them more than me, were deadlocked in the middle of a conversation. It was a gift that kept on giving, much to all of our detriments.


    "What is your next step?" I asked.


    Phoebe thought for a moment. Being a leader wasn''t exactly new to her, based on how people saw her. She was the one who wanted to get to know everyone, I guess. I don''t know. I''ve barely even met her. Soaking in a dinner conversation and a few mile-long trek to an underground hideout, Phoebe''s specialties appear to be information collection,  consensus making, and trying to make people happy. Maybe I''m wrong. Maybe I don''t know how to evaluate people. Maybe I can''t read people at all.


    She was simply in the middle of another conversation. But she responded: "Oh, uh, we''ll probably check out Main Street like they were talking about earlier."


    Or something along those lines. She knows exactly what the plan is: I saw it earlier. It''s not like she''s winging anything. Am I being passed off? Is it intentional? I''m in the middle between her friends. I more or less was invited to sit in between a doorway. As I stood with my back aligned to the frame, I didn''t really know what to do with myself. It almost seems clear I asked the wrong question. But what am I supposed to do? I''m new. I haven''t lived in the City.


    Fortune favors the bold. I escaped to my new room. The bunk boy from earlier was waiting while hanging out with a few friends. All boys, no girls allowed. Shut the door. He cracked open a can of alcohol. It''s boy talk hour, I guess. Well, not ''I guess,'' I know. They were already in the middle of whatever they were talking about beforehand. It would have been nice to join up with them instead of Phoebe.


    It took a few minutes to hone in on what they were even saying. Names, places, and lingo- gosh, a lot of it was lingo. All of that passed by me. They didn''t even pause. One of them waved to me, actually, but it was a quiet acknowledgment of my presence. I tried wedging myself into what they were discussing. Verbs, adjectives, and¡­I believe nouns. Words, they were spilling words from their mouths that didn''t make sense. We spoke the same language, but they were speaking it entirely differently. Maybe I just didn''t sit with them early enough.


    ¡­


    Something caught on. "All I''m saying is she''s really hot. Plus, I mean, maybe we could take this relationship further." Bunk boy said.


    Ah. I don''t care. I don''t know these people. They then took turns talking about their crushes, dates, drama, and such. I don''t know what customs are normal in the City.


    "I wanna start a family someday!" Another one said.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Ishmael, what do you think? Has anyone caught your eye- or like, do you have any plans for the future?" A third asked.


    My plans for the future are to go to sleep, wake up, and continue to investigate the City to get an understanding, and then a footholding as to how I should proceed. If what I described isn''t what they mean by ''plans'', then I don''t know what they mean.


    "I don''t know. I''m not from here. I''m not sure if I''m going to stay." I responded.


    It''s not like the City has particularly treated me well so far. In truth, I didn''t care. What would I do, starting some sort of a family with some woman here? What is the point? Whatever points they make all reflect their past, environment, preferences, and in-the-moment impulses.


    "Well, you never know. You could meet someone you really like. Besides, it''s nice to have someone by your side," One responded.


    Marriage is what they want. But is that me: my preferences, my decisions, or what I am? It has its value, as well as drawbacks, but neither the pros or cons matter. I don''t see how these values correlate to me. Plus, I don''t see how they could connect A - me to B - their topic. So far, I joined this group of friends to figure out what to do next¡­ I stumbled into this City since I didn''t know how to navigate away from the forest.


    Maybe some of them didn''t share the same values as each other. Those who held a socially constricting opinion, however, were the most vocal. I had no way to tell if there were any other viewpoints. In some sense, I had no idea if what they were thinking was standard for the City. I wanted to know. I wanted to know more. Specifically, I just wanted to know if they all held the same belief.


    I stood up to command attention from the room. "Why even have the goal to start a family? Sure, there''s some sort of value in achievement, but how would one decipher whether or not the association with a woman makes sense? One girl or another, or any of them. Are women just puzzle pieces, able to slot in interchangeably? On one hand, if women are a puzzle piece, equipped and opposite to fit with their partner''s occupancy, why would I focus on the goal of making a family rather than seeking the company of that girl? On the other hand, if the process, result, and consideration of a family is some sort of mechanism to become one flesh, two sides of the same coin, why would any one woman work? Aren''t we all different? How could one just throw themselves at another if they''re two completely different coins?"


    No one responded. If only they did, for what I got instead was a cold, uncompromising judgment from their drunken muttering. Shortly after, the boys left, and eventually, we went to bed.


    ¡­


    I felt like I was simultaneously the last and the first one awake. My bunk bro was soundly asleep, and in some sense, I should probably match his energy. My body wouldn''t allow me to settle back into my bed. It didn''t smell right. My pillow, all of my blanket, everything felt slightly damp. If it wasn''t obvious enough, I overheated. There was light coming from the hallway, and I couldn''t help but focus on it as well. My eyes'' natural state was to be open. And open isn''t asleep, nor does it facilitate sleep. Every inch of skin on my body cried out to me, asking to be scratched, itched, or somehow moved.


    I got up. As I snooped around the base, a lot of doors were already open. Most of their beds were unmade, as was mine. Some, however, looked purposefully wrecked. One, in particular, had their blanket tossed across the floor as if they threw themselves out of bed and everything with it. I guess I missed some sort of a morning roll call.


    Morning routine: stretches, restroom, recounting yesterday, anything I could do to make myself normal again. There were unopened supplies labeled "Ishmael", by the way. The handwriting was crisp, circular, flowy, and delicate.


    I hadn''t noticed it at first, but there was some sort of commotion in the lobby. Anyone at least halfway down the hallway would be able to hear it. All sense of reason replaced my mind with curiosity.


    As I turned the corner to peer into the lobby, I saw organized chaos and not the good kind. There were chefs tossing food around, plating and serving as quickly as humanly possible. There were people moving furniture towards the entrance. There were people arguing and collecting documents around the larger meeting table. As I had come from the upper floor''s hallway, some of the folk arguing saw me. One boy aggressively motioned me to join them.


    In short, we had uninvited guests. We - they - didn''t know what to do about it. Some wanted to start a war. Some wanted to keep them out. And some wanted to let them in out of curiosity. Roles were being discussed upon, multiple people were taking notes, and a significant part of the group was brainstorming as quickly as possible. As one could guess, I was tasked with getting stragglers out of bed, particularly my bunk buddy.

 Chapter 3: The Lady Lies 3-1

    We took turns pushing back the door. Some were thinking of plans. Others were stacking furniture closer to us. A final group was quickly trying to eat. Phoebe was in the planning group. She tried convincing others that maybe if we could pin them down somehow, we could convince the invaders to snap out of it. Something, anything. Maybe they were the police. Maybe one of them was their parents. I had door duty, and I couldn''t help but feel uncomfortable. Surely, any of our calls would''ve been answered, right? But those on the outside didn''t care. They just wanted in. No matter how much we boarded the entrance, no matter how many times we told them to get out, they tried getting into our space.


    The planners had a few running parts to their plan. One: we had the heavy furniture to serve either as walls or as something to use against the outsiders. Two: we had a few backpacks lined along the other exits to run if the situation got rough. Three: we were given various code words for different scenarios. Four: although we''d tried Phoebe''s plan first, we gave each other the parameters of what it''d take for us to either fight back or run. No one should be unaccounted for. Until everyone was done eating, the plan was on hold.


    I offered to eat last. By the time I was on food shift, Phoebe and a few others were on the door shift. For me, they left some fruit, bacon, and milk. I said my thanks and dug in. I personally couldn''t bring myself to speak, although the rest in my group interacted with each other. How could they be so casual at a time like this? I felt like it was my duty to be quick and efficient. Sure- maybe the system we''ve worked out has been effective so far, but my life is in their hands. I should be grateful.


    We huddled together. Phoebe was the last to let go of the door. Some were ready to knock over dressers and drawers, and others had pots and pans to throw.


    "Please - just let us know why you''re here! We''ll give you anything, just try and work with us!" Phoebe exclaimed.


    With three blinks,


    The door flew open,


    Phoebe was knocked to the ground,


    Then, the Phoebe I had met was gone.


    My vision got blurry, and I ran away. It didn''t help how dark it was. I knocked on metal pipes left and right in a hurry. There were others, not many, but enough to hear the passageway rattle and clang. No one talked. I almost wondered if we''d see each other again. Maybe it''s a bit early to say, but I felt like the caboose of a train hastily coupled together. I was loose, I was late and once undone, I would be abandoned. And then what? Should I be hopeful? Am I to fool myself into thinking I''ll see them, friends, again? I don''t see what the key was that would have locked me in with the others. I''m a circumstance. If I don''t grab at them now, I''ll lose them forever. The boy who shared his bunk with me. The kids who shared their hobbies with me. I''ll lose them unless I fight to keep them.


    Phoebe went on and on before how we could find friends all over the place, but where were they beyond this hideout? Was I not looking hard enough? If they did exist, were they inviting, or were they in their own bubble? How replaceable are these friends, really? Will I find those similar to them? Will I find a group with a leader like Phoebe? Can I trust that the light at the end of this tunnel will be a soft, comforting one or something harsher, something worse than that which I ran from?


