The city was dying by inches.
Not all at once. Not with a bang. Just decay.
Even the sky felt thinner than it had two days ago, like it didn't know how to hold itself up anymore. Rain came in patches, cold and acidic, sizzling faintly against rusted surfaces. The color of the clouds had changed, too—less gray, more… bruised. Purple veined with sickly orange, as if the heavens had been beaten until they couldn't see straight.
I stood on the rooftop of the sporting goods store and watched.
No fires burned in the distance anymore.
No screams echoed between buildings.
Just the occasional shuffle. A groan. The soft thump of something slithering against concrete.
The worst part?
I liked the quiet.
By morning, my hunger was back.
No amount of rest slowed it. If anything, it sharpened with sleep—curled in my ribs and pressed against my spine like a second heartbeat.
I found an old tarp in the store and wrapped myself up before moving. It wasn't for warmth. I didn't feel cold much anymore. It was to mask my scent.
I didn't know if it worked. But I needed the illusion of control.
I walked five blocks east toward the docks.
There'd been a shipping yard there—crates stacked ten high, warehouses filled with imported supplies. Food. Tools. Maybe fuel if I got lucky.
What I found instead were bodies.
A lot of them.
Stacked like firewood near the gates. Burned black. Half-skeleton, half charcoal. The air reeked of rot and something chemical—like bleach that had gone rancid.
I didn't touch them.
I stepped carefully, silently, past a set of gates twisted inward like something had escaped from the inside.
Then I heard it.
A dragging sound. Slow. Wet.
Followed by breathing—long, guttural gasps. Something big. Just around the corner of the shipping containers.
I crouched and peeked.
It was a man. Or it had been.
Seven feet tall. Muscles rippling beneath pale, veiny skin. Half his face gone—just bone and twitching nerve ends. His arms were too long, knuckles scraping the ground as he walked.
He carried a pole with barbed wire wrapped around the end.
A weapon.
He wasn't mindless.
He stopped in front of a container door and pounded it once with the pole.
Then again.
Then again.
From inside, a muffled cry.
Human.
Alive.
I moved before I could think twice.
Came in from behind—quiet, low, blade in hand.
The thing turned as I swung.
Too late.
The axe buried in the side of its neck. It screamed—high-pitched, wrong. Slammed its arm out, caught me in the chest.
I flew backward into a stack of pallets. Wind knocked from my lungs. Pain flashed—but not for long. My body adjusted, rewove, settled.
I stood and charged.
The second hit cracked its skull.
The third split it open.
Blood sprayed across the crate.
The creature fell, twitching, gurgling. Still trying to reach me.
I stepped on its chest, leaned down—
And ate.
Its flesh was tougher than the others. Gritty. Fibrous.
But I took it in, swallowed it, let it burn through my veins.
I felt it almost instantly—bulk, density, like my muscles had remembered something they'd never known before. My arms felt heavier. My footing more solid.
I leaned against the crate and breathed.
Then I heard a whisper.
A real one.
"Please…"
A voice.
Female.
I pried open the crate's side panel. Someone had welded the doors shut and cut a crawl hole through the side. Inside was a girl—maybe twenty. Pale. Dirty. Clutching a broken length of pipe.
She stared at me with wide, panicked eyes.
Her lips trembled.
"Are you… human?"
I didn't answer.
I just backed away and left the crate open.
I waited outside until she crawled out.
She didn't run.
She just stood there, staring at the dead brute on the ground.
"Was that one of them?" she asked.
I nodded.
She looked at me like I was the scarier one.
"Do you eat them?" she whispered.
"…Sometimes."
That was all I said.
We didn't talk for a long time after that.
Just walked.
Her name was Harper.
Art major. From Portland. She'd been traveling with a small group until two nights ago, when the brute caught them.
"I thought I was going to die in that box," she said softly. "I was ready to. And then you showed up."
I didn't respond.
We moved through the alleys side by side. Quiet. Careful. She limped slightly. I offered no help. She didn't ask for any.
She was afraid of me. I could feel it.
Not because of what I said.
But because of what I was.
We made it to an old laundromat before sunset.
I let her inside first. Checked all the corners. Blocked the door.
She curled up behind one of the old dryers, clutching that broken pipe like it was sacred.
I sat on a folding table near the window and watched the street.
Didn't say a word.
Didn't sleep.
Didn't eat.
Not that night.
By dawn, she was gone.
Vanished through the back door while I was sharpening the axe.
She left a note scrawled on a receipt:
"Thank you. I don't know what you are, but you saved me. I hope you stay… whatever part of you is still good."
I read it twice.
Folded it.
Put it in my journal.
Then walked away.
Some part of me wanted to be angry.
Some part of me understood.
The rest of me?
Just hungry.