Leo Cormac stepped onto the street. The heat of July 2030 struck him in the face, burning his skin even through the respirator, whose filters couldn't muffle the acrid chemical smell saturating the air like poison.
The destroyed City lay before him like the set of a nightmare he could no longer deny. Its wreckage—smashed house windows, overturned skeletons of crashed or burnt-out cars still smoldering after the accidents—was a reality from which there was no hiding. This was not a dream, but his new life, carved from chaos and ash.
Leo moved forward, carefully stepping on asphalt littered with shattered glass. Its crunch under his soles echoed in his ears like a warning. The fine leather jacket, a gift from Anna, lay heavy on his shoulders, its worn collar chilling his neck. The electroshock weapon clenched in his hand was poor comfort against this world gone mad, its shadows flickering on every corner.
He tried not to look at the cars where bodies remained at the wheel, their charred remains clutching the steering wheel with bony fingers—too terrible a reminder of what had happened. Their silence screamed louder than words. Leo averted his gaze, but the images were seared into his memory: twisted metal, the smell of burnt rubber mixed with chemicals, that dead silence broken only by a distant grinding, like the groan of a dying city.
He repeated to himself that he had to move. Had to find supplies, perhaps answers. He had to try and set out in search of Anna—her image flickered in his thoughts like a ghost. But each step in this hell that had descended to earth was a trial; every crack underfoot seemed an abyss.
Leo approached Tom's Mercedes by the smashed garage. Its crumpled hood was dented into the wall like a wound on the city's body. The door was ajar, creaking on broken hinges in the quiet summer breeze. Cautiously, already knowing what awaited him inside, he peered in. He still froze, his breath catching as if from a blow.
Tom was sitting at the wheel, his head smashed, blood caked on his forehead like a dark crust. His empty eyes stared at nothing, their dead sheen reflecting the sunlight. Leo felt a spasm tighten his throat, nausea rising. Memories flashed through his head: Tom giving him rides to work, their jokes on the road about eternal traffic jams, promising to stop by for a beer on the weekend. His laughter rang in Leo's ears.
Now he was gone, and that loss settled on Leo's shoulders like a leaden weight.
Leo turned away, fighting nausea. Though tears stung his eyes, he began searching the car, his fingers trembling as they sifted through the wreckage of the past. In the glove compartment, under a stack of old magazines whose pages had decayed from moisture, he found a revolver—9mm, cold and heavy, its metal burning his palm. Leo opened the cylinder: five bullets, one missing. Their weight pressed on his soul.
Five bullets. Of course it's not many, but still better than the shocker, he thought, and tucked the weapon into his jacket pocket, feeling its cold through the fabric. Nearby lay a can of pepper spray, its plastic cracked from impact. Leo simply tossed it into the bushes, the weeds closing over it—useless against the mad ones, like a broken toy.
In the trunk, he found a first aid kit: bandages, antiseptic, a couple of adrenaline syringes. He carefully packed everything into the backpack on his back, his movements slow, like a survival ritual.
Then he moved on, toward Hyde Street, trying not to look at the bodies scattered along the street. Their silhouettes were shadows of the past.
Hyde Street fully unfolded before him like a painting of hell, scorched by fire and madness. Crashed cars, some still smoldering, their smoke rising into the air like ghosts, blocked the road, their metal creaking in the warm summer wind.
Corpses lay everywhere: some torn apart, as if the mad ones had ripped them to pieces in a rage; others frozen at the wheel, their hands gripping the steering wheels in a last desperate gesture; some lay like rag dolls on the asphalt, thrown from windows during accidents, their clothing flapping in the wind.
The strong smell of decay, the decomposition that had begun in the intense heat and air saturated with rain vapors, penetrated even through the respirator. Its sour taste scorched his throat. Leo quickened his pace, trying not to think about who these people had been—neighbors, passersby, colleagues. Now they were just part of the landscape, dissolved in ash. His heart beat faster and faster; each breath through the filter sounded like a moan. He still fought the desire to turn back.