    I try to call out to one of the boys. No response, only labored breathing. I guess it''s already over with them. I was promised we''d stay friends. Phoebe promised me. She promised not only our group would stay together, find more friends, but also she''d be a strong leader.


    I try to call out again. I believe I was told to stop. What friends were they, really? I was promised I''d have a space of my own. I was promised I could help them. She promised me I could help them achieve their goal. Where is that goal now?


    I couldn''t help it- I began to claw out in front of me, despite not knowing where. I thought I briefly caught onto one of the boys'' shirts. Maybe it was the heavy air. As I ran, I found it hard to tell how many of us ran together. In some sense, I felt I made enough noise to be like a bunch of people in one. Will there be anyone left by the end of this tunnel? Will I escape, my landscape improved?


    Land. Light. Mid-day sun. The smell of the salting concrete drying up from the day. Running water. And- as I check my surroundings, I see no one but myself. I see not a single friend at all.


    ¡­


    While it would be nice to sit by the river, the bitter smell, the loiterers huddled around a trash can merely a few feet away from me, and the harsh sun prevented my ruminating. Contemplating, or maybe I was waiting to see if any others had made it to my side. As I looked back, no one appeared much less a recognizable friend, from any other exits that might have been nearby. Our plan failed.


    If I had to guess, my exit was close to the City''s edge? There''s a river, there''s a bridge, therefore I''m back where I started. Following along rivers leads to civilization. Either re-analyzing the farms or finding another group would be the next best direction for me. Plus, being on the boundary of discovery and exploration gives me the time to find what''s more valuable. If only I could see past the taller buildings along the other side of the river, maybe I could make that decision sooner.


    Many of those strange people began to follow me. They had burnt edges, bruises, cuts, and somewhat dirty clothing. I walked backward at their pace. Some of them made occasional noise, and others labored to breathe. I almost found it amusing that I had a crowd forming for me. One issue. For a single moment, as I turned my head to catch my surroundings, I took in a nauseating smell. It was oppressive, comparable to, like a rotting lavender perfume. Without my conscious input, it put pressure on my eyes.


    I stopped facing them. I wanted to cross the first bridge I came across.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I''d much rather wish to walk along the river. If not for how bad they smelled, I would have stayed. I felt pain, though. It hurt somehow just to be near them. As the pressure in my head solidified itself into a pulsing knot, it became difficult to concentrate. I tried holding the pressure with my hands. I tried rubbing my temples. Maybe water or food. I wanted it to stop. I want it to stop now.


    Bridge. I want to find a bridge. Where is a bridge? Endless river. I want the pain to end. I want this period of time to end. I want to move on.


    Everything is painful. The sun glares, making it difficult to keep my eyes open. The road beside the river is uneven while increasingly noticing trash.  There is increasingly less bridge nearby. No bridge. Want bridge. I want to pass through this. I want to be done with this.


    ¡­


    Ishmael''s mind became a swirling disaster of simple words, strange self-inflicted logical puzzles, and compulsive rage. He could not function beyond what actions he had been doing at that point. In terms of his thoughts, he was entirely incapacitated, and no thoughts could possibly emanate from him at a certain point. The pain he felt was like one wearing braces for the first time.


    Although he was less than a mile away from another bridge, the crowd behind him took all of his attention and brain power. As much as he attempted to trudge through the pain, he wasn''t much faster than how much of a crawl the crowd was at. He wished he was. He thought he was. He was not.


    Upon approaching the bridge, he looked back, straining his now sore neck. The crowd didn''t follow. As he began to cross, he dropped in the middle, sitting a few feet away from the edge. Like his companions, he brought a backpack. He had food. He decided to eat and finally had the time to think. As luck would have it, a cloud came to let him think as well.


    ¡­


    Food. Rations. Picnic. My backpack''s loot¡­was¡­a few sandwiches, canned drinks, and soup. Double-take. Soup. Soup? Canned soup, with no can opener. I also double-take¡­took¡­taked. I don''t know. I checked the crowd of bad-smelling people, in short. No movement. They stopped. As I stared at them, they hardly stared back. Not a single shoe stepped on the bridge. Are they in danger? Actually, am I in danger? I checked all other angles. Nothing. It''s just them. The crowd is the only animate set of objects in my vicinity.


    So I went back to the backpack. I disassembled whatever the packing person thought was a good idea, and reassembled it in my image. My image, the right image, the image that is made for me. Although, I wouldn''t be so bold to say the way I organize myself would be an all around good, or something anyone else would consider ''organized''.


    Organized right now consisted of spreading out every noticeable object packed, stuffed, in this backpack. Was any of it thought out? Ask again later. Oh, also, no can opener. Nor is there anything that could light a fire, then sustain it, and cook the soup that is in a can. The first sandwich was an egg salad sandwich - which is, of course, known to last for a very long time and wouldn''t spoil nearly instantly under a hot sun beating down on it.


    Thankfully, it hadn''t gone to waste yet. If anything, something simple and easy to digest might be what re-adjusts me again. Whatever works.


    I wonder how it feels to stand in the middle of a crowd. I wonder how others feel when they''re in groups. I wonder what would happen if one happened to notice another sitting outside of a crowd. I feel like a slice of fruit sitting out on a plate in the middle of a kitchen. No one is home.


    I kept looking up. Every bite I took, I felt like the crowd glanced at me. Moving on felt impossible. I thought- maybe one of my friends was in the crowd. Maybe I just missed them. Whoever I could have reconnected with, I didn''t remember their name.


    There were dozens, if not hundreds, of subtle cues I missed. For them, what subtleties I missed might be articulable, obvious screaming and howling interactions. Maybe I was the problem. I don''t think anyone could or should wonder why I walk alone now. I don''t think I deserve to be surrounded by the friends I tried to make. Trying is a word reserved for me, but I doubt a single other person would agree that I tried. I didn''t try. If anything, I tried to be hard to work with. I tried to be annoying for all that matters.


    With what little I learned so far, I crossed.


    There were no farms on the other side, only more City. I''m not along the limits. There are more rivers. This City has more rivers. I sat on the side of the bridge to think. The thought continued in my mind like ripples in a disturbed lake. This City has more rivers.


    Maybe I wasted the time I spent with them. Every moment was passive. Everything I did simply accepted what I believed someone else wanted.


    One of them reached out to scratch me. No confusion. No misinterpretation. They held a hand high, open palm, and aimed downward at me. Happenstance avoided my injury. My attention collected together, where it was just fragmented. As I stared directly at them, every blemish, vein, cut, and iniquity became apparent to my perceptions. They were beaten up if it wasn''t obvious enough.


    I had enough survival instincts to respond. Needless to say, when one strike came to me, I ensured another wouldn''t follow. I didn''t exactly know what to do, so I disengaged, maintaining eye contact for the entire duration.


    Maybe I didn''t have all the survival instincts I needed. Backing away slowly, what stood out was how sharp their face was. It was as if their cheeks were cut out, leaving the bare necessities behind. Their chin, although otherwise triangular, was a perfectly straight line sticking out. Their face was long. The rest of them- their arms looked nearly amorphous. I could hardly tell where their elbows began and ended. Their center of gravity was focused around their midsection, with twig-like legs. Yet there was something I couldn''t tell what; there was some sort of shape that stuck onto their lower section like a barnacle. Not quite as pronounced, but some sort of blobby flesh that appeared like a different shape than their natural body.


    No reflection, cognition, or logical conclusion could get me to say anything to them. The image, some sort of mass that I could hardly say is one of my own, that I was presented with could not in a million years of introspection ever make me communicate with it. No one could convince me to make any connection with them, especially seeing as I don''t know how I would.


    Even calling out to them, nothing could possibly get through the dense layer of flesh between their mind and my words, assuming they even have a brain like mine. They are not like me. My voice even invited them to swipe at me again. They aren''t like me. They aren''t like me. We aren''t anything alike. I have no reason to connect with them. They are animals underneath the flesh they wear. They have a pelt of skin like mine, yet they make no attempt to even imitate what I am. They are nothing like me.


    I wanted to engage in violence. I tensed up to be ready for violence. I couldn''t do it- even being near them made me nauseous. Them existing anywhere near me was violence against me far greater than any strikes or blows that were traded. No matter how enthusiastic I was to retaliate against them, it didn''t feel appropriate. I fled, for real now.

 Chapter 3: The Lady Lies 3-2

    ¡­


    Where was I now? What beige concrete buildings there were around me had frosted glass, where slight cuts blemished a foggy view, and each pane felt textured like a smooth rock. Small crowds of these people huddled up against the edges of windows, licking them. Fine white powder fell close to the buildings, making small piles around them. I noticed some of the people were scratching the windows.


    Trying to find voices among the groaning crowds was more difficult than tuning a radio. My ears were magnetized to the worthless waste of air some of these people spat out. As much as I wished for something tangible, something valuable, my ears were tuned to pick up the sound equivalent of dirt. After traveling quite a few blocks down, I might have picked something up.


