Chapter 17 (Joshua’s POV)

  I crept through the labyrinth of twisted steel and buckled concrete, trying hard to keep my footsteps soft. Despite all my efforts, each loose shard of glass or scrap of broken metal still conspired to reveal my presence. I’d appear, examine a pile of rubble or a collapsed doorway, and hope the faint crunch underfoot wasn’t enough to summon the undead. My heart thumped with a measured tension, every muscle tight, because a single misstep might trigger a swarm of roamers—or something worse.

  The air was damp, thick with a stale odor that combined mildew and long-decayed flesh. Whenever the wind gusted, it carried a sharper bite—like a tang of burnt plastic and old chemicals. I told myself not to breathe too deeply, but the city’s atmosphere had a way of invading every sense, clinging to clothes, settling on my tongue with a sour metallic note.

  I leaned behind a fractured marble column that once adorned an office entrance, scanning the alley beyond for any sign of movement. No roamers in immediate sight. I exhaled, adjusting the war hammer’s strap where it dug into my shoulder. Part of me wanted to keep searching for signs of Anna, but a persistent voice in my head whispered a different plan: the cottage. That old, dilapidated inheritance might be safer than wandering these gutted streets. If I could get there, barricade it properly, it might serve as a shelter. It wasn’t far, at least relative to the sprawling hell of this city.

  Step by step, I edged along the broken sidewalk. A battered sedan lay flipped on its roof nearby, rust staining its frame a mottled orange-brown. Its windows were shattered in a web of cracks, leaving shards scattered like dull diamonds across the road. Just beyond that, the partial skeleton of a bus, eaten away by rust and vines. High overhead, bent girders whined in the breeze, singing that mournful tune I'd come to associate with the apocalypse. Gah, it felt like everything wanted to puncture my eardrums with gloom.

  A subtle scuffling sound made me freeze, hand slipping down to my short sword. My pulse soared. From behind a collapsed chunk of a parking structure, a lone roamer lurched into view, shambling with slow deliberation. I clenched my teeth, stepping back into the shadow of a fallen metal beam. The roamer dragged one foot behind it, eyes milky, face slack in that mindless hunger. My breath hitched, but I forced myself calm. No fight needed here. If it didn’t sense me, I was better off letting it pass.

  Heart hammering, I hugged the beam, body pressed against damp concrete that smelled of rust and moss. The roamer drifted by, maybe ten yards away, never turning its vacant gaze toward me. A swirl of rank wind followed in its wake, a whiff of putrescence that made my gut churn. Once it vanished around the corner, I let out a shaky breath. Thank God. A fight would only burn precious energy—and attract more undead.

  I carried on, weaving between collapsed stores and jagged rebar protruding like fangs from the ground. At times, I stumbled onto corpses too decayed to identify as roamer or human. The stench soared whenever I got too close, unleashing a gag reflex I barely suppressed. A cluster of flies would usually ascend in a buzzing cloud, outraged at my disturbance of their feast. More than once, I caught glimpses of tattered pockets on these bodies. I recalled how Anna had mentioned rummaging the dead—picking them for valuables or pearls. What a world.

  Reluctantly, I checked a few for anything that might be worth carrying. On a half-buried figure with a shredded jacket, I found a small roll of old-world bills—maybe twenty or thirty dollars, though the edges were soaked in blackish fluid. I winced, but tucked it into my pack. Every scrap might help. Another body, slumped in an alley, offered me a drenched wallet with a couple of wrinkled fives. Not much, but in this realm, it was the principle of having something to trade—like how Anna had explained. My chest tightened at the memory of her. Focus, Joshua.

  Inching around the next block, I paused beneath a tangle of overhead cables that occasionally dripped foul-smelling water. The sign at the corner was battered but legible enough to confirm I was heading roughly in the right direction. The thought of my father’s crumbling cottage actually felt like relief. Away from the crammed labyrinth of downtown, the empty suburbs or outskirts might be calmer, fewer roamers, more vantage points. Or so I hoped.

  Another rustle caught my ear—a subtle shuffle of feet. I spun, pressing into a doorway’s recess. This time it was a pair of roamers, half-lurching side by side along the far side of the street. They had no eyes—literal gaping holes, black rot caking the sockets—and they felt along the ground with decaying fingers as if searching for any sign of life. I swallowed terror. They rely on smell or hearing? Or maybe some twisted sense we can’t guess. They advanced another few yards, then stopped, heads turning in an eerie, near-synchronized motion.

