《Darkest DayZ》


 Prologue

    Content Warning!


    This story contains mature and potentially distressing themes, including violence, death, trauma, and psychological distress. Scenes may depict graphic descriptions of gore, suicide, and the harsh realities of survival in a post-apocalyptic world. Additionally, there are references to sexual violence, though nothing explicit is depicted. Reader discretion is strongly advised.Some characters may make difficult or morally ambiguous choices that reflect the brutal nature of their world.


    While Darkest DayZ explores these themes with narrative intent, it does NOT seek to glorify or romanticize them!


    If you are sensitive to any of the topics mentioned, please proceed with caution. Your well-being is important, and there''s no shame in stepping away if needed.


    -----


    A gentle breeze wafted over the neighborhood, carrying the scent of fresh dew through snow covered trees and vacant bushes alike. The sun was bright, hanging neither too low, nor too high above the horizon. Jasper Walters inhaled deeply, taking a brief moment to enjoy the peace before dropping his eyes back to the dull sheet of paper pinched between his clothed fingertips. White vapors unfurled and lingered across his vision as they poured out of his lungs.


    His thumb rubbed over the parchment thoroughly, glancing just below the edges of text he''s scribbled on its surface days earlier. Dried splotches of brown from his morning coffee fused between each fiber, leaving the ink partially disturbed. The address was still readable, but just barely.


    He pursed his lips in thought. It had to be here somewhere. He''d entered the correct street a few blocks back, so finding the rest was supposed to be a piece of cake. That was the story he told himself, at least.


    Jasper went over the paper again, then for the third time that day, scanned the mostly barren streets to gather his bearings.


    Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen....


    He counted the houses in his head, stopping short when his eyes could see no further. It was close, but unfortunately, not close enough. He needed the twenty-third. Nothing more, nothing less. Brilliant sheens of freshly fallen ice coated the landscape, but unfortunately its brilliance did not do much to ward off the massive wave of disorientation clouding his better judgement. The place looked as unrecognizable as the washed out scribble of symbols he clung to so religiously.


    Tightly knit suburbs and bustling streets, all conveniently labeled in numerical order, were the base of Jasper''s upbringing. Out here, he was not quite as spoiled. Jasper was completely out of his element.


    Another breeze swept by, a little stronger this time, prompting a mild shiver. He needed to keep going. As nice as this morning was, spending it out here a moment too long was not favorable.


    His heart sank, then regret poured through in waves. A few minutes ago, ditching his dirty lift seemed like a good idea. It was a foolish action in comparison now. The driver, his cousin, may have been a little negligent on the vehicle''s upkeep, and the owner himself was definitely a little... questionable, but at least there had been warmth. Never in all his years of existence did he think he''d ever find himself longing for the guy''s rotten company, and better yet, the musty odor he always drove around in.


    Jasper glanced over the small piece of writing one more time, committing it to his already well-informed memory, then slipped it, along with his hand, back into the comfort of his coat pocket. He still had a few strides left to go. Better to be done with it sooner.


    "Fifteen.....sixteen....seventeen..." he counted aloud as he walked, his voice barely above a whisper.


    He nodded in greeting when he passed by an older individual, a small, unassuming woman sporting a mildly uninterested expression beneath her furry hood. Despite the subtle limp in her step, aided by a simple cane that was grasped between her wrinkled fingers, she kept up a decent stride, nearly barging through Jasper''s oncoming bulk entirely. His greeting went on ignored.


    Jasper did not put much weight behind the antisocial gesture, as startling as it was in the moment. A friendlier face, appearing to be a little boy, skipped at the elder''s side, waving at him over his shoulder. Jasper smiled and instantly returned the favor, the sourness of his earlier encounter swiftly forgotten. He could not help but notice the miniscule backpack strapped to the child''s eagerly bouncing shoulders.


    That''s right, he thought to himself. He''d almost forgotten. Schools had opened back up a few months ago following a very... prolonged closure. A symptom of society''s gradual return to normalcy.


    Jasper could never fathom life beyond the comforting shores of the island, let alone the tragedies that took place decades prior, but that was precisely what brought him here. There was no telling what tales were waiting for him down the very street he trod. The thought made him giddy with his own excitement.