    Two stories up. There was a group of vocal, organized people who appeared to be harvesting abandoned clothing from a terrace. I hoped it would be abandoned, at least. The building resembled a school the most. It had a defaced sign in front of it, roughly as large as I was laying down. It was otherwise very windowy, more so than what I''ve experienced otherwise. The front entrance was accommodating, with three double doors. Before entering, I called up. They called down. A boy noticed me and waved. I couldn''t hear what he said, but I got the gist: he was gesturing me to go up.


    Well, they didn''t look like they were going to bite me. Many of them had rounder faces with softer features. Most of them looked put together: no cuts, bruises or scars. One man had sharper features however, and approached me. He had a remarkably short haircut, looked to be somewhat lanky yet still my height, and it looked impossible for his eyes to express anything but a slight scowl. As he extended his arm for a handshake, he told me his name: Nick.


    I took the minute grace period I had while shaking to digest what the group was like. It was split relatively evenly between guys and girls, and everyone looked relatively different from one another. I have another chance. What will I be this time?


    "Hey, it''s great to meet everyone! I''m Ishmael, and I think this is the second group of friends I''ve found so far!" was my opening line.


    I''ll be fun. I think, I think I can do that.


    Nick paused before responding considerably with less energy: "Oh, well, we call them survivors."


    "That can''t be good. Survivors, as opposed to unsurvivors, means all of you are surviving something. Talk about a boogie in a bad place." I shot back.


    "Haha yeah, well, anyway, you should probably be careful around those others. We''re thinking they''re zombies." Nick refused to make eye contact.


    He felt like an open window at night. Maybe I''m getting the wrong impression of him. He just needs to warm up, I think. Then maybe he can match me.


    "Oh, zombies? That sure explains what close encounters I''ve had so far! I almost got bit and everything, am I so glad I had my head on right!" was what I went with.


    I can''t tell what he''s looking for, honestly. His eyes transmit so little information. It''s like I''m his center attention while making every attempt to pretend I''m not there.


    "Yeah, just watch out. Uh, and maybe someone should check you out first. Where are you from?" He kept me going.


    I gave him my story: the forest, the farms, Phoebe''s group, and now here. He''d never met Phoebe nor her group, although there were only so many members I could remember. A boy came up behind me to check for bite marks, and I continued to talk.


    "I want to try again; maybe we''ll all get along better!" I concluded.


    He passed me off to someone else. I guess I got to work. I don''t know. I assumed I would''ve gotten acquainted with everyone before they made me do anything. So, I walked and talked, as well as dropped my backpack near a large pile of their supplies.


    As I introduced myself to others, I couldn''t help but think about what he implied about zombies. It was an infection that latched onto every piece in my mind. Who are the zombies? Are there zombies here? It''s not like anyone I''ve seen looks like a zombie. Are they using the word wrong? Am I connected to this? Who is a zombie, and who is a person then? With every question filling my mind like the rising tide, one answer kept the flood of thoughts at bay. The thought: "Spotting a zombie is intuitive. Even if you don''t know, you''re you, and you''ll react accordingly to your situation." was like a dam to my confusion.


    Conversely, who do I believe? Am I surrounded by strange people or zombies? Which group has an accurate picture of their situation? Why should I trust a group of people who actively loot imperishables and make me do the same upon first meeting with them? It''s not like these garments are going anywhere; they won''t be going to waste any time soon. I can''t be more blunt than that, but to think, what kind of zombies look indistinguishable from normal people? I stalled. Would I do this- would I be one to steal from others? Am I like this? Am I like them? Can I really say they''re like me?Stolen story; please report.


    Instead, I inquired for more. Nearly picking off a garment from the clothesline, a boy was tugged away from his job.


    "You''re with- I''m almost blanking on his name- Nick, right?" I asked.


    They nodded while furling their eyebrows.


    "What do you think you''re doing? Like, why all this?" I stuttered through explaining.


    I was not about to receive an answer given serious thought. He attempted to get back to his work. I stood between them and a basket of clothing they were stuffing garments into.


    He avoided eye contact to answer: "We''re just trying to stock up on things."


    So what, now stealing is called ''stocking up''? Did he even think about whether or not what he''s doing is right? Even then- if he''s dealing with zombies, is this heavy load something that matters? Don''t people think through these things?


    "Is it a part of your nature to behave like this?" I became sharper.


    Nick noticed my arguing just then, and the man I had been talking to began to raise his voice over mine.


    "It''s not a big deal. Why don''t you do something else if you don''t like it?" The man locked onto me.


    "Stealing something that its original owner can come back to at any time, is that the kind of person you are?" My volume inched above my debate partner.


    "I don''t know, I don''t know", They paused afterwards, looking inwards to find what they really wanted to say.


    Nick grabbed my arm. "Can I pull you aside for a moment?"


    We didn''t necessarily leave the crowd, but he pulled me to one of the corners of the building.


    "Look, we really appreciate how you feel about this. We have our own reasons, and we''d love help. If you''d like to join us, feel free. If not, you don''t have to stay with us." He asserted.


    I got louder. "Stealing is wrong. None of what you''re stealing is going to decompose. Nothing is going to waste whether you take it or not," I was about to say more.


    He got louder. "I don''t know what your deal is. We really want to get back to what we were doing. It''s our business about whether what we do is good or bad or whatever. And you-"


    I got louder again. "You''re no better than all these zombies you say are doing whatever they''re doing! What''s the difference between a zombie and a criminal-" I started talking with my hands.


    He cut me off even louder. "I''m not a thief! I''m minding my own business! Bro, just leave us alone if you don''t like us!"


    While our now screaming match was underway, the entrance I came from began to have a lot of commotion. We heard groaning, but we also heard shrieking and crying.


    Nick froze wide-eyed, and his hands limp to his sides. I turned around to see none other than zombies. Pouring through one of two potential entrances, there were dozens of burnt, bruised, cut, and bleeding people who were either emaciated, bloated, or had skin and muscle wrapped around them in inorganic ways. Shapes didn''t flow: arms either looked like they were made for bugs or had a spacious and spongy layer of flesh clinging onto them. Legs never appeared to properly support their figure. Any other shape - their pecs, neck, hips - all looked tacked on or strangely misaligned. I wanted to say I was looking at people, but my intuition howled otherwise.


    Some simply accepted their fate. Some instantly knew to fight back. Some just threw clothing at the zombies. What formed was a wall of those who had already been bitten to try and let others escape. They tried pushing back while their adversaries ran at them to try and eat them.


    The escape route, which was not opened yet, was also blocked by Nick. He wasn''t moving. At first thought, I would have assumed I wouldn''t be the only one scrambling to find an exit. Hardly any survivors went in the direction I began to go towards.


    Was there anything I could say to him at this point? Would he be responsive, or worse, would I be able to articulate my request? Saying a simple command, making him move out of the way, can''t be that hard. Every time I looked at him in his glazed-over eyes, I couldn''t do it.


    Screams and panic multiplied while Nick stood in shock. He was more of a recipe for shock, despair, frustration, and confusion. Every thought in his mind visually continued to bake, with no timer set to complete it. As patient as I was, we had a time limit; we were on a schedule here.


    But I didn''t know what to do. The others appear to be in a clearly losing fight. The front line, who already got bit, appears to be losing strength, not from the zombie bite, but from the blood loss. The back line didn''t have as many supplies for everyone fighting. I had no job, as far as I was aware. I don''t want to abandon those I believe are like me, but what else could I do? What else could I do? What can I do?


    My attention wandered back to Nick as I repeated that statement in my head. If he wasn''t there, what I must do next would become trivially easy. If there''s nothing I can do here, I move on to my next destination. He''s not doing anything for me, and he has no purpose, neither for himself, for his community, or for the City. He''s literally stealing clothing from a community he doesn''t even know. He just wants to be a leech. He doesn''t even look like he wants to live. He''s the only one standing in my way of an obvious solution.


    Impulse took over.


    With a push, Nick fell off the ledge. Down, down, and the only thought on my mind was - "He was for sure one of them."


    Consequently, I had an escape route now. The heavens above shone rays of sunlight onto the door just for me. As I ran away, I made one final look. They were fighting, pushing back against a crowd much larger than them. They were together, and although they''d perish, they''d go down with each other by their side. I fled with just myself and pressed onward.


    Upon leaving the building, guilt almost instantly set in. I can''t call it regret, as this was the right move to make. They''re all gone now. They had no chance, and I wouldn''t have made a difference. What am I, however, to abandon those who I thought were like me? Is this still me, and what I would do in any situation like this? Is abandoning my post a part of who I am?

 Chapter 3: The Lady Lies 3-3

    ¡­


    Back to aimlessly wandering the streets, I guess. Man, it would be so awesome if there was a group, or a set of people, or even one single soul that I could pin down and get along with for an extended period of time. Insanity, it''s actually insanity what these people are like. Some of them, namely Phoebe''s group, didn''t have their own survival at the top of their priorities. Others- actually wait, why did they, for one, have an unlocked office space as their so-called base of operations? What was their, for two, plan to accept those zombies when that group was so large that it would clearly exhaust their resources if nothing else? And for three, why did Phoebe think that group would ever hold together in the first place? Everyone was off doing their own thing. No one really tried to make a point to do things together.