  My lungs burned with the urge to exhale, but I held it, refusing to risk even a sigh. After a few seconds of silent standoff, they resumed trudging away, dragging ankles that left faint streaks of gore on the pavement. I didn’t move until their silhouettes vanished behind a collapsed diner with shattered windows. Then I inhaled softly, blinking sweat from my eyes. If all of downtown was like this, no wonder Anna drifted in the apocalypse half-sleepless.

  Finally, seeing an opening, I scurried across the intersection, doing my best to avoid kicking up noise from the littered rubble. The wind caught on a piece of torn metal overhead, making it clang repeatedly. My stomach twisted in fear that the roamers might hear, but none appeared. Luck. Just keep going.

  The city gradually shifted from tall buildings to shorter, half-collapsed structures, the roads slightly less cluttered with major wrecks. The gloom overhead parted enough to reveal a bleak, cloud-streaked sky. My shoulders relaxed a fraction. I recognized these roads in a vague sense—back when I'd first arrived, I'd spotted glimpses of them. If I followed them carefully, I’d eventually pivot west, crossing battered residential blocks, hopefully veering me in the direction of the cottage. At least, that’s the plan, I told myself, refusing to consider how easy it’d be to get lost in the labyrinth.

  Between two crumpled shops, I noticed an alley with a broken sign reading “Pet Supplies.” I half-peered inside, drawn by the possibility of rummaging for anything edible. A rancid smell made me recoil instantly—likely rotted feed or the remains of once-caged animals. Not worth the risk. No time for that. The cottage beckoned like a beacon of hypothetical safety, if such a thing existed here.

  Throughout my slow progress, I kept discovering more battered corpses, some roamer, some maybe once-living people. Each time, I’d force myself to peek into pockets or rummage the immediate area. Usually, I'd find nothing but scraps or worthless, waterlogged IDs. Once, I uncovered a small stash of blood-stained bills—eight bucks, maybe. I stuffed them into my bag with a suppressed shudder. Even if the currency held no real value, part of me still clung to the idea that having something was better than empty hands.

  The surroundings grew quieter still, the city thinning into half-ravaged blocks. The monstrous silhouettes of downtown receded behind me, replaced by smaller commercial or residential wreckage. A battered pharmacy sign read “_harm ___y,” dangling overhead in a precarious lean. Piles of rusted vehicles lined the curb, each one a story of panic from seven years ago. The wind whistled through shattered windows, a lonely lament.

  I took a moment behind the husk of a minivan to catch my breath, leaning heavily on the war hammer. My muscles ached from tension, my ears still rang from hyper-awareness. But no roamers shuffled into view, and no hiss of ferals. Good. If my sense of direction was correct, I’d soon pass a battered high school and turn west—close to the route leading out of the city. Then, from there, I'd need some luck to re-find the cottage. But it’s better than wandering in circles.

  With that, I pushed forward, cringing at a sudden reek that wafted from a half-buried sewer manhole. The color of the sludge seeping out was an unholy greenish-brown, thick with lumps I refused to identify. The city showed no mercy, even in its lesser-trodden areas.

  Yet, I felt a thread of determination. If I made it back, boarded up the windows, maybe I could form a small base, even scavenge a bit more systematically. And if I found Anna somehow… My chest tightened. Don’t think about it too much. Just survive.

  So I went on, carefully avoiding any roamer sightings, stepping over decaying corpses as gently as possible, and collecting whatever worthless bills or scraps I could find along the way. The acrid taste of the city’s breath hung on my tongue, a persistent reminder that I was still in the apocalypse. But with each block, the sense of enclosed horror receded, replaced by a more open sprawl of half-crumbled homes and destroyed storefronts—a sign, I hoped, that the cottage’s outskirts might be near.

  I paused at the edge of a half-collapsed home, my heart still racing from the constant tension. This stretch of the city felt less claustrophobic – fewer towers looming overhead, more single-story ruins – but I couldn’t let myself relax. The wind carried a faint hint of rot and scorched wood, a reminder that safety was still just an illusion. I slid my war hammer off my shoulder, rolled my neck, and inhaled shakily.

