Alone in the Ruins
The world had ended quietly. No grand explosions, no final speeches. Just the slow rot of civilization until nothing was left but the smell of ash and the sound of the dead.
Derek crouched inside the shell of an overturned bus, clutching the rusted machete he'd stolen days ago. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. Hunger gnawed at him, but worse was the loneliness—it hollowed him out more than starvation ever could.
He'd been moving from ruin to ruin, scavenging scraps, dodging both the infected and the desperate humans who had become just as dangerous. His hands were blistered from climbing rubble, his body thinner than he remembered.
That night, rain tapped against the cracked bus windows. Derek pressed his forehead against the cold glass, whispering to himself, "Survive tomorrow. Just tomorrow." He didn't dare think further.
And outside, somewhere in the rain, something shuffled closer.
Derek had crept out of the bus, machete ready, when he saw it stumbling down the road. At first, his gut screamed infected. The twisted gait, the jerking limbs, the faint growl—all the signs were there.
But then it stopped. Slowly. Too slowly for a normal zombie. Its head turned toward him, and Derek froze.
The creature's skin was pale and mottled, veins black like spilled ink. Its eyes were dull but not empty—there was pain in them, something human still trapped inside. Its lips trembled before words scraped out, broken and weak.
"…don't… hurt…"
Derek's grip on the machete faltered. "You… can talk?"
The half-dead creature sank to its knees, clutching its chest. "Not… all gone. Not yet." His voice cracked, every word an effort.
Derek should have ended him right there—put the blade through his skull and walked away. But he didn't. Something about those eyes made his chest tighten.
"What's your name?" Derek asked carefully.
"…Zane."
For the first time in days, Derek lowered his weapon.
And for the first time since the world ended, he didn't feel
The fire crackled low, barely more than embers, but Derek kept it that way on purpose. A bright flame was an invitation in this world—for hunger, for thieves, for the dead.
Zane crouched in the shadows beyond the firelight, half-hidden under the hood Derek had given him weeks ago. His pale, scarred skin caught the faintest glimmer of orange, but he didn't dare step closer. He knew what Derek had said: They wouldn't understand you yet. Not until they knew.
The sound of boots crunching glass snapped Derek out of his daze. His hand instantly found the machete at his side.
Out of the darkness, three figures emerged.
The first was a boy with wild brown hair and eyes like sharpened steel. He carried herself like someone who had lost everything but refused to break. In his hands gleamed a katana—the blade clean, polished, almost glowing compared to the ruined world around his.
The second was a tall boy with sharp features, dragging a metal bat along the cracked pavement. Sparks flew when it struck the ground, his stance daring anything to come closer.
And behind them, a smaller figure with quiet footsteps—Maya, Derek realized later—kept her eyes everywhere at once, cautious but not timid.
The leader, the one with the katana, raised his chin. "You alone out here?"
Derek kept his expression calm, though his pulse hammered in his neck. "Been alone a long time."
The one with the bat smirked. "Funny. You don't look like someone who should've survived this long."
Derek's grip tightened on the machete, but before he could respond, the katana-wielder cut in sharply. "Leo. Enough." he looked at Derek again. "I'm Jordan. That's Leo. And her—" he gestured behind, "—is Maya. We're just trying to make it through like you."
From the shadows, Zane's inhuman eyes flickered. His claws dug lightly into the dirt. He wanted to step forward, to be seen—but he knew. Not yet. They'd freak out.
Derek glanced once toward the shadows where Zane hid, then back at Jordan, Leo, and Maya. His voice was steady when he answered:
"Maybe we're better off surviving together."
And for the first time in months, he didn't feel like the last human left.
The fire crackled quietly, smoke curling up into the night sky. For the first time in months, Derek wasn't alone around a flame — Maya sat sharpening a blade, Leo twirled his bat like it was part of him, and Jordan kept her katana across her lap, always ready.
For a second, it almost felt like normal.
But in the darkness beyond the firelight, someone else was watching.
Zane.
He'd been crouched in the shadows for hours, watching them talk, laugh a little, and eat canned beans. His half-dead heart ached. Derek had told him to stay back until they could trust him — but he couldn't take it anymore. The laughter, the warmth, the humanity. He missed it too much.
A twig snapped under his foot.
Leo's head jerked up instantly. "Who's there?"
Jordan was on her feet in a heartbeat, katana gleaming. Maya backed toward the fire, knife ready. Derek's stomach dropped.
"Wait—" he started, but it was too late.
Zane stepped forward. The firelight hit his face — pale, scarred, the veins dark and unnatural, one eye cloudy, the other human. His torn hoodie hung off his shoulders, the stench of decay faint but real.
Jordan froze for a split second, then yelled, "Zombie!"
Leo swung his bat so hard it whooshed through the air. Maya threw her knife. Jordan lunged with the katana—
Zane didn't flinch. He simply took one step forward.
The knife missed by inches. The bat struck air. The katana sliced through his sleeve but didn't cut skin. Every move missed — not by luck, but by something else. The way he moved wasn't human. Smooth. Predictive. Like he already knew where they'd strike.
Derek jumped between them, arms spread wide. "Stop! He's not one of them!"
Jordan's voice was sharp and full of disbelief. "He's literally rotting, Derek! What the hell do you mean he's not one of them!?"
"He's different!" Derek shouted, his voice cracking. "He saved me! He thinks! He talks! He's—"
Zane's head lowered slightly, the faintest flicker of shame crossing his features. "I'm not… one of them," he rasped. "Not anymore."
The gang's weapons stayed raised. The fire popped.
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
It was the first night they all stood together — human and almost-human — and it was the night trust became a gamble that could kill them all.