    I was nearly bit again. Being so far deep in my head that I didn''t pay attention to my surroundings, a zombie, an honest-to-God, obviously clear and indisputable zombie lunged at me.


    As much as I wanted to become mindful, especially in such a dangerous location while the sun painted its bloody hatred upon the darkening sky, I had the argumentative equivalent of an earworm drowning out my focus. Listen: was Phoebe careless? Although I only knew her briefly, it appears she took on a leadership role recently. Who could blame someone on their first try at a new role, especially while their world is changing chaotically? I''ve never even been a leader. How would I know what the right call would''ve been? What pillar do I stand upon? I''m nothing. She at least tried. I''ve so far gone whichever way others tell me to.


    I don''t think Phoebe did anything wrong, so much as she just never did it right. So did everyone else. And even that''s harsh. From the little I saw of her, she put every bit of effort into what she did. Maybe it was trivial. Maybe she was blameworthy. Maybe she wasn''t. What does their involvement matter when they''ve reaped the maladies of their actions? Maybe nothing could have been done, but their intention does not affect the reality of the present.


    Maybe I was the one who didn''t try, even in Nick''s group. Yeah, that''s what I was about to suggest. I could have at least tried to immerse myself in what his group was doing or get a feel for what kind of person he was. I can''t help but feel like something else was guiding him, though, as if worms were steering his stinky head whichever way they wished. Honestly, he really did not smell right. Did not pass the sniff test.


    I became argumentative back there- is that who I am? Am I someone who just starts a fight? I was trying to make friends. No one in their right mind would believe debating others makes friends. Was it me? Did I do this based on the environment I was in? I felt like I was running off of a script. I feel like Nick''s thoughts plunged into me like a knife in my chest. He made himself suspicious. He looked paranoid, he was standoffish, he was a freak, and a mean one at that. I can''t help but feel that no matter what I could''ve thought of, I was influenced by him. In some sense, I didn''t really want to care about what they were doing or whether or not it was wrong. I just didn''t know what other direction my thoughts should''ve gone after the way Nick introduced himself. Of course, it was all my actions; of course, I''m at fault for what I''ve done. But whether or not it''s who I am- what I would have done under any circumstance, I''m not so sure about.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Another zombie stumbled towards me, swiped, and then tried to bite. I swatted her away while pushing them down with a kick. I can''t help but see how close of a call it was. I wish I could be less careless.


    But I can''t stop ruminating on my situation. She so caused that mess: one-hundred percent her fault. Where is her group now? Where are my friends now? She didn''t even try to make our group sustainable. Even if we had fared against the zombies, not everyone could have handled so much stimulation at the same time. Some people freeze up. And then what? They stop being social, and an entire group dynamic falls apart. I don''t think she was incompetent; it did genuinely feel like she knew what she was doing. It just never clicked with her, however, that these zombies aren''t human. They haven''t behaved how we have. They don''t act the way we do. Most importantly, they don''t have the same drives we do. What they want, how they function, and what makes them operate are not the same as us, and thus, they cannot cooperate with us and vice versa. Maybe she didn''t do anything wrong, maybe she seems like a person, but fault or not, she still led the group of¡­I guess survivors now¡­to a meat blender that is the end of their existence. The way they presented their habitat, the desire she held, the shaky and undisciplined foundation they built up their oh-so-perfect plans, all felt like she unwittingly made an inescapable trap.


    I know that those who didn''t try to connect with me after the group fell apart were my responsibility and mine alone. I really can''t blame someone else for me not getting along with others. It''s all my fault. I''m my own worst enemy. How could I pretend that I can associate with them, be among them when I''ve been nothing but a monster - a pest, a vermin, a creature so far beneath them? At least their interactions with one another were natural.


    All this rage, all this pain, all this hatred, is there anyone I could get along with? Is that even a goal I desire? What point is there to associate with others when it is not a core need? To be me, do I need to associate with someone else who''s like me? Will the sun set with my identity intact, and will it rise again with me remaining as I am now? I need food, water, and a goal to survive; would social interaction even matter? If it was, would it be fair to others to drain away my peers'' resources, known as their time and energy? Would it make sense that an organism like me exists to drain the energy from those around me?


    But even then, am I surviving now alone?


    The iron grip the darkness held upon my mind was quickly eaten away, and another desire wriggled and squirmed its way into my thoughts. I was hungry. I was only going to get hungrier. I didn¡¯t even have anything on me anymore. Although the imagination of eating food didn''t occupy my mind, the need for safety against a hostile environment did. If I''m hungry, I can''t run or fight. Luck would have it, I saw a food pantry up ahead.

 Chapter 4: See the Light 4-1

    Sustaining life in the City isn''t possible for me. For others? Who knows, maybe they''re thriving. I can''t live here forever. I''m different. I''m different, but I''m not better - I''m worse, I''m broken, and I''m vulnerable to this, and I can''t keep existing like this and none of this-


    My focus shifted away for a moment. The night''s entrails slithered across the all but spilled remains of the waxing moon. Visual static played tricks upon my eyes and snuffed out any candle of hope that warmed my otherwise cold feet. In other words, I felt like I wasn''t alone. No living object occupied the setting with me, though.


    From what I could see, the space was split into 3 main sections. Lighter granite tiles made up a main space that contained seating for dozens of people. Darker slate tiles made up the left and right wings, given extra visual cue via a couple of evenly spaced pillars on the borders. Far on the other side, in one corner, occupied ample storage of food - unopened barrels, cabinets, and storage units for colder items.


    Paranoia quickly seared through my priorities. Finding food became a secondary goal compared to finding light again. Graceful footsteps became a chaotic dance to find something, anything. Desperately groping around at the partially visible pillars, I found nothing but a coarse sandstone texture, as well as my added frustration.


    Reaching the end, there was a door that led to a restroom. After carefully swiping inside the room, I found light and ran inside. Catching a breath, I slumped down in front of the door, blocking anything else that could enter.


    Like any restroom, I was alone with the average utilities, a mirror, and other minor tools for cleaning said utilities. In short, it was made for one person. Light filled every corner of the space, releasing me from the choke-hold that darkness put on me outside. I had the time again to think.


    I don''t know how I can get along the way that everyone else I''ve met in the City has. I get what they do, why they do it, and how they execute it. Somehow, I''m not like them. I thought I was made of the same substance: the same flesh. Each time I interact with someone new, I''m continuously proven wrong. What am I missing, or what do I have too much of that I can''t connect with them?


    Was I even meant to connect with any of them? If not, why am I here? Why did I arrive here at a location where there are those who look like me? If I wasn''t meant to take residence in this City, then why can''t I remember what the goal was in arriving here? If I don''t have a particular goal in relation to the City, how do I leave? Do I leave? Where do I go - it''s not like I can remember where I was before I was in the forest.


    I then glanced at the mirror and became mesmerized.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    I look revolting. There''s blood all over me. Everything about me looks off. It''s like the skin on my body has begun to melt off. It''s like looking back into my eyes, my face, and every shape of it, then blinking and seeing it all reversed. What I look like now, what I''ve become, can''t be normal. It can''t simply be the passage of time; it''s just too quick. People don''t get worse this quickly.


    Residence in the City can''t be good for me. I''m probably dying at this point. I don''t know what to do; there''s nothing I can do. What can I do next? I can''t continue to live like this, so I won''t simply go along the City''s current. I can''t complete a goal if I don''t know what it is. I can''t leave if I don''t know where or how to leave. I can''t think of another direction to move towards. I don''t know what to do.


    I gripped onto the sides of the sink with as much as I could grip. Tears fluttered onto the faucet as my head drooped beneath my shoulders.


    I was upset at Phoebe. I was upset at Nick. I hated both of their groups and I hated how everything turned out with them. I never connected with anyone and I never made any progress within myself. I wasted time and now I look awful. I wasted valuable resources - my life, for no reason at all. I wanted to blame everything on them and I wanted them to know it.


    Nick is gone now, though. Plus, I caused it. No matter how I felt about him, I was in the wrong. I can''t help but feel I wasn''t entirely in control while doing it. It was as if my nerves were pulled by unbreakable strings. Was it me? Was I the one who killed Nick, or was there a spirit of rage that took me? I don''t know- I feel as if I''m shifting blame from myself. Even if I wasn''t to blame, I didn''t take control of a situation I was responsible for. If I was controlled, who''s to say I''m not now? If I am controlled now, how do I discern my actions from myself?


    Either way, I am a danger to others. I am not committing that which is on the side of people. My goals are against me, hailing a spirit of Death. It''s not even cool. I''m not even doing it in a fearsome way. I''m a wimp, pushed around by a crippling spirit of decay. I can''t even figure out how to root out this self-destructive spirit. Possibly every action I''ve committed is paradoxical to my authentic self with no way to escape due to my systematic ignorance.


    In other words, I''m stuck, and anything I do will make everything worse.