  By my rough count—assuming the Gate’s timer was accurate—I had just under thirty-two hours left before I’d need to find another door, or be trapped in this realm for good. The thought drummed an urgent rhythm in my head: Hurry, but stay alive. Somewhere out here, Anna might be surviving by a thread, and I needed the time to find her—or at least accomplish something worthwhile—before returning. If returning was even an option.

  I exhaled, deciding that a quick inventory was in order. My shoulders ached from the weight of the pack, and I’d been scooping up old-world bills off every corpse or ruin that wasn’t too horrific to check. So far, that worthless currency felt like a bizarre badge of hope. I rummaged carefully through my makeshift pockets, counting aloud. “Two hundred… four, six, eight…” A few tens, a handful of twenties, all stained or ragged. Eventually, the total came to around two thousand dollars—some of it smeared with blackish gore I’d tried to wipe off with a rag. Two grand. In the old world, that was rent. Here, it was basically worthless… or maybe tradeable for a scrap of a chance at survival.

  Tucking the roll back into my bag, I forced a shaky sigh. Keep going, Joshua. My father’s cottage had to be out this way, through these broken suburban blocks. If I could hole up there, maybe gather my nerves, I could figure out a plan. Because right now, my plan was a patchwork of guesswork and desperation.

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  That was when a rasping moan cut through my thoughts. My head snapped up, blood suddenly thrumming in my ears. Some ways off, a roamer emerged from behind a dented minivan. Its torso hung lopsided, half a chest caved in, but it dragged itself forward with unnatural vigor, fixating on me with those milky eyes.

  A knot of adrenaline spiked in my chest. I clutched the war hammer, stepping back to put a chunk of fallen masonry between us. But the roamer let out a guttural hiss and lurched forward, as though it smelled fresh meat in the stale wind. “Damn it,” I muttered, swallowing the jolt of fear. Another fight it was, then.

  I edged sideways, scanning for other roamers that might be drawn by the sound. The area seemed deserted, though the roamer’s moan might carry. Finish it quickly. That was the plan. The roamer swung an arm limply, revealing broken fingers twisted at awkward angles, each nail black with dried blood.

  My heartbeat pounded as I closed the distance. The roamer hissed, jaws working in an obscene chomping motion, glistening drool dribbling from its cracked lips. Its chest was a ruin of torn flesh, ribs partially visible, blackish fluids congealed over the exposed bone. Focus, don’t let it freak you out. At the last second, the creature lurched with surprising speed, an arm swiping for my neck. I ducked, adrenaline roaring, and slammed the hammer’s spiked back end into its rotting side.

  A wet crunch followed, the impact rocking up my arms. The roamer stumbled, letting out a ragged moan that turned into a snarl. I jerked the hammer free, gore slopping onto the pavement in a thick sludge. Its milky eyes rolled wildly, but it refused to go down. I gritted my teeth, stepping into a second blow—this time aiming higher, for the head.

  Wham. The metal head of the hammer connected with the roamer’s jaw, snapping it open at a right angle. A nauseating spray of black fluid spattered my boots, and a chunk of the creature’s cheek tore away in ragged strips. It reeled, flailing with a half-detached arm. I fought down the urge to gag, raising the hammer again. Finish it.

  A third, solid strike caved in the roamer’s skull with a ghastly squelch, bone fragments giving under the war hammer’s force. A final half-hiss escaped its ruined mouth before it collapsed to the ground, limbs spasming in a last, mindless reflex. Then it lay still, a puddle of viscous sludge spreading under its battered corpse. Flies, drawn by the fresh gore, already buzzed in a lazy orbit above.

  I panted, adrenaline still spiking my heart rate to the heavens. My shoulders ached from the savage swings, and the rancid reek of decay churned my stomach. Wincing, I fished out my battered knife from a side pocket. Anna said pearls… right. This roamer might hold one. If I truly wanted to last out here, I had to gather every advantage, and these pearls might be crucial currency.

  Trying not to breathe, I crouched at the base of the roamer’s neck. Dark gore coated the battered flesh, the skull half-collapsed, revealing congealed lumps of tissue. I forced my mind to go blank, sliding the knife in near the spinal column. Each shift of the blade produced a nauseating squelch. The thick, foul stench made my eyes water, and I gagged quietly, but I kept going. Finally, the tip hit something hard—a smooth sphere lodged amid the gore.