    Still, it did not stop him from taking the odd moment or two to appreciate humanity''s progress when it was due. Maybe, when all was said and done, Jasper would allow himself to come back and enjoy the open scenery as a treat. An old village such as this ought to look absolutely breathtaking in the spring, he was sure. For now, escaping this unforgiving cold came first and foremost.


    Twenty-one... twenty-two...


    Jasper stopped.


    A stone wall, reaching no higher than his belly button and draped in vines of ivy, both dry and dying, caught his attention. He squinted, spying a thin spiral of smoke rising out of a quaint chimney above, and a tiny porcelain bunny barely peeking out of its powdery burrow of snow. The latter was precisely the landmark Jasper needed.


    He inched forward, peeling away the creaky gate that separated him from the front door and trudged across the frost bitten walkway, cautiously cupping a hand over his brow to peer through the nearest window. It was not clear why he did. Blue eyes stared back at him through a shaggy mess of brown hair. If the barely-open blinds on the inside did not block his view, his reflection mostly certainly did.


    He shivered again. It took him a second to realize he was shaking for a completely new reason. Maybe it was the unraveling ball of nerves in the pit of his stomach. An odd sensation. Confusing even. Jasper seldomly succumbed to nervousness.


    He exhaled deeply, his breath fogging the glass. A faint figure moved behind the blinds. If the plumes of smoke above had not confirmed his suspicions already, this did. Someone was home.


    Jasper, finding the courage to finally seize his opportunity, retracted his face and lifted an unsteady hand to knock on the door. His knuckles rapped firmly against it''s worn, wooden surface twice. He had intended on three, but the door swung inward, interrupting him. Staring Jasper down from the opposite side was a woman. Not one he recognized by any description. Her face, while a bit startled, took him in with curiosity.


    "Can I help you?"


    Her voice, soft and pleasant, took the man somewhat by surprise. In this nearly soulless winterscape, her tone alone was enough to cut through the air, dispelling his endured silence. That was not the only thing her noticed, however. Her accent... it was not one he recognized, yet it was precisely what he found familiar. He could not figure out why.


    "Ms. Petrov?" Walters questioned with slight caution.


    There was a small pause before the woman''s lips pulled up at the edges, forming an understanding smile before she politely shook her head and strutted past, ballooning garbage bag in hand. Jasper''s gaze followed patiently. "No. I''m merely her neighbor," she stated as she casually heaved the bag into a nearby bin.


    "So... this isn''t her residence?" he enquired slowly, pulling the tiny piece of paper from his pocket again and giving it yet another cautionary glance. He could feel his uncertainty growing with every passing second.


    She raised a gentle hand to stop him before he could get in some good focus, amusement now pricking at her features, though she did her best to hide it. "No, no. You''re definitely in the right place."


    Jasper, realizing he''d gotten ahead of himself, slowly set his arms back at his sides. The woman continued, moving to stand back in the doorway. "It is as I was saying. I am only the neighbor, but I like to come around every once in a while to check in on her. Brighten the place up a little bit." She glanced back over her shoulder into the cottage, at nothing in particular, then back at him again. "You must be... Mr. Walters?"


    She''d been expecting him, as the hint suggested. He gave a brief nod in response, taking her hand in his own when it was extended to him and shook it firmly in mutual greeting.


    "That''s me," he confirmed, refraining from peering past her when the urge arrived. He did not want to appear impatient. Then, realization dawned. "You''re the one I spoke to on the phone! Tatiana, was it?"


    She nodded the affirmative. Jasper had no idea what he should have expected. She was a dark woman, in her early forties if he had to make a guess. A stark contrast to the individual he''d trekked all the way out here to see.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "Is Ms. Petrov inside?" he asked.


    She shook her head. "Not for the time being. She stepped out for her morning walk not too long ago, but you''re welcome to stick around till she returns. An early warning for you, though. She can be a bit... abrasive"


    Old news, in more ways than one. Many had taken the time to warn him before his arrival. But given she was not yet available....


    "Is this a bad time?" Jasper quickly questioned, now hesitant.