    I screamed- howled, cried, yelled until I became hoarse. There was a point where I couldn''t even breathe. I held the sink firm and sunk down onto my knees, my forehead then resting upon the edge of the sink. It felt like forever since nothing mattered; not a single second was worth anything to me anymore. Every minute I existed, I wasted, whereas every minute before I made no attempt to escape the waste I had brought upon myself. For all I cared, time had both frozen and began to move at an exponential velocity. I don''t know what to do. Nothing matters; there''s nowhere I can go from here.


    There was a certain point where, although I didn''t want to even breathe, let alone do anything, my body said otherwise. I gasped for air. I flung myself up to stand. I gripped onto the sink a bit longer while I couldn''t see anything but stars and geometric patterns. Hunger took over as well. I slithered out of the restroom to eat what food I found.

 Chapter 4: See the Light 4-2

    ¡­


    "Whoever invented large metal doors hates me." Echoed from the other side of the room.


    The aforementioned door briefly creaked and then slammed gracelessly. My instincts directed me to the sound before I even thought about it. Although I was obviously not alone, the darkness mostly obscured my company.


    My plate of food was mid-assembly when I locked into the faceless guest who entered my space. Although the restroom was amply propped open, light showered only in my direction, while the unknown company I had experienced a drought of light. My attention left the light and the food I was cooking.


    Between either of us, the only sound made was her heels clicking across the stone tiles. Then she stopped for a moment. A series of echoing, booming sounds followed by a series of elaborate lamps from above lighting up, starting from her and ending with me. Needless to say, I think she found the lights. And despite the reveal, I still couldn''t see from that distance, so all I saw was a pink, white, and black fuzzy blob approaching me casually.


    Instead of aiming for me, she reached up and plopped down on a stool in a clear but distant view, balling up her hands as if I were being commanded to put a fork in one and a knife in the other.


    "And you''re not going to give me some?" She asked.


    "What?" was the only tangible thought left I was able to articulate.


    The spitting sound of the chicken sizzling behind me began to take precedence in my focus again. What lured me away from responding to them was the savory permeating smell of the abundant seasoning I gave the chicken. If she said anything after that point, I didn''t hear her. I flipped what I had, and added it to complete the dinner meal. I turned the stove off delicately, with what little awareness of reality I had left.


    As I sat across from her, she ran off her seat and scuttled to make a plate for herself. As she ran to the other side, her shoes squeaked, and she nearly slipped and fell. It was as if she waltzed from one end of the storage area to the next. I dug in, finally, with a proper meal to accommodate my condition. There were small fruits, leafy vegetables, root vegetables like parsnips, various salted meats, and dairy. I only got a few bites in, as well as a brief rumination on the vast array of stocked goods until she came back. Her plate of food slid in my direction and nearly fell off the table.


    She stretched to the fullest extent she possibly could. "Ugh, this was going to be an in and out trip, but I guess I''ll have to stay and entertain you," She gave an extremely toothy grin while squinting a little.


    I began to try and say something, but she followed up with a muffled laugh. I felt like I looked visibly dead, but energy started to come back to me. Whether it was the proper nutrition I had or something else, something broke the crust from my dried-up post-sobbing face.


    "Well, I''m so sorry to be so boring that I have to waste all of your precious time," I said with a snarky tone.


    "Yeah, now I''m going to be stuck learning what kind of awfully boring person you are. I''m Rebecca, by the way." She made a heart symbol with her fingers.


    "Call me Ishmael. I don''t really live here. I don''t really know where I am or what this place is." I said sternly.


    "You''re in the City." She interrupted me.


    "Yes, I think I know that much. But like, I don''t know, like, what exactly is in the City, because I haven''t lived here before. Like, I''m not a long-term resident or anything." I used my hands to talk as well, placing them forward and opening my posture.


    "Do you really not know? I don''t think I''ve ever met anyone who isn''t from here. This is a really new experience for me - what is it like?" She tilted her head for a moment to grin again.


    "What, taking residence in a world I''ve not accustomed to, or what life was like before I arrived at the City?" I asked, gaining volume and mental clarity.


    "Yes." She said before I could finish.


    I thought for a minute, becoming wide-eyed and still feeling the searing feeling of my eyes recently so salty. I hummed thoughtlessly as I collected an answer from my memories.


    "Life here has been alright. I feel like there''s been a lot of customs and etiquette other residents have instincts for that I don''t. On the other hand, I wish I could tell you about where I''m from, but I don''t really know that myself. I''m aware of a forest near the City, but I can''t recall anything before it." I explained.


    "I might''ve seen that forest before. I don''t really know the name of it but I''m sure it must''ve been a nice place to live." She nodded and grinned again.


    "I think I''m a bit cleaner than to have lived in a forest," I tried to cut in.


    "Stinky. Stinky. Forest creature stinky," She taunted me.


    I went back to my dinner. The blood red lining of my eyes made up the most of my expression from her view, where my only eye contact from my drooping face is the viciously ghoulish, bugged out glare I could give. That was not my intention though, as there was something to her that felt so much more attentive than anyone else I had met so far.


    "So what, you''re living amongst all of these zombies, and you''re calling me-" I couldn''t think of how to end my comeback, dripping in an aimless choleric poison.


    "No, try that again." She instructed.


    I took a moment to sniff up the embarrassing amount of phlegm from me. "I''ve just been dealing with the most revolting creatures I''ve ever had to face, and they''ve been worse than anything-" I still couldn''t find the end to my hatred.


    "Nope. Use your words. Try again." She held only a simmering tone of amusement.


    "I don''t know. This place, the City, has been difficult to connect with. I''ve had to fight with everything here. I can''t catch a break no matter who I encounter or what I try to accomplish." I choked back tears.


    "Are you sure you should be telling that to someone you just met?" She momentarily lost her enthusiastic smile.


    In other words, she gave me an explicit signal to change gears. She notified me in such a way that I could easily adapt to. That comment went by so quickly, yet it was something I didn''t somehow miss. I stopped and stared just to process.


    "So, I guess you''re a zombie-liker then." I looked away for a moment in jest.


    "Are you trying to tell me the City, my home and place of residence, is the Zombie City?" She lowered her head while keeping eye contact.


    "I think I''m saying everywhere I walk is Zombie land. Zombie streets, zombie sky, zombie buildings." I crossed my arms.


    "You''re trying to tell me that actually everything is a zombie. I guess that means you''re just a zombie, too." She blinked.


    "You are what you eat. Although, I would assume some of this isn''t zombie food." I looked particularly at the fruit I had.


    "As a serious note, I have noticed that places like bakeries are swarmed with them. I can''t even find my way into some of those places, which is a shame since there were one or two bakeries I was a big fan of." She shrugged.


    I looked up to think. "Well, that makes sense. I guess I would almost assume more meaty places, or I guess dinner restaurants would attract zombies, though, instead of essentially, dessert factories. I believe there were a few times when cooked meals in a large, consistent setting attracted a group of zombies. I might have seen zombies pick out candy or sweets, sometimes not even opening the wrapper. I find it strange, especially since I''ve been to a sort of deli, I guess, where¡­"


    As I was lost in thought monologuing, she peered down at her orange. She held it for a few seconds, then suddenly bit down on it while the peel was still very much covering it. Although what she did didn''t faze me, I played along. I stopped mid-sentence, mouth somewhat agape and eyes as wide as possible. I pretended to include fear in my expression. I gave a slow, quiet laugh for the compensation for her labor.


    "I just wanted to see what your reaction would be." She giggled.


    "Yeah, uh, I guess you are the zombie then. Orange am I glad¡­ orange I¡¯m glad¡­ orange¡­ zombie¡­ you¡­¡± I tried putting a pun together to no avail. She paused for a moment but laughed regardless.


    "What survivor groups have you met so far?" She asked while folding her hands again.


    "There was a whole host of people nearby. I believe their leader was named Nick, but I wasn''t able to ID anything else about them." I explained.


    She tilted her head and continued to grin. "Do you have a last name for him? Like, something else to identify him with?" she asked.


    I shook my head and tried to gesture, but I couldn''t think of anything. She rolled her eyes.


    "Alright. Normally, you''ll find alphabetical survivor groups. They tend to know what group they''re actually in instead of just not telling you or whatever. Whoever they were likely formed independently." She went on.


    I cut in. "Are there rules and stuff to how these groups operate?" I furled my eyebrows when asked.


    "Was there a situation?" She leaned in to ask.


    "Yes, there was a situation," I emphasized the ''Was.''


    She butted in. "Is there going to be another situation? Like, soon?"


    I shook my head in shock. "No they''re, they''re gone now. I wasn''t able to confirm it but I think I was the only one," I trailed off, unable to finish my testimony.


    She tilted her head. "I''m going to switch gears now. So, did you hear about the- because I was thinking of going, right. Every survivor group was going to aim to meet up at ''I'' group''s territory, or at least that''s what a lot of them were thinking. I haven''t seen any news on it recently. We''re somewhere in between ''T'' and ''S'' group''s territory, by the way."This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    "That was like five different topics. First, I didn''t know where we were until now, so thanks. Second, no, this is the first time I''m hearing about any sort of networking, mingling event or whatever. Third, why are you asking me?" I counted with my fingers as I talked.