  With a grimace, I worked it free. It popped loose in a gush of fluid that made me recoil. My glove was slick with stinking black sludge, but there it was: a small, marble-like pearl. The seventeenth I’d managed to collect since returning, each an unfortunate trophy from a kill I never wanted but had to commit. I wiped it on a rag, ignoring how each wipe only partially cleared the filth. Then I tucked the pearl into my pocket, a haunted sense of accomplishment twisting my gut.

  Rising, I kicked my boots on the pavement, trying to dislodge clinging gore. Every breath came out shaky. I prayed no other roamers had heard the fight. The hush of the street settled in again, as if it had swallowed the violence whole. A swirl of wind carried the reek away, at least partially. Alright, keep moving.

  My chest still heaved from the adrenaline dump. I took a moment, leaning on the war hammer to gather myself. “Thirty-two hours left,” I reminded myself under my breath, voice hollow. The Gate’s countdown ticked relentlessly in my head. If I wasted time, I’d be stuck here forever, and that possibility churned a deeper panic than even the undead.

  The cottage. I forced my eyes to scan the battered cityscape, letting the prospect of a temporary haven ground me. I had pearls enough now to possibly trade if I ran into a settlement. I had a wad of worthless bills that might or might not matter. And I had a plan: cross these last few blocks, angle west, find that old house. Then barricade, survive, maybe scavenge further. If Anna was out there, hopefully she’d sense some sign.

  Shaking off the nausea, I gripped the war hammer again, forcing my shoulders to relax. The roamer’s body lay motionless behind me, flies descending en masse. Death was ephemeral in this place—just another piece of the city’s savage puzzle.

  Breathing out slowly, I gripped my war hammer a little tighter, vowing not to let my guard down. The trek was far from over, but at least it wasn't quite the claustrophobic heart of downtown. If I stayed cautious, maybe I'd see the battered remains of my father’s old place soon. The idea of having a roof—no matter how tattered—almost felt like hope I slowed my pace in the next ruined block, grimacing at the pungent stench of my own body. After so many hours trudging through gore-smeared streets and clutching a war hammer slick with dried roamer blood, I could hardly ignore the smell radiating off my sweat-soaked clothes. Even amid the constant tang of decay and dust in this wretched city, my rank odor stood out, a bitter reminder of how much I missed a simple hot shower. God, I could practically feel the grime in every pore, a sticky film binding me to the apocalypse with no respite.

  “Soon,” I murmured under my breath, glancing at the battered horizon. “Once I get to the cottage… I’ll rig something for a bath… somehow.” The idea felt laughably optimistic, but I clung to it. Just imagining a rinse—any form of soap or warm water—made the dryness in my throat intensify, my mouth craving something more than the leftover aftertaste of filth.

  Flicking debris off my boots with each careful step, I wove around the next corner, scanning for roamers in the gloom. The city’s hush was broken only by the faint squeak of metal overhead, twisted beams rattling whenever the wind hissed through them. My heart hammered away at a steady pace, half from anxiety, half from the disgusting tang of my own sweat. This is insane—I can’t even hide my stink from the undead. A dark humor flickered in me, overshadowed by the reality that any noise or smell might draw fresh trouble.

  I rounded a collapsed bus stop when suddenly, voices emerged—low, carrying a confident edge. Heart lurching, I crouched behind the rusted frame of a toppled mailbox, the war hammer threatening to clank. Don’t blow your cover. I sank to a knee, breath caught in my throat, trying to stay silent.

  A group of three people strode into view along the center of the cracked road, moving with an air of grim purpose. Their attire caught my eye immediately: battered pieces of red armor, obviously scavenged from different sources—some looked like metal plates hammered to fit shoulders, others old car door sections strapped to chests with ropes and belts. One wore the remains of what might have been a Kevlar vest dyed red, stained with blackish smears. Each brandished a mismatched set of weapons: an old hunting rifle, a pistol, and what looked like a heavily modified shotgun held together by duct tape. They were loud, too, boots crunching openly over shattered glass, as if they didn’t fear roamers or human threats.

  I sank lower, holding my breath. These definitely weren’t passersby or friendly scavengers. The raw confidence in their stride and the scornful tone of their conversation radiated danger. Could they be Empire? But no, the Empire men I’d seen typically wore some kind of crest or more uniform gear. This trio wore tattered red, closer to a local faction or a sub-group I hadn’t heard about. My chest tightened at the thought of an entirely new faction.

  They talked loudly enough for me to catch fragments:

  “…fucking bitch took out Reyes—tore him up good!” spat a tall figure with a battered helmet.