    Tatiana, again, shook her head, drapes of curls bouncing around the frame of her face. "Not at all. It''s about time we saw a new face around here. Ms. Petrov doesn''t get out much." She stepped aside, motioning for Walters to enter. "Won''t you come in? You must be freezing."


    Jasper smiled tightly, thankful for the woman''s hospitality, and walked right through.


    He felt the difference as soon as he passed through the door, his ears tingling against the warm haze that floated around the interior. The door closed behind him shortly after, officially shutting out the icy breeze he''d entered with. When Walters looked around, he found himself standing immediately outside what was presumably the living room, a cozy area complete with a homey, brown carpet and finely aged seating arrangements to his left. Up ahead stood a flight of stairs leading up to some unknown part of the cottage. A closed door to his right hinted at a bedroom.


    Tatiana made her way a short distance past furniture, making a direct line for a blazing fire dancing below a fireplace on the far left wall where a small steel pot hung directly above the flames.


    "I was just about to make some tea. Would you like a cup while you get settled?" she asked, giving Walters a brief glance.


    Upon some brief reflection, a steaming brew did sound like a nice idea. Anything to ward off the icy sensations that still plagued his fingers.


    "I''d love a cup," he confirmed.


    Tatiana gestured beyond the living room, towards a rickety pair of chairs stored neatly around a small but equally-as-rickety table on the deep end of the cottage. A small flower pot sat at the table''s very center, illuminated by some soft, white light streaming through a perfectly aligned window nearby. "Please make yourself comfortable."


    Jasper obliged. Wooden flooring creaked beneath his frost ridden boots as he walked over and plopped himself down in one of the two open seats. He craned his neck, peering outside into what he could only assume was the backyard. Beneath the blankets of white powder, it looked plain and unassuming, but he could not help but spy the tiny group of discarded gardening tools, likely marking the border of an unoccupied flowerbed.


    Flowerpots, Jasper counted a dozen of them, decorated a set of floating style shelves on the wall just beside him. Neither appeared to hold anything currently in bloom yet. His thoughts were quickly interrupted by approaching footsteps to his left. When he looked over, he was greeted by a steaming brew, already in the process of being placed on the table in front of him, followed by a minor serving of cubed sugar. Jasper, despite the underwhelming amount presented, nodded his thanks.


    "We''re unfortunately dealing with a small shortage. You''ll have to drink it black," Tatiana stated matter-of-factly, her tone only half apologetic.


    Unfazed, Jasper simply took his drink in hand and cradled it against his chest, a single, blissful sigh slipping past his lips as he allowed its warmth to fill him up. He could already feel it seeping through his several layers of winter wear.


    "You too?" he questioned, raising a curious eyebrow. "I never realized the new restrictions reached this far."


    He reached out and plucked a lone cube from the bunch. He didn''t want to appear greedy. Tatiana slid into the opposite seat, an identical cup to his own pinched between her dainty fingers.


    "Unfortunately. The town''s milk stores ran out two weeks ago due to this unforgiving cold. But I''m pretty used to it after all these years, though." Her laconic response suggested minor frustration.


    Jasper, familiar with the feeling, dared not push the topic any further. "Here''s to hoping for a swift end to our winter," he proclaimed softly, lifting his drink in light hearted solidarity. Engrossed by his attitude, Tatiana gave a slight smile.


    "Your optimism is appreciated," she replied, mimicking his gesture before briefly tilting her cup to her lips.


    A short silence fell between the two. Neither side felt equipped to break it.


    Jasper took this as his opportunity to go over the room more thoroughly. His eyes spied a peculiar decoration above the fireplace. Against the subdued backdrop, it stood out like a sore thumb, but at the same time it matched perfectly. Bright, furry fibers of green and pink lay in messy swirls, some seemingly ripped out in small patches, seamlessly fitted to what he determined were a pair of tiny slippers.


    Tatiana must have sensed his rising questions, because she chuckled. Jasper sensed a hint of solemnity.


    "A touchy topic that one. Though I''m afraid I have little right to speak about it," she said.


    "I wasn''t aware Ms. Petrov had children."