    "Stop it. Your tone is concerning. Get a hold of yourself. I will answer, but you should really take a minute. Anyway, it was going to be the second meeting between the majority of the groups to evaluate damages, share resources, and discuss future plans. We''re a little closer to the east right now. I was just curious." She lost all enthusiasm in her tone.


    I took her advice and did some deep breathing exercises for a minute. My eyes continued to burn, and I couldn''t help but cry as she gave me the time to recuperate.


    "I''m sorry." I tried to say.


    "Don''t worry about it. It''s fine.¡± She said.


    I caught my breath in something between a yawn and a trembling, quiet plea and moved on. I looked up and tried to smile the best I could.


    "You''re from here and never left?" I pointed downwards, indicating the City.


    "You make it sound like I know this place like the back of my hand. Jokes on you; I''ve only covered about half the City on foot." She laughed after.


    "More than me. Is the City really that big? If I, okay: so I walked from these farms to an area focused around water treatment ending up around here, so how much do you think I''ve seen so far?" I asked.


    Her eyes bugged out in order to think. "Obviously not that much. It''s hard to think just how much you''ve seen so far based on that description alone. Plus, if you''ve been going in one direction, I doubt you''ve had the time to explore anything in-depth, and that''s not uncommon or anything. I don''t think most people have taken a thorough look everywhere in the city. Some places are boring to explore. Some places aren''t meant for certain people. Sometimes the places you explore are the worlds inside your mind: vast, colorful lands stretching thousands of miles, and sometimes those places take longer to fully map out than any physical piece of land."


    "So you''re saying you''re lazy then?" I asked in an elevated, brute tone.


    She snickered and lost composure for a moment in response. "You''re complaining about someone who lost her entire ability to move in a freak, horrible accident involving some of the most unfortunate circumstances and beating me down because I can''t even leave my house?" She dug in and gripped her hands onto the edge of the table.


    I pretended to be bewildered to go along with her skit. "Can you please elaborate upon what those circumstances were?" I sounded like an officer talking to a private.


    "I was lazy." She giggled for possibly too long while tucking her hands close.


    I couldn''t help but laugh as well. "So what, half the city? Thoroughly? On foot? That has to actually be pretty impressive. I feel like I''ve walked for days without any repeat scenery. What''s your role in this- do you have a job that makes you explore, or like is this a hobby for you?" I got back on track.


    She reeled into a neutral posture as well. "It''s a little bit of both. I am a part of one of the survivor teams. Maybe not actively if you can''t tell-" She stretched while pointing downwards beside herself.


    She continued. "But I''m associated enough to- you know, be in the know, do the missions, be a person who is productive beyond just rolling around in your house lazily all day. Otherwise, there are spots that I really actually like to visit a lot. They bring me comfort. They bring me joy." She gave a toothy smile at the end.


    "So they''re your places then? Like, sure, there are probably people who work in what you mean, but they don''t really soak in the beauty of that location. Do you mean public places instead, like a park or whatever?" I held out the word ''your''.


    "No, not so much parks, although it is nice that the City sets aside land to be used to contain every single joy-producing plant and animal specifically for me. There are places. Nests. Coves. That a creature like me can exist peacefully. I''m so glad they''re small, hidden secrets from everyone else." She shrugged and grinned.


    "Are you going to share those-" I was cut off.


    "No." She giggled afterward.


    ¡­


    At some point, I lost track of time. We went back and forth more than I could ever possibly remember. As I got a feel for who she was, I felt there was more I knew what to say and less that held me back. Whatever brain fog I had was replaced by inspiration, and whatever weariness I felt from such a new person dissipated. I felt normal. I felt like I was interacting like a regular person like anyone and everyone else in the City did with each other. When my attention was refocused, we somehow got on the topic of favorite foods.


    "I just feel like the only thing worth eating is what makes sense. Sure, different foods make me react differently, but there''s no difference between something''s taste, texture, or consistency. I want only what I need." I explained.


    "Do you just look at a pancake and groan in existential despair?" She also gave an example of said groaning and held no reservations to express it.


    "Well, I thought those smiley pancakes, you know, the ones with the bacon and two strawberries for eyes, were supposed to put a smile on your face." I marked out the smile on my now empty plate.


    "I know they sure make me happy." She interrupted me.


    "But like, I''m not going to care. I''m not going to eat it if I don''t have to eat it." I said.


    "So what if someone made something for you? Aren''t you going to be rude if you refuse it?" She asked.


    "Well, yeah, of course, I''m going to do my part and make someone else happy, especially since I don''t derive any joy from what I''m eating one way or another. Also, like, what if they were feeding you poison, though?" I switched tones mid-thought.


    "And you wouldn''t eat it?" She was referring to the poison.


    "Maybe if I was a poison-eater, I guess," I said.


    "You''re out here telling me that you''re not going to be personally excited to eat a smiley face pancake, and you''re suggesting you''re not a poison-eater?" She tapped her fingers on the table for emphasis.


    "Now you''re just putting words in my mouth. I mean yes, I will admit I really don''t care for food like that. I don''t have anything against a dish made for children; I''ll endorse it wholeheartedly if it makes someone else happy, but the only benefit for me is the fruit, and I guess maybe the bacon? Maybe? Possibly? Like there''s no one I have to impress or watch for their feelings for if I''m alone, with the ability to take one thing or another." I became passionate and gave open palms to add to my point.


    "So you''re not a smiley pancake eater, but you are probably a poison-zombie-food and people eater. Do you just hate life or something?" She asked.


    "Look, I was at a small deli, or a grocery store, or I forget, I don''t know, I don''t care, right? And I had to pick out something. I thought to myself, what would be simple, quiet, had enough nutrition, I guess, and didn''t make a mess? A pastry. Obviously, there were better options somewhere in this City, but it was the only choice that made sense." I replied.


    "Well that might make some sense, so is nutrition like your number one goal then?" She asked.


    "I guess not quite. I don''t care about it in itself, but I''m not just going to eat something that stops me from my normal behavior. Seeing people have to leave for bathroom breaks, washing their hands, or otherwise acting strangely after a meal was concerning. Maybe it wasn''t the worst thing in the world, but I didn''t want that to happen to me." I explained.


    "I''m sure you can say what does matter then seeing as you haven''t starved yourself." She pointed to my plate.


    "If something would make me more of myself, of course, I''ll eat it. I''ll drink it. I don''t want to burden others by becoming a shell of who I once was. I''m not suggesting that what I am is good, and quite frankly, I think I''m a pretty lousy person. I do think what good there is, if any, in my habits would disappear if I''m not careful." I then handed the question off to her.


    "I used to bake. When I did, I would normally put a lot of time and effort into its presentation. I wasn''t obsessed or anything, but I do care a lot about how my food looks. I think the arrangement matters a lot." She shrugged and smiled.


    "Yeah, imagine. You''re just totally obsessed: everything must look picture perfect, and you''d go insane if someone made something that-" I was cut off.


    "Ah, yeah, wow, like I would just toss whatever wasn''t pretty away or whatever," She added.


    "Yeah, like, you would literally just cut up and dismember whoever cooks for you and then make them the meal." Was my next addition.


    She snickered and gave a very toothy smile. "I feel like they would make as bad of a presentation as the food they made".


    "You are what you eat," I said, nearly under my breath. She laughed very loudly in response.


    "I do try my best to make something worth eating, though. It hits differently when I put the effort into the whole process of a meal. I don''t think that''s the same as putting whatever together for the sake of nutrition." She explained.


    "I feel like aesthetics still fall under the broader concept, which is about eating what makes sense. Artists: people who make intentional use of the elements they wish to assemble will put messages, meaning, and value in the sheer snugness of each symbol fitting with each other. People put colors together because those colors make sense. The same is true with metaphors, artistic elements and principles, and stories that each piece has." I became locked in at this point, having no ability to do anything but maintain perfect eye contact.


    She interrupted me. "So what, is the next thing you''re going to say is ''We''re not so different, you and I''," She gave a dark tone when quoting.


    I stopped. My hands flopped from being suspended in the air to the table. "So what do you want me to say instead? Like, am I out of line or something?" I asked overenthusiastically.


    She giggled. "Yeah, way out of line. I can''t believe you''d just try and make a connection between two different ideas. Awful. No. I actually think I get your point. Practical or not, it''s easy to sit with a decision that just feels right."


    She stopped the conversation. She let the energy cool off a little. Then she collected herself: "Well, I think talking about this was pretty neat. I think I''m tired, for real this time, so I''m going to go to sleep. It was good to meet you." She said.


    Practicality without insanity¡­ That clicked with me. She clicked with me. Well, I don''t know if I click with her, but she clicks with me. I had some sort of a feeling in my mind, like a geyser from the bottom of the ocean heating up, glowing, and preparing to explode. Something within my thoughts lost all language, ability to perfectly articulate what was going on in them. They were replaced with visuals for how I felt and for what I believed. All of it urged me, it beckoned me, it held my hand for the first time since arriving here. I want her.


