In a post-apocalyptic world, you'll find four main types of people. Those who fight with all their might "the hunters." The ones who leech and exploit others "the pests." The predators, who see everyone as prey. And lastly, we have "the survivors," the resilient ones who never give up.

Everyone often fits into one category, but it's hard to determine which one Maya falls into. She's not exactly a fighter, considering leaving her room was a chore even before the apocalypse. A predator? No way—she's always been a pushover.

You might think she's a survivor, but that's laughable. She'd rather die from starvation than resort to scavenging. So, how should we categorize her? leeche? Nope.

Perhaps a new category is needed: "The Lost"—those struggling to find their place in a shattered world."

I stepped toward the edge of the rooftop, staring down at the chaos below.  


Zombies—hundreds of them—wandered aimlessly, their decaying bodies shifting like a grotesque, rotting tide. Some dragged their feet, their bones barely holding together beneath sagging flesh. Others were more intact, moving with jerky, unnatural speed, their heads snapping in random directions as if searching for prey.  


Jay—that fucking bastard—had kept me locked in that basement for too long. How many weeks had it been? How many months? The days had bled together, stretching endlessly in that dark pit. I had no idea how much time I had left before winter hit, but I knew one thing—when it did, things would get worse.  


I exhaled sharply, my breath visible in the chilled air.  


Chapter 88 - CHAPTER 86