Chapter 7: Definitely Not Food.
I flipped the switch.
The lights buzzed, sputtered… and flared weakly to life.
What I saw made my blood run cold.
The kitchen was in absolute ruin—counters overturned, food containers split and rotted into strange, unidentifiable mush. Mold crept up the walls like ivy, and a damp, brown sludge pooled near the sinks. But that wasn't what stopped me in my tracks.
It was the sound.
A slick, wet skittering, just beyond the prep station.
I froze. Heart racing. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
And then it emerged.
At first, I thought it was a trick of the light—some shifting shadow. But no. It moved with intent. Fluid. Purposeful.
A cockroach. But not any roach I'd ever seen.
It was the size of a large dog, maybe bigger—easily up to my waist. Its chitinous skin gleamed like oiled leather, segmented and ridged, pulsing slightly with every movement. Its eyes were bulbous and glistening, antennae twitching as they tasted the air… and locked onto me.
Run, some part of me screamed. Get out of here now.
But I didn't move. Couldn't.
The thing hissed—a sharp, spitting sound—and suddenly, it charged.
I screamed and threw myself backward, slamming into the counter behind me. It lunged, legs clicking against the tile, mandibles snapping inches from my leg. I kicked wildly, catching it in the thorax. It skidded sideways, just enough to buy me a second.
I scrambled across the floor, toward the drawers. I needed something—anything.
I wrenched open a drawer. My hand brushed over metal—cutlery. Knives. I grabbed the largest one my fingers could find and spun around just as the roach lunged again.
It slammed into me with the force of a linebacker, comparable to prime Ray Lewis. it knocked me to the ground, head hitting the tile with a dull crack. stars exploded in my vision. Its weight pressed down—slick, cold, and heavy—its legs clamping around my torso.
I screamed and slashed upward, the knife grazing its side, barely cutting through the armor. It shrieked in fury and lashed out with one of its barbed limbs.
Pain tore across my left forearm—a burning, searing line.
Blood welled instantly.
I gasped, eyes wide. It sliced my arm open.
The roach drew back slightly, enough for me to wedge my boot between us and shove. It stumbled, limbs flailing for purchase.
Adrenaline surged. I lunged to my feet, knife clenched tight. This wasn't about scavenging anymore. This was survival.
It shrieked again and came at me, fast and low.
I sidestepped at the last second and brought the knife down with everything I had—right into the soft spot just behind its head. The blade slid in halfway. The roach thrashed, its shrill scream echoing through the empty halls.
It bucked, hurling me into the wall. My wounded arm screamed in pain as I slid to the ground, dazed and gasping.
The creature staggered, legs twitching, ichor spilling from the wound.
I didn't wait. I ran at it, blade raised.
I drove the knife in again—deeper this time, until my knuckles hit the carapace. The roach convulsed once, then collapsed with a horrible wet crunch.
Silence.
I stood over its twitching corpse, drenched in black blood, chest heaving. My arm throbbed. Blood trickled down to my fingertips, dripping onto the tiles below.
I dropped the knife. My knees buckled, and I caught myself on the counter, breathing hard.
"What the hell is happening?" I whispered.
The roach didn't answer.
But I knew now—I wasn't just scavenging ruins. I was walking through a world that had changed in ways I was barely beginning to understand.
And it didn't care if I was ready.