    I wasn''t entirely back in the present, but I mustered up some sort of request. "Oh. Let''s be friends."


    In confusion, she tilted her head and smiled. "What, do you want to marry me too?"


    And then I became mindful again. "Uh, yeah, sure, and like two and a half kids with a mortgage."


    "Yeah, okay, when?" She added with extra sarcasm to her tone.


    "Next Tuesday." I gave while deadpan.


    We both stopped for a moment. Then we laughed.


    "I''m not going anywhere. Well, I am going home and to go to sleep, but I''ll be around. Of course we''re friends now, you seem cool, cool enough. Why, what did you mean?" She gave a round smile that scrunched together her whole face.


    I shook my head, still unable to remove my bewildered expression. "I just, I''m not sure. I don''t know my way around here, so I don''t know what''d be next."


    "How about this. There''s a platform near a few especially bleached-out, sandy buildings. One of the buildings is called the ''Sandytop Row''- I don''t know why it''s called that," She smiled again for her sarcasm.


    She pointed to the table to try and make directions from here to there. "I should be up sometime normal tomorrow morning. I''ll wait out there for a while. Plus, I know a place you can hide and sleep near there too. Check the stock here if you haven''t, there should be something you can use as a hammock to sleep on. I¡¯ll see you later, and: look, King, try not to be so hard on yourself."


    I felt like I had digested her nickname for me much longer than I should''ve. "I''ll look around. It was great to meet you! I''ll- I''ll see you tomorrow!" I said with excitement.


    As she left, she turned around to wave and give one last devious, mischievous, honest, and genuine smile.


    "Bye!" I gave a great big smile as she disappeared into the night.

 Chapter 4: See the Light 4-3

    I felt like meeting Rebecca had been the quickest exchange of words I had ever experienced. In fact, I felt like this was the most I''ve ever interacted with someone in one setting, and yet we only sat together for a brief time. No one had connected with me before to such an uncanny degree. There is no one I had ever met who had such a similar tempo to my humor, the way I thought, and the way I talked. I''ve never met someone before who thought at the same speed I did: not slowly nor faster than I did.


    She was the first person who maintained eye contact. It was weird too, in fact I felt like my vision became blurry at points. Something was different about her expressions, but I couldn''t place what. As a result, I felt like there were points I had trouble making sense of her facial features, similar to if I had said a word too much, and now the word looked or sounded funny.


    I''ve never met anyone who listened to me as crystal and clearly as she did. It was like nothing else occupied her attention. It was like our interaction was the first and possibly last thing to have ever happened to her, and yet we had only met. I''ve never met someone who gave me such clear and attentive signals. Everything on her mind, everything in her feelings, everything in her interests were communicated to me in concise, supportive ways.


    She had given me the kind of respect I''d never received before. She gave me the kind of respect I wanted. I wasn''t given a cold breeze or a stifling smothering of heat. She respected my boundaries. She kept inviting me to say more while amply giving her thoughts. In some sense, it felt like we were pouring each other''s thoughts into one place instead of playing tug of war for who gets the other''s attention. She was refreshing. She was very refreshing and energizing. Instead of becoming exhausted from being lectured or from being forced to claw at her attention, she gave me energy, life, and everything else I needed to survive this interaction.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I don''t know what kind of connection I wanted with her; I almost don''t care. I felt a burning instinct, a feral and unchained desire to secure some sort of connection with her. I don''t know what I want from her, or how I want to be involved with her, but all I knew is that I had to maintain some sort of connection. I didn''t know how, but I knew there was nothing else that mattered up to this point than her.


    Nothing else mattered- no trinket, no food, no experience, no hobby or interest, or job, or goal or achievement, or feeling or vice moved me. Nothing gave me anything but a detached sense of contempt. No one else had either cared about me and not in any minuscule capacity. No one made an attempt to care about me or anything related to me. No one else had made an attempt to be a person worth caring about, either. No one else was funny, and especially not in a way that matched my humor. No one else was informative without having to pull teeth just for me to learn anything. No one else cooperated with me and gave every excuse to ignore me.


    For me, I had just received the greatest honor I''ve ever felt in my life. For her, it was just another day. It''s not that Rebecca cares or cared about me. I think she''s just like this. I think she''s just someone who genuinely gives compassion to others. I felt no spark in her eyes that would suggest she wanted from me or had some sort of a crush on me. She might even forget about me. During that time, though, she gave me more respect than anyone else had before.


    I teared up. I let paranoia flood in. Even being gone for a moment made me feel like a vital component of myself had been removed. I have to secure some sort of connection with her.

 Chapter 5: Entangled 5-1

    Thankfully, zombies sleep too.


    While I was only nearly approached once and nearly assaulted based on what my wits told me, I got a lot of progress done. Finding what marker Rebecca suggested was so easy that I¡¯d have to be blind not to find it. The City has a bunch of lights everywhere. Lamp posts glow in a cold hue, with salt encasing each light. They all buzzed with this annoying high-pitched hum. But sound and obnoxiously bright luminosity aside, they were lined up in rows that led right to where she mentioned.


    Maybe I should have been louder when setting up my hammock. By the way, it was actually a rope net made to hold pomegranates for easy access. Untying it, let the entire stock spill onto the floor with ease. I put it in a cart, along with a tablecloth, unprepared food, supporting materials for the hammock, and a few tools for general-purpose use.


    My work almost felt too easy: my hiding spot was dark, close to the rendezvous point, tied between two banisters a good two stories high, and I had enough extra rope to tie each end taut.


    When hanging up a makeshift hammock, you would think it¡¯d take all night. I noticed I had plenty of night to spare when I was done, possibly too much. As the following events transpire, I know now I had way too much night to spare.


    ¡­


    Nearing the completion of setting up my temporary bed, exhaustion set in. It was how my eyes wanted to stay closed, no matter how alert all my other senses were. It was how, although I had the strength to move what I wanted, I didn¡¯t have some sort of external motivation, as if my body needed to be as motivated as my mind. It was how I kept returning to the same thoughts over and over without producing any new internal dialogue. Maybe not instantly, but as the silence set in and my ears began to ring, my energy drained rather quickly.


    It was late, sure; I know I should be tired when it''s late. It was also late while I was eating dinner. I don¡¯t know. Maybe it''s not worth examining at the moment. I wish I could call it a blessing, as I think I¡¯ll have a good night¡¯s sleep tonight. I don¡¯t know.


    I tested the bed before fully jumping in. Sure, I rocked back and forth, but it was stable.


    ¡­


    Normally, when someone falls asleep entirely, they can¡¯t really remember when exactly they did it. It makes sense since their perceptions of their outside environment and even their inside introspection shut down a little. At the same time, I feel like you can really deduce when what happens and how. For example, maybe I¡¯m ranting to myself when trying to sleep. If there¡¯s a point where I feel like I¡¯ve left off, that¡¯s probably when I fell asleep. Another roadblock to figuring out when exactly you¡¯d fall asleep is the exciting result of a dream you go through.


    Oh, look, I appear to have fallen. I¡¯m in a room with checkered floors, wavy walls that extend far past where I can see, that has a table, a teapot, and a door. From what I could see up above were red velvet drapes that hadn¡¯t fully lowered to the ground. What is this, a theater? Am I supposed to be an actor or a puppet? The walls around me had tacky, faded wallpaper, though, suggesting I was in some sort of a house.


    So, I get up, feet first, and then throw myself forward by pushing my hands from the floor. And what is there to do? It¡¯s a room. There¡¯s nothing in it. I could call out to see if anyone¡¯s there, but I have no faith that has ever worked in history, or I could try to open said door. One problem: I can fit at most my hand through said door, which is also locked. I have a stellar idea. I could kick the door to see what happens. Better yet, I could kick the table to see what would happen.


    Instead, I half-heartedly decided to play along with whatever puzzle I¡¯m supposed to participate in.


    ¡°Whatever this place is, I¡¯m ready to move on to what I¡¯m supposed to see next.¡± I sing into the void. My voice travels up into the air, echoing back and forth as it rises.


    ¡°If only someone would tell you which way to go.¡± Said the ground.


    No, the ground can¡¯t talk. I frantically looked around to find the source of the voice. Lo and behold, the door had a tired scowl. In short, it had a face. As I locked eyes with it, it continued.


    ¡°Sadly, you missed the reception. Everyone else had a blast, networked with each other, and now they¡¯re all of one mind and spirit. You¡¯ll never have another chance because of how tardy you were,¡± it yawned through its speech.


    I guess it has a mouth, too, and isn¡¯t afraid to use it. I squatted to try and get to its level. My eye level was still twice the height of that tiny door.


    ¡°Well, maybe I can¡¯t connect with them. I do want to progress with what I want to do, though. I have my own goals, and I don¡¯t think I need others to achieve them. Besides, it¡¯s risky to entangle yourself with those whose values override yours.¡± I chided.


