The city had been dead for years, but the ruins still whispered. Wind rattled broken window panes, sending brittle glass clinking against cracked pavement. Faded billboards loomed overhead, their peeling images promising products that no one would buy again–soft drinks, sleek cars, smiling faces untouched by hunger or disease. The world before a ghost of it remained, but only in echoes.
Mari Wilson adjusted the straps of her pack and stepped carefully over a tangle of abandoned power lines. The setting of the sun stretched her shadow long against the rusted skeletons of cars. She had two rules: keep moving and stay unseen.
She crouched behind an overturned bus, scanning the intersection. The streets were littered with debris–collapsed signs, shattered brick, old bones. Nothing stirred. It had been quiet for days, but quiet didn't mean safe. She gripped the crowbar at her hip and listened.
A distant gunshot cracked through the silence.
Mari stiffened. The sound had come from the west, near the industrial district. Too far to be from the west, near the industrial district.Too far to be an immediate threat, but close enough to be a problem. If there were scavengers out there, she needed to be gone before they swept this area.
She moved quickly, ducking through the broken window of the convenience store. The inside smells of dust and decay. Shelves were mostly bare, long since stripped by desperate hands. A few faded candy wrappers lay on the floor, the bright colors out of place in all the gray.
Mari checked her surroundings, then set her pack down. She pulled out a small flashlight, shielding the beam with her hand as she swept it across the store. Her stomach clenched when she spotted movement near the back- a dark shape huddled against the shelves.
She drew her crowbar and edged closer.
The figure was a man. His head was tilted downward, arms wrapped around his ribs. At first she thought he was dead. But then he shifted, sucking in a ragged breath. His clothes were torn, blood soaking through the fabric.
Mari's first instinct was to leave.
In this world, helping people gets you killed. She had learned that the hard way.
But then she noticed the guitar.
It lay beside him, partially covered by his coat, the wood scratched and dulled but intact. That was what made her pause. Instruments were useless now-nothing but extra weight. Yet he had kept it. I carried it. Protected it.
Something about that made her hesitate.
The man groaned and tried to lift his head.
His eyes, dark and unfocused, met hers.
"Either help me", he rasped, "or don't."
Mari frowned. His voice was hoarse, but there was no plea in it- no desperation. Just a simple acceptance. He wasn't begging. That, more than anything, made her decision.
She cursed under breath and knelt beside him. " How bad is it?"
The man swallowed hard. "Took a knife to the side." He winced. "Didn't hit anything important… I think."
Mari's gaze flickered to his coat, dark with blood. She sighed and reached for her pack.
"You're lucky I hate wasted effort," she muttered.
"Lucky," the man repeated, voice dry. "Yeah, that's me."
She ignored him, pulling out an old water bottle and a rag. " What's your name?"
He hesitated before answering. "Dakota. Kota Green."
Mari nodded. "Try not to bleed out, Kota. I didn't stop just to watch you die."
He gave a weak chuckle. "I'll do my best." He looked up. "So what do they call you?"
Mari looked at the ground before saying. "Amariah. Mari Wilson."
She worked quickly, pressing the rag against his wound. He hissed but didn't pull away. As she wrapped the cloth around his torso, she noticed something–his skin was warm. Too warm.
A slow dread curled in her stomach.
A fever could mean infection. Infection could mean–
No. She shut the thought down. There was no sign of the sickness. No red-rimmed eyes, no tremors. Just exhaustion and blood loss. She would deal with one problem at a time.
When she finished, Kota was breathing easier . He leaned his head back against the shelf, watching her. "You didn't have to do this."
You don't know me," Mari said. "Maybe I did."
Kota huffed a tired laugh. "Well, thanks anyway."
Lena shouldered her pack. " You can stay here and die, or you can come with me. But I'm not carrying you."
Kota eyed her, as if that were even an option. Finally, he reached for his guitar, wincing as he slung it over his shoulder. "I'll try to keep up."
Mari studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Then let's move."
They stepped out of the store together, disappearing into the falling night.