  “Yeah, left him gutted in that empty plaza… I heard she’s some wild woman,” the second, a wiry man, chimed in, brandishing his pistol.

  The third, hefting a shotgun, let out a rough laugh. “Ha! She’s better off dead when we find her. She’s cost us enough men.”

  A flicker of dread and familiarity ripped through me. Wild woman, killed one of theirs near an empty plaza… My mind zeroed in: Anna? A thousand details hammered home at once—her battered fury, her willingness to fight to survive. My pulse raced, confusion warring with relief. Part of me was strangely proud she could hold her own. Another part seethed that these red-armored brutes wanted revenge.

  The tall figure spit on the ground. “Heard she’s limping, though. That means we’ll corner her soon. Hell, more bounty for us.” He sounded almost gleeful.

  The wiry man nodded. “And we get to make an example. Ain’t no one kills one of ours and gets away.”

  Shotgun guy chuckled again. “A limp? She’s a dead woman walking.”

  My throat constricted, a swirl of fear stirring in my gut. If they truly meant Anna, she was out there—alive, but hurt. And these three wanted her blood. I gripped the war hammer, sweat slicking my palms. God, Anna. Please be safe. I’d come here to find her, but I had no illusions about taking on three armed men alone. Not with their advanced knowledge of the terrain, their brazen confidence.

  They kept walking, not noticing me crouched behind the rusting mailbox. My leg muscles burned from the tension of remaining still. Their voices drifted on the stale wind:

  “Better spread out soon,” the wiry man said, voice echoing off the crumbling walls. “Can’t be far if she’s wounded. The plaza’s only a few blocks from here.”

  “Yeah,” the tall one growled. “We find her, we string her up. Let everyone see what messing with us costs.”

  The knot in my stomach tightened further. They were so damn sure, so casual about it. My mind raced—I had to get to Anna first, if she was still limping around. But how? The city was a maze, and for all I knew, she might already be deeper into the outskirts or hidden in some scavenger outpost.

  As they passed my position, I forced myself not to breathe, praying they wouldn’t pause or glance this way. The stench of my own sweaty body flared again, my heart hammering at the thought of them catching a whiff. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. The group’s boots ground over concrete, rifling edges of debris. My entire body trembled, adrenaline surging in waves.

  At last, they moved on, turning down a side street. The clang of their gear faded, though my pulse still roared in my ears. I stayed in place for another long minute, expecting them to double back. When no footsteps returned, I finally exhaled.

  Easing myself upright, I scanned the direction they’d gone. They’re searching for Anna… Or so I believed, anyway. She matched their description: a fierce woman, wounded, who’d evidently killed one of their men. My guts twisted with worry, but also a glint of pride. She was still alive, still out there. Hang on, Anna.

  Gritting my teeth, I edged away from the intersection, sticking to the plan: reach the cottage, gather my wits, maybe gather supplies or set a beacon for her—something. If I tried to chase these red-armored creeps now, I’d only get shot. I needed a vantage point. A safe spot to operate from. Then maybe I can figure out how to help her.

  As the city’s hush reclaimed the street, I took a moment to shake off the tension. My entire body quivered, sweat trickling down my back. The heavy war hammer weighed on my shoulder, but it also reminded me I wasn’t helpless. Crouching behind that mailbox had given me a chill, thinking about how easily they could have ended me if they’d noticed. But they were gone. No illusions, though. They won’t be the last armed psychos wandering these blocks.

  I forced myself onward, stepping carefully around the remnants of an overturned dumpster, ignoring the swirl of flies that buzzed around it. The flicker of worry for Anna lodged in my throat. I needed to move faster, but not enough to blow my stealth or burn out from fatigue. Just keep going, Joshua. The reek of my own unwashed body made me cringe again. A shower at the cottage… God, that’s all I want.

  Determination settled like an iron knot in my gut. If Anna was truly out there, fighting these creeps, I’d do what I had to. For now, I marched on, the city’s wind hissing through shattered windows overhead, carrying the stench of dust and dead things. I clung to the memory of those men’s words—a limp, a wounded woman—hoping it confirmed Anna was alive. Each footstep brought me closer to that battered old house, and maybe closer to some plan that might save her if she needed saving.

  Thus I moved north, the relentless hush broken only by my ragged breathing, the shifting rubble underfoot, and the occasional far-off moan of undead or twist of metal.