    "She doesn''t," she corrected. "Though there was a child, April. Ms. Petrov wasn''t motherly towards her, per se, but I''ve never seen her go out of her way for anyone else so... fervently. But you didn''t hear any of that from me."


    Jasper''s brows furrowed. April. He''d heard the name, but only in bits.


    "She may be a private woman," Tatiana continued, resting her elbows on the table. Her voice softened, choosing her words carefully, as though figuring out which would best help him without overstepping. "But she''s kind in her own way, even if she won''t admit it. I know the stories about her paint her as... difficult, but she has her reasons. Life wasn''t exactly easy out in the Deads."


    Jasper stirred his tea, watching the liquid swirl around the sugar cube he''d dropped in earlier. "That''s precisely why I''m here," he admitted, glancing up at Tatiana. "I want to hear her story, directly from her, if she''s willing. The papers have always been very lacking. I think people should know what she''s been through. What people like herreallysacrificed."


    Tatiana raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "You''re taking on quite the challenge, Mr. Walters. Thorn isn''t the type to open up easily. Don''t be surprised if she sends you packing before you even get a word in."


    "Thorn?" Jasper echoed, the name striking a chord. It wasn''t unfamiliar to him; he''d heard it whispered by those who spoke of the harsher days. "Is that what she goes by now?"


    Tatiana smiled faintly. "It''s what she''s always gone by. It suits her, doesn''t it? Tough. Sharp as one too. But beneath all that... well, I think you''ll figure it out for yourself, if she lets you."


    Jasper leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea thoughtfully. He''d expected things to be difficult, but the more he heard, the more daunting his task seemed. His gaze wandered, looking at nothing in particular as he contemplated. Tatiana waited patiently. "You obviously know a lot about Ms. Petrov. How did you two meet?" he finally spoke.


    Tatiana focused on the cup in her palms, taking her time. "My father met her first while out on an operation. Naturally, he introduced her to me when he brought her home to the haven. You could say we became flat mates for a while."


    "Hold on. Are you saying that you¡ª"


    Tatiana nodded before he had the chance to finish. "I am. But I was very young back then. You''d be better off gathering your excitement through your interview with Ms. Petrov."


    Jasper stared, dumbfounded.


    "I moved into the neighborhood with my father not long after things started to settle again. Ms. Petrov kind of tagged along. Poor thing doesn''t really have anyone left," she continued her story, smoothly reshifting the subject with a wistful smile, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the rim of her cup."She''s not the easiest person to get along with. I think she nearly scared half the neighborhood off at first. She still keeps to herself for the most part. Not particularly warm, but I don''t think she really knows how to be."


    Jasper, after composing himself, raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Sounds about right from what I''ve heard," he muttered, thinking back to the countless warnings he''d received. "But you stuck around?"


    "You could say that." Tatiana chuckled softly, giving a nod. "Not much has changed since then, to be fair. It took a year before she even let me help her carry groceries home. And even then, it was with a lot of grumbling and protest. But over time, I suppose I wore her down¡ªor maybe she got tired of ignoring me."


    As if on cue, the front entrance creaked open, accompanied by the faint crunch of boots against snow.


    "Speak of the devil."


    Tatiana, after carefully abandoning her drink on the table, promptly got up out of her seat. Jasper stood up as well, partly out of politeness, shivering involuntarily as the outside weather invaded the cozy refuge. A familiar figure with a cane, their face concealed beneath their furry hood, stood in the open doorway. The same look of indifference from before pierced him from the other side of the room.


    "Welcome back." Tatiana greeted, alreadyat the elder''s side. She promptly shut the door, preserving whatever warmth remained.


    "Oh, save it. I was barely out for ten minutes." The older woman cut in, dismissively waving her arm about while she wrestled to undo her coat. Her hood came down, exposing a head covered in bright strands of white, not a hint of grey in sight. Though that was not what caught the man''s attention. At first, Jasper thought he had only been imagining things, but as the stranger drew closer, he found it impossible not to stare. A grotesque scar, located at the joint of her jaw, peered out from beneath the long strands of her sideburns. It appeared that whatever caused it had taken a large chunk out of her earlobe as well.