Mari led the way, moving through the ruins like a ghost. Her boots barely made a sound as she navigated the cracked pavement, her eyes sweeping every shadow, every broken window, every rustling piece of debris. Dakota followed, slower, his breath but steady. He clutched his side with one hand, the other gripping the strap of his guitar like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
The streets were nearly silent. Only the occasional whisper of wind moved through the abandoned city, rattling loose metal and stirring old paper across the ground.
Mari didn't speak . Neither did Dakota.
Talking got you killed.
It wasn't just about noise–it was about distraction. About dropping your guard long enough for something, or someone, to take advantage.
She kept them in the shadows, slipping between rusted cars and through alleyways overgrown with weeds. The scent of rot and old smoke clung to the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood– Dakota's, she realized, still fresh in the bandages wrapped around his ribs.
"Where are we going ?" he finally asked, his voice hushed but rough.
Mari didn't stop. Out of open ground. You're slowing me down, and if anyone followed you, they'll be looking
Dakota let out a dry chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "Guess I'm not great at first impressions."
Mari shot him a glance over her shoulder . He was pale beneath the dirt, his dark hair damp with sweat , but he kept moving. She had to give him credit for that.
"Who stabbed you?" she asked.
Dakota exhaled sharply, as if deciding whether to answer. "Scavengers. Ran into the wrong people."
Mari raised an eyebrow. "You don't look like someone who picks fights."
Dakota smiled, a tired, lopsided thing . "I don't." His fingers drummed absently against his guitar strap. "But sometimes, fights pick you."
She didn't press further .Everyone had a story. Most of them ended in the same way.
They reached the edge of an old parking garage, its structure partially collapsed, rebar curling like skeletal fingers from the concrete. It wasn't the safest shelter, but it was better than nothing.
Mari ducked inside first, scanning the darkness. The lower level was a graveyard of abandoned cars, their windows shattered, their interiors stripped bare. A faded sign still hung above the entrance, covered in grime:
LEVEL 1 - VISITOR PARKING.
She signaled for Dakota to follow. He stepped carefully over broken glass, his breath hitching when he moved too quickly.
"Stay here," Mari murmured. She moved deeper into the garage, checking for movement, for signs of recent activity.
Nothing.
Still, she didn't relax. Complacency got people killed.
She returned to where Dakota had lowered himself against the side of a dented sedan. His fingers hovered over the bandages at his ribs.
"Don't touch it," Mari warned.
Dakota huffed. "I was just checking."
She pulled her pack off her shoulder and knelt beside him. Digging inside, she retrieved a water bottle and handed it to him.
"Drink."
He took it, tipping the bottle to his lips. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, then stopped abruptly.
Mari tensed. "What?"
Dakota didn't answer at first. He simply stared at the far end of the garage, past the concrete pillars and into the darkness beyond.
Mari followed his gaze.
Then she heard it.
A faint shuffle. A scrape of movement.
Someone was here.
She grabbed Dakota's wrist and yanked him up. He gritted his teeth but didn't fight her as she pulled him behind a rusted SUV. She crouched low, her hand already on her crowbar.
The sound came again–closer this time.
Mari's heartbeat was steady, controlled. She had been in worse situations. If it was a lone scavenger, she could take them. If it was a group… she and Dakota would have to run.
A shadow shifted between the pillars.
Mari gripped her weapon tighter.
Dakota shifted beside her, moving his guitar case slightly so it wouldn't get in the way. He looked at her, waiting for her lead.
The footsteps stopped.
For a moment, the silence was absolute.
Then–
A voice, low and familiar. 'Didn't think I'd run into you so soon, Whitaker."
Mari went cold.
Jace Monroe stepped into the dim light, his figure outlined against the cracked pavement. His rifle was slung over one shoulder, his posture easy, almost casual. But his eyes— sharp, dark– were anything but.
Mari didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Dakota tensed beside her. He didn't know who Jace was, but he understood enough.
Jace smirked. "You always did have a habit of picking up strays" His gaze flicked toward Dakota, then back to Mari. "The problem is, you never learn when to leave them behind."
Mari exhaled slowly, steading herself.
This was about to get ugly