The sun is high as Ren creeps through the skeletal remains of the outer city. Shadows cling to crumbling ruins of buildings, their once grand standing now stained with grime and vines of ivy. Every step throws up dust and loose gravel, the only sounds are that of her shallow breathing and the occasional rustle of the wind blowing. Her stomach twists in painful knots, hunger gnawing at her insides like a parasite, but Ren pushes it down.
Her gaze scans the empty streets. The IM patrols don't follow a pattern, which is part of what makes them dangerous. They can show up at any moment, stomping through the wreckage like grim reapers in tactical gear.
The outer city has been sucked dry long ago. Once the quarantine was set up, desperate survivors picked it clean. Electrical lines were stripped for copper. Water and gas lines were cut off.
Nothing flows here anymore, no power, no clean water, no life. The buildings stand hollow, silent and uneasy, too close to the perimeter wall for anyone to feel comfortable. Just beyond it waits the vast wilderness of the dead. Not even the boldest scavengers linger long close to the edge.
Ren weaves through a narrow alley, brushing past vines that tug at her clothes. Her fingers instinctively brush over the scarred skin beneath her jacket. Multiple bite marks. Faded now, but always a reminder.
Most people think a bite means being turned, but then the authorities learned that isn't always the case.
They call them Infected Mutants, IM's for short. A sterile, clinical term to label the unknown. Ren figures the scientists have a more tongue-twister of an explanation hidden behind locked doors and lab coats, but what the public gets is this neat little acronym. A tidy bow on a mess too ugly to explain.
At first, the authorities panicked, and kicked them out beyond the wall. Then they got creative.
They begin kidnapping IM's, running grotesque experiments to replicate the mutation. Success means more IMs, more weapons. More bodies to hold the line between civilization and chaos. They paint it as a noble sacrifice. Heroes born of infection, standing as shields against the tide of death.
But once the IMs become essential to defense, they're given authority. And like most power that's given too quickly and without limitations, it corrupts. Some IMs become addicted to their own strength. Their altered biology gives them advantages, speed, power, resilience, and they use it. Not always for good.
Now, people fear them. The ones who look human and aren't anymore. The ones like Ren.
If she tries to enter the inner city, she won't make it past the first checkpoint. The moment she's scanned, she'll be cuffed, sedated, and taken to the center.
The sound of marching boots snaps her attention to the present once more. A half a dozen or more, heavy and fast. Her eyes widens. She presses herself against the wall of a half-collapsed building, its bricks hidden behind thick curtains of ivy. The leaves tangle in her hair, brushing against her cheeks, but she doesn't move. Her breath hitches. Her pulse thunders in her ears.
They're to in sync for them to be scavengers. So it must be a patrol.
Ren's fingers curl into fists. Her knuckles go white. Her body coils tight, preparing to spring if needed. She doesn't want a fight, but she won't go quietly either.
She can hear their voices now, low and clipped, barking orders. Their shadows stretching long on the concrete, cast by the high sun. One step closer and they'll be on her.
"Markus lost his head again! We're heading back!"
A gruff voice barks the order, and there are groans and noises of complaints. Then just like that, the shadows retreat. Boots thud back the way they came. Ren doesn't exhale until she can't hear them anymore.
The Infected Mutant looks up at the sky, the endless blue mocking her. She never believed in luck, but sometimes it flirts with her just enough to keep her alive. Still, she doesn't move. Not yet.
Something still feels off.
Even after the patrol is gone, the tightness in her shoulders doesn't ease. Her instincts scream. If they'd seen her, they wouldn't have left her behind. That's not how they operate. So why does her spine feel like ice has been poured down it?
She waits. Nothing happens.
Eventually, muscles aching from tension, she slips deeper into the alley. She walks for blocks, putting distance between herself and the patrol. But the feeling follows. That prickling sensation of being watched. Of eyes boring into the back of her skull.
She doesn't stop until the weight on her chest lightens just a little. Her legs ache. Her throat is dry. She needs rest, even if it's only for a few minutes.
The next house she comes across looks as forgotten as the rest. Windows shattered. Paint peeled like sunburnt skin. But when she tries the door, it doesn't work.
It's locked.
That makes Ren raise an eyebrow.
No way the authorities missed this place in their sweeps. The houses are usually left open after being gutted. This one is locked, meaning someone has been here recently. Or still is.
She waits, expecting someone to yell or burst out waving a makeshift weapon at her face. But there's nothing. Only and eerie silence.
Still, Ren isn't about to wander around for another hour hoping her legs won't give out. She wraps her hand in a dirty rag she salvaged from a trash pile and punches through a window. Glass shatters inward, scattering across the floor. She reaches in, unlocks the door, and slips inside.
The house is a mess. Furniture overturned, debris scattered across the floor. The back door hangs crooked on its hinges, as if someone kicked it in. So it has been scavenged.
Ren moves from room to room, careful and quiet. Empty.
Satisfied, she drops her pack onto the floor and stumbles into the kitchen. She digs through drawers and cabinets, hoping, praying for something edible.
Her eyes widens in disbelief. There's no way luck is actually on her side right now.
A bag of salt and vinegar chips leans against a loaf of bread so moldy it squishes when she pokes it.
She tosses the bread with a grimace, watching it splatter wetly on the floor. Gross. Hunger doesn't mean she's ready for food poisoning.
The chip bag crinkles in her hands like a sacred relic. She tears it open, not caring if the crunch echoes. She sits down heavily against the wall, knees pulled up, finally letting her body relax. The chips are bursting with salty flavor, and she almost moans.
That's when she hears it.
A squeak. Tiny claws scratching against wood.
Then a low creak. And a soft, deliberate click.
The back door is opening. Not from the wind. Not from neglect.
Ren is definitely not alone anymore.