The Silt Quarters feels empty today.
There are still people - maybe forty left from the seventy or eighty that were here before the outbreak. But it feels empty. The laughing man no longer laughs. The silence is loud.
Del sits in his corner. Water container beside him. Almost empty. He'll need to retrieve another from his hiding spots today.
Movement nearby. The woman with brown eyes.
She's walking through the Silt Quarters. Alone. No possessive man with her. First time Del's seen her without him in... days? Weeks? Hard to track time.
She looks worse. Thinner than before—face gaunt, movements slow and careful like her body hurts. But she's alive. Still here.
She sees Del. Stops. They make eye contact.
For a moment neither moves. Just looking. Two people who survived when most didn't.
She opens her mouth. About to say something maybe.
Someone calls from deeper in the ruins. Man's voice. Harsh. "Get back here."
Her face goes blank. The life in her eyes just... disappears. Like a door closing.
She turns. Walks back toward the voice. Doesn't look at Del again.
The possessive man appears. Hand immediately on her shoulder. Sees Del watching. Glares. Says something to her—too quiet to hear. She nods.
They disappear into the ruins.
Del sits there. Staring at the empty space where she was.
Still alive. Both of them.
Doesn't know how he feels about that. Should feel... something. Relief? Doesn't.
Just: empty.
He stands. Stretches. His body aches—always aches now. The carries left damage that never fully heals. Scars on his hands, feet. The constant low-level pain that's just part of existing.
Movement catches his eye. Different direction. Near one of the more intact wall sections.
Two people. Older woman—maybe fifty, gray hair, bent back. Younger girl—maybe twelve, thin, watchful eyes.
They're sitting. The woman has something in her hands. Flat piece of something—slate maybe? Stone? And a smaller piece she's using to mark it.
The girl is watching intently. The woman moves the small piece—deliberate motions. Making marks. Symbols.
Teaching her to write.
Del freezes. Watches from distance. They haven't seen him.
The woman makes a symbol. Shows it to the girl. The girl tries to copy it on her own piece of stone. Gets it wrong. The woman corrects—patient, gentle. Shows again.
The girl tries again. Better this time. The woman nods.
Del has never seen this before. Never seen anyone teaching anything down here. Just survival. Just scraping through days. Never... passing on knowledge. Never building something that lasts beyond today.
The woman says something—too quiet to hear. The girl nods. Focuses. Makes another symbol. The woman smiles. Actual smile. Pride maybe. Or just satisfaction that something is being preserved.
A noise from elsewhere—someone coughing. Both woman and girl look up, alert. The woman quickly wipes away the marks on the stone. Hides the teaching piece under her clothes. They separate. Act like they were just sitting. Not doing anything important.
The moment is gone.
Del stands there. Something tight in his chest. He doesn't know what that was. Why they were hiding it. Why writing matters when everyone's dying.
But it does. Somehow it does.
He turns away. Time to work.
---
The warehouse is different today. Fewer workers—the outbreak thinned the numbers. Distribution happens faster. Less line, less waiting.
Markov is there. Still crew leader. Still alive. Del's seen him every day for three weeks now. Constant. Reliable in a way nothing else is.
Markov sees Del. Nods once. Acknowledgment.
Del nods back.
An overseer is near the distribution table. Not the young nervous one from the ration fight. Different. Older—maybe forty. Scarred face that looks like he took a blade across it years ago and survived. Eyes that don't miss anything.
Del's seen him before. Weeks ago maybe. But never up close. Never focused on him.
The overseer is watching workers. Studying them. Writing in a ledger occasionally. His eyes move methodically—evaluate, assess, move on.
His eyes land on Del. Stay there. Longer than the others. Evaluating.
Del looks away. Keeps moving. Gets his ration—still small, but there's water today at least. The outbreak is over. Supply wagons came through yesterday. Distribution is better.
He finds a spot against a wall. Sits. Eats the bread slow—making it last, chewing each bite thoroughly. The dried meat is tough. Tastes like preservation salt and not much else.
The overseer is still watching him. Del can feel it. Weight of eyes. Assessment.
Finishes eating. Stands to leave.
"You."
Del stops. Looks back.
The overseer is pointing at him. "Come with me."
Not a request. Order.
Del's stomach tightens. *
What did I do? Did someone see the water containers? Did—
"Now."
Del walks over. The overseer doesn't wait. Just turns and walks toward a side chamber off the warehouse. Small room. Private. Rarely used.
Del follows. No choice—overseers give orders, workers follow. That's the system.
The overseer enters the chamber. Del follows. The door closes behind them.
The room is small. Empty except for broken crates in one corner. Dim light from crack in ceiling. Dust floating in the beam.
The overseer turns. Faces Del. Studies him. Long silence. Not uncomfortable for the overseer—just waiting, watching Del's reaction to the silence.
Finally: "You're surviving."
Del doesn't know how to respond. "...Yes."
"Week three. Most new workers are dead by week two. You're still functional. Why?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know or won't say?"
"Don't know. I just... try not to die."
The overseer's eyes narrow slightly. "Everyone tries not to die. You're succeeding. That's different."
Silence again. Del doesn't know what this is. Doesn't know what the overseer wants. His heart is beating faster but he keeps his face neutral. Learned that in the Dregs—don't show fear, don't show weakness.
"You observe," the overseer says. Not a question. Statement. "I've watched you. You don't just work. You study. Artifact patterns. Structural weaknesses. Danger signs. You're seeing things others miss. How?"
Del's mind races. Is this good? Bad? Dangerous to admit?
"I just... watch. Listen. Try to understand what kills people so I don't do those things."
"Smart." The overseer's face doesn't change. "Most can't do it. Most die because they can't see the patterns. You're different."
The overseer reaches into his coat. Pulls out something. Small artifact. Cylindrical. Maybe the length of Del's hand. Dull metal surface, no visible glow. Could be inert. Could be dormant.
"This. Active or inert?"
What does this guy want?
Del looks at it. The overseer is holding it casually. Not touching Del with it. Just showing.
Del focuses. Tries to... feel it? Sense it? Whatever it is he does that lets him hear the frequency shifts. The thing that kept him alive when others died.
There. Faint. Very faint. Like a hum just below hearing. Wrongness. Small. But there.
"Active," Del says.
The overseer's face doesn't change. "You're certain?"
"...Yes."
The overseer reaches into his coat again. Pulls out a small device. Flat, square, with a symbol etched on one side. Presses something on it.
The cylinder in his other hand starts glowing. Pale blue. Pulsing slowly. Rhythm like a heartbeat.
Active. Confirmed.
The overseer watches Del's face. Looking for... something. Surprise? Fear? Del keeps his expression neutral.
"You felt it without touching. Without the activator. You just... knew."
"I heard something. A sound. Barely there."
"Most people can't hear that." The overseer puts both items away. "They touch artifacts blind. Die blind. You're hearing what kills them before it kills you."
Pulls out a ledger. Opens it. Writes something. Del can't see what—the handwriting is too small, the angle wrong.
"What's your name?"
"Del."
"Del what?"
"Just Del."