    Then, it scoffed at me. The nerve of that door. ¡°Well, look where that got you. There were a few stragglers, you know this, and you never made a lasting connection. Whatever happened to being pen pals- writing back and forth, updating each other on your lives, and visiting once in a while?¡±


    I scooched closer. ¡°They didn¡¯t accept me. I was in no position to keep these friends, so I decided to focus on goals that didn¡¯t need them. You can¡¯t blame me for trying to hone into my strengths instead of my weaknesses.¡±


    ¡°Yet here you are, crying out, ¡®Can anyone help little old me to move on?!¡¯ Don¡¯t you know they have the key? Your network is the key you¡¯re looking for to find success in life, no matter what goal you have.¡± It made the worst attempt to imitate my voice that I¡¯d ever seen.


    ¡°Alright. Let me spell it out for you. I¡¯m looking for answers. I want to know why I¡¯m so different from everyone else. I want to know what exists outside of the City. Then, I want to know what reason someone like me, in particular, would journey into the City. Then I¡¯ll get out of your and your annoying little ¡®network¡¯s hair. Deal?¡± I squinted my eyes to make my point.


    Something on the table rattled. It was a plate with a small slice of cake. I looked back to see it had a tag, which said, ¡°Eat me.¡±


    After an uncomfortable moment of silence, the door began to say, ¡°Try it.¡± I interrupted it, declining. We then got into a back-and-forth, commanding me to eat whatever foreign morsel of potentially poisonous waste lay on that plate. After standing up again to contemplate it closer, its next command to eat it made a loud booming noise.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    I swiped the plate onto the ground, causing it to shatter. What was strange was the horrific swelling racket, like an orchestra of breaking glass. I held my ears as its shrill tornado of noise punished my disobedience.


    "I''m beginning to think you''re more of a cat than I am." Said two yellow, glowing eyes.


    "Don''t label me!" I shouted back.


    An eerily smiling cat began to materialize, laying down and holding its head with one of its arms. It was the fattest, most annoying creature I had ever laid eyes upon.


    ¡°You know, if you never reach out to get a good grip on what you want, it¡¯ll slip away from you.¡± The cat said while pieces of the shattered plate got legs and began to tiptoe away from me.


    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t care about these experiences. They¡¯re hardly offered to me, and when they are, I¡¯m humiliated! I have to grasp at something I never innately cared about, and I have to beg despite wanting nothing to do with it! I¡¯m not gonna keep playing these games!¡± I slammed my hand onto the table.


    ¡°Despite all your protesting, you¡¯re the one who asked for the key. The key is with them. The only way through them now is to participate in what they do. You have to become like them, isn¡¯t that interesting?¡± The cat rolled around on the table.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get something straight. The key is mine. Just because you all have it right now doesn¡¯t make it yours. Give me the key. I can¡¯t become someone I¡¯m not. I break at the seams if I even try to be or do something that isn¡¯t innately me. I want the key, and I want to be me so I don¡¯t collapse into a pile of dust.¡±


    ¡°Well then, look behind you. Is that her? Your precious key? I¡¯m sure you know her oh-so-well.¡± as it pointed to¡­wait.


    That¡¯s Rebecca. But I just met her yesterday, there¡¯s no way I could know her as if she were some childhood friend. She¡¯s holding the key, though. As she¡¯s making a smug grin, she holds the key close to her heart.


    From what I noticed, it looked like she had a bunny nose. She was also wearing a relatively complicated dress: primarily in white, but had various designs of playing-card soldiers, hearts, rabbits, and caterpillars on it. It was a coordinated look, where it had quite a few layers, even having stockings that had a matching design. Her mary-janes were the only element that stood out, having the same hue as her raven-colored hair.


    ¡°You know, with how adverse you are, both to touch, experience, and connecting with others, you should just fully become the cat you were always meant to be.¡± The cat got up on two legs and grabbed a tail from behind his back.


    He tried pinning a tail to me, and I ran around in circles to escape it. ¡°I¡¯m me! I¡¯m not a cat! I am Ishmael; why won¡¯t you listen to me?!¡± I pleaded.


    ¡°Ishmael, you say? I¡¯ve never seen one of those in the City before. They always seem like a walking contradiction, with their legs attached one way and their head going the other way. If one were to exist, I¡¯m sure someone in the City would deal with them. You know, taking them apart, piece by piece, and putting them back together the right way.¡± That cat was hiding something.


    ¡°And why would they do that? It¡¯s not like he¡¯s causing any harm to anything in the City!¡± I didn¡¯t necessarily yell, but I was heated.


    ¡°You¡¯re extremely loud, actually. Imagine being someone else: you¡¯re minding your own business, and one day, your senses get hijacked. You begin to see from someone else¡¯s miserable angle, hear what they hear and how they hear it, smell with what intent they have to smell from. Do you know what you are, Mr¡­I guess¡­Ishmael? You¡¯re a virus. To us. Every time you get upset, every time you say you hate one of us, every time you insult us and disrespect our culture, we feel the immense irony. We¡¯ve seen your every move, and how couldn¡¯t we have? You¡¯re so easy to spot. You might think you''re invisible, but really, no one knows how to actually deal with you. At the same time, they see every excruciating moment from your perspective when you¡¯re near us. You¡¯re an eyesore and don¡¯t know even half of our pain. You don¡¯t know how much we want you gone whenever you¡¯re even within a mile of us.¡± The smiling cat said nonchalantly.


    The expression of shock was my recurring look now. ¡°Then¡­I need the key. With it, I can leave, and everyone wins.¡± I focused back on Rebecca again.


    The key accidentally slipped from her hands, causing her to have a surprised expression. As it hit the ground, making a ¡®cling¡¯ noise similar to a glockenspiel, a large crack appeared across her face as if it were made of porcelain. The key bounced a few times, far away from me and her.


    ¡°Be careful! I don''t want anything to happen to you!¡± I shouted out.


    She laughed and began to run away. ¡°You never cared about me, silly! All you want is to hungrily stare at me, chomping away at my dignity. My well-being and safety only matter so much as how pretty I am, isn¡¯t it? Once I¡¯ve wilted, you¡¯ll move on, isn¡¯t that right?¡± She said in a light, slightly mocking tone.


    My eyes widened instinctually as if the reaction of ¡®shock¡¯ was an instinct in itself. ¡°That doesn¡¯t even make sense! I¡¯ve never even done anything that¡¯d lower who you are as a person! I¡¯ve tried my best to respect you, to learn about you, and to appreciate who you are!¡±


    ¡°Yet you reached out only when you had to.¡± her voice scattered all across the now extending room.


    Admittedly, the key was my top priority. I felt like she would have become defensive for it, misinterpreting the desire for the key for desiring attention, or worse: her body. I just needed answers, but whenever I tried asking them, two problems occurred. They never came out of my mouth right: accurately, with precision, and with value. The other person also never knew what to say. Trying to get the key has always been a complete waste of time, as I just didn¡¯t have the tools necessary to acquire it.


    What once was a round room whose floor sunk in the middle became a long hallway with uneven flooring as if it were turbulent water. The walls curved upwards as if I were looking at them through a fish-eye lens.


    ¡°Rebecca! Can I please have that key?¡± I call out desperately.


    She swiveled for a moment with her hands behind her back, saying, ¡°Of course, you can!¡± she promptly giggled in an echoey, ghostly way and then accidentally kicked the key even farther from me.


    I tried to run after her. A sound stopped my attention in its tracks. Behind me, dozens, if not hundreds, of mannequins taller than me, trudged toward me, filling the entire space behind me. For the brief moment I stopped, Rebecca¡¯s giggling rustled throughout the walls, as if the source dispersed like a puddle that dried up into steam.


    I howled out for her. Yet in my distraction, the mannequins, labeled various desires that those in the City had, grabbed me and made me stumble onto the ground.


    I pounded my fist on the ground and howled from the frustration. Mannequins behind me keep tugging me back while I¡¯m entirely pinned to the floor. As their limbs chattered, disembodied voices - primarily feminine - reverberated around me.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you having a good time?¡± One said.


    ¡°I just thought it was funny,¡± Another said.


    ¡°Can¡¯t you just open up more?¡±


    ¡°Can you just give an example of what you mean?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be fine, sweetie, just calm down!¡±


    And so forth. Their sharp edges began to cut into me upon piling onto me. I just needed the key. If I could just reach Rebecca one more time, I¡¯d have the key to move onward. Just one last word, just one last goodbye, just one last time to feel like the first time. The mannequins crushed me under their weight. I felt the violent press upon every muscle and tendon of my body. All I felt was rage, instigated anger.


    At first, I slowly crawled forward towards her, slower than she was prancing away from me. As they stoked the flames of my anger, my calm advances became frantic, feral clawing: anything just to get closer to her.


    My defiance came to an abrupt and violent end. An invisible hand grabbed my ankle, and with the velocity of an airplane taking off, I was thrown up, up, and upward until I jolted awake, as if someone had used a defibrillator on me. Rather than the shock of the dream, I believe my body alerted me to something in my presence. I poked my head out of my covers, where my suspicions were confirmed. I didn¡¯t see a zombie. I didn¡¯t see, at least I don¡¯t think I saw an animal.