Part 1


    And I will show you something different from either


    Your shadow at morning, striding behind you


    Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;


    I will show you fear in a handful of dust.


    —


    “The Wasteland”, T.S. Eliot


    <hr>


    The House


    Light snowflakes fell in a synchronised dance — the layers they created were starting to erase whatever had lain beneath. His boots crunched over the snow, each step compacting it into a reminder of his presence, a trail he didn’t like leaving behind. But he had faith it would soon be covered again and his way forgotten.


    Ahead stood an old two-story brick house with roof beams exposed like broken ribs. Delicate white specks crashed onto windows barred long ago, remnants of the End, and a sturdy door still guarded the entrance. He let himself imagine, for a moment, that there might be resources worth finding inside. There’s always a chance.


    He eased the wooden door open, his gaze darting to ensure he caught anything that might lunge. All was still. Satisfied, he clicked on his flashlight, the cold beam carving a path through the dimness, a controlled intrusion in the silence. Time had worn down the room, but he could still feel some comfort that no longer lived here in an old couch left facing a lifeless chimney. He almost pictured a fire crackling there and felt its heat reaching him.


    But there was nothing to burn — just another futile thought. He shut the door behind him.


    A thin fog of dust hung in the air, each particle shrinking away from him with every step. His light caught the haze, turning the air into a glimmering wall, so he killed it, letting his eyes adjust. In the stillness, the house creaked and groaned under the weight of wind pushing through cracks somewhere above. If anything hid inside, it remained silent, waiting.


    He waited, too, listening to the house breathe until shapes reformed out of the shadows. His body knew the routine. Room by room, he searched, sweeping each corner like muscle memory — his back always turned to spaces he’d already cleared.


    The second floor was lighter, with broken beams and shattered windows letting the daylight pour in to remind him what the place might have been. Dust, wood and snow littered the floor, and echoes of a life long past lingered in discarded relics: pictures with faces faded beyond recognition, books whose stories would never be read again, and toys left to gather dust. There were no surprises here, nothing of value or life in this museum of a world now gone.


    From the main bedroom, the city lay below, buried in a fresh blanket of white. This time of year, it almost resembled its former self — no greenery, just endless stretches of concrete and metal. A vast sea of stone, humanity’s monument to hubris, now crumbled under the weight of time. He could almost picture how it had been: taller and sharper. Its towers, once daring the sky, were now worn and broken, their edges softened by years of weather and neglect. Someday, it would be nothing but rubble.


    He shook off the thought; there were still doors left unchecked. He always saved them for last. It’s safer this way. Heading back downstairs, he moved with the same purpose, knowing well that even in this apparent empty world, caution kept him breathing.


    When he opened the last door, something struck wrong. A staircase dropped into a pit of darkness, but the smell hit him first — a sickening blend of rot, dust, and moisture. The stench of death.


    Three bodies lay strewn on the floor, their bones poking through tattered skin. One had been a woman, tall and slender: she might have once been beautiful, and in a twisted way, she still was. Her dress clung to the stone floor, mould patches blooming like grotesque flowers across the fabric, marking the first stage of an infection that would spread.


    The other two had likely been male. It was always more challenging to tell when the flesh had already melted away. One, the size of a child, sat slumped in a wooden chair, his head lolled forward as if napping, while the other lay sprawled on the floor, a skeletal hand clutching a metal handle embedded in the ground. The room, a square cellar, smelled stale beneath the rot. Wooden racks were lined along the walls, still holding dusty bottles, some of which had spilt their content long ago. Just like their owner.


    Kneeling, he checked their pockets and belts, searching for anything useful. They had no need for any of it now. Civilians, he guessed, but their cause of death remained uncertain. Not that it mattered — they had died, as they all had ages ago. He always felt more alone in the presence of the dead, their lifeless forms trapped between the old world and the new, a reminder that he belonged to neither.


    Finding nothing on the bodies, his gaze fell to the metal handle. Dust coated a trapdoor’s edges, long undisturbed yet still there, waiting. He nudged the body aside, worn fingers brushing away the grime until the wood emerged beneath.


    A sudden creak overhead stopped him cold.


    He froze, every sense on high alert. It wasn’t just the wind or the house settling. Slow, deliberate steps crossed the floor, searching the house at a measured pace, just as he had. They followed the tracks.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    He sized up his options quickly. Going back up meant having to fight; the stairs would lead him straight into the blade of a knife — or worse, a gun — held by a waiting man. No, men. More footsteps had joined the first, two distinct pairs now wandering over his head. The trapdoor remained his only choice, as he wasn’t willing to pick up a fight. Not this close to the city.


    He pried at the trapdoor, forcing it to give with minimal noise. Flicking his flashlight, he swept the beam over the space below: a damp, narrow tunnel of stretching concrete that disappeared into the darkness.


    Without a sound, he slipped through, letting himself drop into the unknown.


    <hr>


    His leather boots splashed through a thin layer of water, each step impossibly loud in the confined space. By the time they would find the trapdoor, he needed to be well beyond their reach, as far away as this gallery would let him. He moved forward, hoping his instincts were right and the tunnel wouldn’t betray him with a dead-end.


    These tunnels once snaked through the city like lifelines — arteries pulsing with activity. He had known them well back then when the underground teemed with energy and purpose. Now, they were hollowed-out veins, stretching empty and silent, save for the things that had made it their refuge. Things he’d rather not disturb.


