It was a dawn without a dawn.
I say it like that because the light entering through the cracked windows of the shopping mall didn't feel like a new day, but like the tired lamp of a forgotten warehouse. The clarity barely stretched, gray, diffuse, letting dust float like slow snow in a windless winter. Every breath tasted of metal and rancid dampness.
We slept scattered on makeshift beds: inflatable mattresses, piles of clothes, cardboard reinforced with tape. From the outside, it might seem depressing, but for us, it was a borrowed heaven. Stomachs full of cookies, sodas, and sweets we thought were lost forever; a night without dogs barking or monsters scratching at the doors.
To sleep and wake up alive felt like a luxury.
Of course, that feeling was only for ordinary mortals.
Not for him.
At the back of the supermarket, Astrad had settled in as if the best belonged to him by natural right. A makeshift curtain divided the "common area" from the lingerie section. Behind it, he slept, surrounded by five girls who orbited him like grumpy satellites. Sometimes he snored, sometimes he laughed in his sleep. I never knew if that was more reassuring or disturbing.
......
The meeting started early. Franco was the first to gather people, with that firm captain's voice that still believes the world is a playing field where everything is sorted out with shouts and good faith.
["The army,"] —he said, without beating around the bush—. ["If there's safety anywhere, it has to be there. If we leave today in the daylight, we can cover two or three sectors. We're not useless. We can't depend…"]
He stared down at his knuckles, as if what he was avoiding saying was written there: "We can't depend on him."
Carlos, the delegate, adjusted the bridge of his glasses. Intelligent, cold, with the measured calm of someone who calculates lives and losses as if they were chips in a notebook.
—["The army is a gamble,"] —he added—. ["If command, protocols, and safe routes exist, we will survive there. If not, we'll know soon enough and readjust. What we cannot do is improvise forever. Astrad is not a plan. He is its opposite."]
A murmur of approval ran through those present. The desire for structure was as strong as hunger. And I felt that pang myself: the fantasy of returning to uniforms, clear orders, rules to obey instead of chaos.
Milia raised her hand. Her voice was soft, but she spoke like someone laying bricks: firm, without trembling.
["My house isn't far. It has a water tank, barred windows, a basement for shelter, medicine. We can fortify ourselves, regroup, draw a map of the neighborhood from a place I know. I'm not saying we stay forever. Just that we don't play roulette in the streets if we don't have to. We can take enough provisions from here."]
Franco clenched his jaw. It wasn't a no, but it was a blow to his idea. Carlos calculated in silence, measuring invisible variables. A group of Milia's friends quietly supported the proposal, while the majority remained clinging to the word "army," shining like a mirage. And a few, more than anything, to the desire to "get away from Astrad."
No one dared to ask him anything. Perhaps for fear of what he'd say, perhaps because they knew he would do whatever he wanted anyway.
From the other side of the curtain came the rustling of bags and the massacre of chips between teeth. Astrad emerged without ceremony: old cuts on his arm, a peeling band-aid, eyes filled with amused insomnia.
["Plan A: the army,"] —he counted on his fingers—. ["Plan B: Princess Milia's little house. Plan C: you all die and I steal your backpacks. Anyone else got a plan?"]
["That's not funny,"] —Franco snapped.
["It's statistics,"] —he shrugged. Then he pointed with a flick of his chin at the five shopping carts lined up next to the lingerie area—. ["Since the ethics committee is in session, I'll let you know: my vixens have already loaded up. Anyone who touches them dies."]
Only then did I see them: carts overflowing with canned food, first-aid kits, bandages, lighters, batteries, ropes, plastic sheeting, duct tape, two multi-tools, portable flashlights… and, because life is absurd, a camping windbreak.
["When…?"] —I murmured.
I didn't remember them being there when I went to bed. Had the girls gotten up at dawn? Or did they do it while we were all asleep?
The point was clear: if anything was scarce, they already had it set aside.
Carlos took a step forward, his tone wrapped in cold logic.
["You can't appropriate the group's resources. This requires a protocol. Equitable distribution."]
["Protocol my ass,"] —Astrad tossed a can in the air and caught it again—. ["Next time, raise your little hand and ask for permission to survive. I don't collect applause: I gather tools. The army? The house? Do it. But do it. The world isn't going to wait for your vote."]
Milia shot him a glare. And yet, there was a strange crossing of their gazes: that of two people who know each other too well to hate each other simply.
Louise, perched on a display of cheap socks, smiled.
["Translation into human language: 'Move or die. To survive, you have to adapt quickly.' That's the closest he'll get to showing goodwill."]
["Vixen, stop slandering the rat kid. He just wanted to gloat in their misery."]
["Yeah, yeah."]
["You want a fight?"]
["I dare you."]
A couple of tense laughs broke out. I wanted the air to stay like that, between controlled bitterness and twisted humor. But then it happened.
Tap.
A minimal sound. Like a bottle contracting in the cold.
Tap. Another one, closer.
Tap. A third, from another aisle.
The silence seized the group as if it were holding up the entire ceiling.
["Did you hear that?"] —Franco whispered, rigid.
["Shut up,"] —Astrad's voice sharpened immediately—. ["No one breathes loudly. No one coughs. If your nose wants to sneeze, rip it off, or I'll do it for you."]
The air became a held prayer. The dust continued to float, indifferent.
In the dairy aisle, a glimmer crept over a shelf, as if the light had stumbled. Another spark further back. Carlos put a hand on Franco's shoulder: "Don't run yet."
The third reflection was an oblique slash that burned my retina. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, the figure was already there, among the yogurts and cheeses. It didn't appear: it assembled itself. As if the shadows were folding themselves over a skeleton of glass. Rusted frames in place of joints. Arms ending in clusters of blades.
The worst part wasn't seeing it. It was hearing it.
A chorus of screeches: a hundred wine glasses being rubbed with wet fingers, glass against metal. The sound turned my stomach; someone behind me threw up acid.
["Vitrum,"] —Astrad muttered, frowning.
And I knew, before it even moved, that that name was going to haunt me in all my nightmares.