    Jasper''s gaze followed the woman¡ªThorn, he assumed, though he wasn''t sure if he had it right. He''d seen these kinds of things before, but in the images of abandoned homes or in ruined cities, not in people. There was something off about the way her features held together, an unsettling stiffness. Her eyes¡ªthe left side was milky with blindness¡ªstayed fixed ahead, as though the world she saw was all but a convenience.


    Tatiana moved behind her to help, but the older woman swatted her hands away with an irritated but oddly gentle gesture, grumbling under her breath as she shed the coat herself. Her movements were sharp, efficient, yet there was an undeniable fatigue in her every motion.


    Jasper hesitated before taking a step toward her, offering a polite smile. "Ms. Petrov? I''m Jasper Walt¡ª" he ventured, testing the waters, but she cut him off; her unblinking gaze snapped in his direction. It was quick, almost too quick, like she''d been sizing him up the entire time.


    "I know who you are. You''re the nosey, young writer that wouldn''t stop calling. You should''ve just stayed home, Boy," she muttered. Her voice was ragged but firm all at once. She finally but haphazardly tossed her coat onto a rack. It swayed unsteadily for a second before losing purchase entirely, plopping harmlessly to the ground. Tatiana retrieved it without complaint and smoothly returned it to its rightful place. Jasper had been anticipating this kind of attitude¡ªcold, distant, perhaps even a little mocking. He remained unmoving.


    "Behave, Thorn," Tatiana interjected with a tone that faintly reminded Jasper of an adult half-heartedly scolding a child. "You promised. No backing out."


    Thorn didn''t respond right away, instead taking a step back to remove her gloves and let them fall loosely onto the back of one of the couches in the living room. Her fingers were rough, her nails blunt from years of use. The fire flickered in the hearth, casting a soft glow across her pale features, but it did little to soften the unwavering intensity in her eyes. It was a gaze that could either hold years of untold stories or nothing at all, depending on how one looked at it.


    After a few seconds, but what felt like an eternity, Ms. Petrov''s lips twisted into a faint grimace.


    "Fine," she said with a huff, moving past the living room to join Jasper at the table. Despite her ripened age, and the obvious limp in her step, her movements were surprisingly sharp. She sank down into the seat that Tatiana had relinquished. When she finally looked at him again, it was with the clear intention of getting this over with as quickly as possible.


    Tatiana, satisfied, gave a small, knowing smile. "I''ll leave you two to it. If the old gal bullies you too much, Mr. Walters, I''ll be nearby."


    Ms. Petrov, clearly unimpressed, gave an exasperated roll of her eyes, her lips pulling together into the most ghostly of pouts. It was the most ordinary expression Jasper had seen since her arrival, which was not much by any standard.

 Chapter 1

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "Then ask better ones."


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


    How wrong he had been.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "I ate."


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    And just like that, she was done.


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


    Something personal.


    Something that mattered.


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


    He hesitated, then asked, "And April?"


    The room stilled.


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


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


    A beat passed. Then another.


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


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


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


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


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


    Silence settled over them. He let it.


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


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


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


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


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


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


    --------------


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    Slam.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    The glass shattered inward, raining over the infected.


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


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


    One down.


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


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


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


    "Dreams will... keep you-"


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


    The ledge beneath her crumbled.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


    "Sweetheart," it rasped again, voice fractured like a broken radio. "You¡ªyou¡ª"


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


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


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


    Silence finally shuffled through the room.


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


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


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


    Thorn didn''t let herself linger.


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


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


    Someone else, or something else was here.


    When she tested the handle, she found it locked.


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


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


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


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


    Click.


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


    Thorn eased the door open, blade poised.


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


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


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


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


    A rustle broke the silence.


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


    The figure shrank back.


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


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


    Neither of them did.


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


    A kid. A freaking kid.


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


    The kid was alone.


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


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


    She wasn''t a killer.


    Not like that.


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


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


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


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


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


    "Are you gonna kill me?"


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


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


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


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


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


    Behind her, the silence stretched thick until¡ª


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


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


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


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


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


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