    But this tunnel felt different, built with a purpose beyond the mundane, some forgotten plan buried under the years. There was only one purpose for him now: finding an exit — preferably clearing the city’s edge before nightfall, before darkness reclaimed every corner of the ruins above.


    The tunnel stretched on, a passage of footsteps and breath blurring time into a monotonous beat. Finally, a shape appeared ahead: a wall that split the corridor into two paths. There were no signs or clues as to where to go, so he gambled on the left, his fingers brushing along the wet stone of the outer wall as he moved.


    After a while, his flashlight picked up tiny particles drifting in the air ahead. This time, it wasn’t dust. Spores.


    His heart jolted, and with an ingrained reaction, he dropped his backpack and tore it open, fingers scrabbling through the contents. He fumbled for his mask, feeling each precious second slipping by with every breath he held. Finally, his fingers found it, and he yanked the mask over his head, sealing it in place before taking a long, steadying breath.


    Entering the house had been a mistake. He should have known it would be stripped of anything worthwhile; the looters had combed through most corners of this land long ago. The city was but an empty carcass now, a graveyard of scraps and dusty bones. Each search was a gamble — the risk too high, the reward too small. Still, he couldn’t stop. Staying still meant a slow death; moving, even with the risks, felt like living. Survival required the gamble.


    The past weeks had blessed him with a few lucky finds. Winter’s approach brought an eerie quiet over the city. With it, he could afford some moves that he would otherwise relish. He had scored canned food, enough to stretch a fortnight with careful rationing, and a stash of mostly corroded batteries, a few of which still held a charge somehow. Just enough luck to give him a taste of possibility — and renew his addiction. Maybe that’s why the house had caught his eye. I thought I’d win again.


    Without his gambling, he’d be in another type of situation now, and he thanked god he wasn’t, even though he didn’t believe in god or any entity above. But he liked to pretend. It gave a sense of comfort and purpose and guided this hollow game of chance that kept him coming back. And as he stood in the dim tunnel, he realised his hands were already itching for the next bet.


    His breath came in short bursts, fogging the lens of his mask — the tunnel conspired to blind and trap him. The spores thickened, closing in on him. His flashlight sliced through the haze, but visibility had dropped to barely a few meters. He couldn’t risk switching it off; his eyes would never adjust to this kind of darkness. Every nerve strained to listen, compensating for the lack of vision, and that’s when he caught it — a faint, rhythmic scraping now mingled with the drip of water.


    Something darted across the ground with a scurrying squeak. It’s just a rat. A familiar shiver went through him. The rats were a sight becoming rare, numbers dwindling every season; their food source had died long ago, and the leftovers were unwilling to share. At least, that’s the theory he had come up with. That, or something was hunting them to extinction — a less pleasant prospect.


    As quickly as it had appeared, the rodent vanished in the dark. The walls seemed to close tighter, and he felt his focus fraying at the edges. He despised this — the feeling of slipping control. Control was survival. Carefully measured steps and calculated decisions; that’s how you stayed alive. But out here, the choices weren’t entirely his. For years, he’d clung to his rules and hard-learned lessons, yet it was ironic: he’d never been in control.


    His life once ran on a path others had paved for him. His parents had laid out his future like stones on a road. They suggested biology, a field that seemed safe and sensible. So he spent years in lecture halls before the collapse, following teachers who didn’t care to teach, students who didn’t care to listen. He’d been more attentive than most simply because it was better than doing nothing for hours. Yet none of it had mattered when everything crumbled.


    He met his girlfriend there, someone to brighten the dull routine. She’d made decisions as easily as he drifted along with them, choosing what they would do and where they would go. Girlfriend. The word sounded like the relic of an old language, a term foolish now more than ever. The details were fading, but there remained a warmth: a ghostly echo of her laughter, the way she’d follow the beat of whatever song played in her car on a summer day — a memory dulled by time. She was gone, probably, and that was for the best. He’d stopped thinking of her by name; that, too, had melted like the wax of a candle. Instead, he called her Sunlight because he needed a term for when he thought of her, and the memories were warm and bright.


    His thoughts fractured. The torch beam had caught on something metallic — a ladder, rusted and warped, bolted to the wall and stretching up, hopefully to the surface. His pulse quickened in a rare burst of hope. He brushed the metal with his gloved hand, testing its strength. Rust flakes crumbled, but it felt sturdy enough; soon, he’d be out in the open air.


    Then, something moved.


    A flicker in his peripheral vision. His flashlight swept across the tunnel in front — something was there. Something big.


    A figure stood just meters from him, looming in the darkness. Tall and waiting. It was humanoid in a way, but its arms were too long, almost dragging along the floor. Wet, pallid flesh glistened in the dim light, bloated and pinkish. The air around it shifted with every laboured breath it took, its chest moving in uneven, rasping gasps.


    Paralysed, he stared back at its black, hollow eyes, empty as the tunnels themselves, yet still fixed on him. A primal terror submerged him, coursing through every vein.


    Then, it made a clicking sound, like a roller coaster coming to a stop. The creature’s joints snapped as it pounced.


    Fuck.


    In the darkness of the tunnel, the unbidden thought of Sunlight flashed in his mind. The rasping breaths were louder now. I didn’t turn right.


    He wished he had.


    ***