After a few minutes, he noticed movement in an alley; a shadow flickered on a wall. A mad one, a man in a torn work jacket, was beating his fist against a smashed car until blood began to flow over the asphalt, its red streams mixing with dust, turning into terrible red mud. His movements were mechanical, senseless, like a broken automaton. Leo turned away, feeling fear and disgust tighten his chest, the air catching in his lungs.
He already understood that the mad ones didn't hunt the living like in the zombie apocalypse movies he used to love watching. But their rage was unpredictable, like an explosion ready to shatter the silence. One wrong sound, and he could become their next target. His footsteps echoed hollowly in the emptiness.
Walking a bit further down the street, he finally saw what had caught his eye. A few meters ahead stood an armored police SUV, its front wheels up on the sidewalk, almost intact save for deep scratches on the body, with the driver's door open, creaking in the wind.
Leo froze, looking at it. His heart pounded from a mixture of hope and fear. This was a chance—a vehicle that could protect him, give him an advantage in this dead world. Its steel seemed a promise of survival.
He cautiously began to approach the SUV, keeping the revolver ready, its cold metal calming his trembling fingers. Inside, at the wheel, sat a mad one—a man in uniform, buckled in. His empty eyes stared aimlessly ahead, his hands turning the steering wheel as if he were still trying to drive to his mission, known only to him. His movements were convulsive and chaotic.
Leo stopped, feeling sweat trickle down his back, leaving damp spots on his jacket. The air felt heavy. The mad one didn't notice him, but his presence filled the space with threat, like a cloud before a storm.
Leo stood, gripping the revolver, trying to make a decision. His mind wrestled with his conscience. He needed the vehicle—with it, he could drive for supplies, explore the city, perhaps set out to search for Anna. Her name echoed in his thoughts. But to take it, he had to get rid of the mad one.
The thought of shooting a person—even a mad one, but buckled in and unarmed—filled him with genuine horror. His stomach clenched. This man, even if mad, had once been a policeman, a father, a friend. Leo gritted his teeth, fighting himself.
He's not a person anymore anyway, he told himself, his voice trembling. But resolve grew.
Taking a few steps, he moved closer, keeping the revolver ready, his finger trembling on the trigger. The mad one didn't even react to his appearance; the emptiness of his gaze was frightening. Leo reached out, pressed the seatbelt buckle with a sharp motion. The metal clicked, and the belt snapped back. He jumped away, his heart pounding.
The mad one froze, not immediately feeling the freedom. Then he slowly raised his eyes; their emptiness was like a black hole sucking in light. Leo felt his heart skip a beat.
The next second, the mad one lunged at him, faster than Leo expected, his hands reaching for his throat, fingers curled like claws. Leo jumped back, raising the revolver. His hands shook. The shot shattered the silence, the roar echoing off the walls. The mad one collapsed, just a few steps short of reaching him. Blood spread over the asphalt, its smell mixing with the chemicals.
Leo turned away, feeling nausea rise in his throat, bile burning his mouth. He had killed—for the first time—and this fact settled on his soul like a stone. Carefully stepping around the body, he forced himself to approach the SUV. His legs trembled as he climbed inside; the metal chilled his palms.
The interior smelled of leather and metal, the scent sharp like a memory of the past. Leo inspected the cabin and trunk: several bulletproof vests, a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, packs of ammunition—their weight was calming—flashlights whose light trembled, a radio obviously long silent.
Cautiously, he picked up the shotgun and checked it. It was loaded and nearly new, its barrel still gleaming with factory paint. He pulled a bulletproof vest over his jacket, feeling the weight lend confidence, though guilt still pressed on his chest like an invisible, multi-ton weight.
Leo sat behind the wheel and looked around. The vehicle was new, for special purposes, and started with a button. The engine came to life with a low growl, its vibration transmitting to his hands. He glanced at the gauges; the fuel tank was just over half full—enough for a start. Hope flickered in his heart.
Shifting into gear, he slowly moved off, maneuvering around smashed cars and wreckage, their metal grinding under the wheels. Hyde Street fell behind, but the image of the mad one he had killed wouldn't leave his head. His empty eyes pursued him. Leo gripped the steering wheel, trying not to think about who that man had been before.
To stay alive, he had to move forward. Each turn of the wheel was a step into the unknown, where hope and fear merged into one heavy knot.