I make my way down the Las Vegas Strip in a kayak.

The Pacific Ocean rests peacefully, covering most of the city. No one in this town twenty years ago ever considered the possibility of their property turning into beachfront real estate. But it did. Very abruptly and without warning, too.

Now it’s all abandoned. For the most part anyway.

I pass ice chunks as I paddle, maneuvering around the tops of vehicles. The top of a Starbucks logo on the corner of a building is broken open, revealing a nest hanging haphazardly, dipping into the water.

I reach up and touch the bottom of a stop light as I pass. They’re much bigger up close. It creaks as it sways, barely hanging on to its pole by a single electric cord. The only other sound comes from the wind, bitter and constant. The silence is pretty ominous, but I’m used to this kind of empty creepiness. Watching our relentless mother nature slowly reclaim the remnants of a massive metropolitan center is not a new experience for me.

It’s a beautiful, cloudless morning nonetheless with the sun on the horizon. I glide inches away from an office building. I see my reflection in a shattered glass window. I give myself a quick point and wink. Look at that beard, coming in nicely. Is that gray creeping in already?

Then the glass is gone.

I set my paddle on my lap, rub my limbs for a moment to warm them up, then unzip the backpack between my legs. Beef jerky is one of those things that still tastes amazing ten years past the expiration date. It may not be kind to your stomach, but it will keep you from starving in a tight spot. And since my regular supply of raw meat from the other world had not come at its usual time this week, it’s all I’ve got. I tear open a single stock, a chunk of meat shaped like a ruler, and chow down. Yep, delicious. Risky, but oh so good.

I’m about to take another bite when a flicker catches my eye. I squint and look up. Two towers down, there’s something in a window. Fire? Maybe it was just a bird dislodging some glass? No, there it is again. A flicker. Something is happening way up there, maybe a good fifteen stories above water level.

I stuff my meat back in my bag and paddle towards the massive building, or what remains of it. As I near I notice three kayaks by a broken window along the waterline. Yep. There’s people in there. Living people are a rare treat in these parts. Living creatures in general are a rare treat anywhere anymore, in fact.

I pull up in between the two red ones. The white one dislodges and begins to drift away. Oops. Someone didn’t tie that down very well. I’d have to go rescue it later. I peer into the broken window. It opens up to an interior stairwell. Before tying my own kayak to the stairway, I count how high up the flicker is. My guess was close. It’s actually seventeen stories up from the waterline. And it’s … hold on, let me get my compass. It’s on the southwest side. Helpful to know as I make my way up.

Wobbling, I stand up and climb onto the stairs, backpack in one hand and trusty ax in the other. You never know when you’ll need to hack at something. Or someone for that matter.

Speaking of someone, there’s a dead body right there, lying spread eagle five steps up. The first of many still clinging to the rusting stairs. Even after nearly two decades, I can still tell it was a woman, despite the flesh having decayed. The long, sludge covered remains of hair gives it away. That, and the copious amounts of jewelry around her neck and finger bones.

Fifteen, I count, as I pull my aching body up and around the next flight of stairs. Sixteen, come on, just one more level. I force myself to sprint the last dozen steps just to prove to myself that fifty is not old. Because it’s not, okay?

After huffing and puffing for what feels like a lifetime, I drop my bag onto the floor. Light. I need light. The windows provide enough to get up here, but the corridor behind that door is pitch black. I can see through the small window at face level and there’s nothing but darkness. I pull out my dynamo flashlight, the kind you have to crank to power up, no batteries required, and give it a good dozen spins. It flickers on and we’re in business.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

I have to give the handle a good hard turn before it complies, then the heavy metal door opens easily, despite the loud creak. Wind rushes in and howls. I zip my padded coat up to the neck, pull my hood over my head, and shine the light into the void.

“Hello?” I call out. “Anyone there?”

The rusting steel of the skyscraper seems to moan back at me, but it’s the only response I get. I suck in a frigid breath, let out a puff of steam, and walk in. The stairwell door, on spring hinges, closes behind me with a loud, echoing bang.

Doors. Lots and lots of office doors. There’s bulletin boards with photos and documents still tacked to it. Paper letters stating “Welcome back from vacation” are stapled to the top of a board with a bunch of pictures below it, all of a dude holding an average sized fish. Mediocrity celebrated at its finest.

“Hello?” I offer again.

Nothing.

I open a door to my right. The law offices of Burkheim and Baxter. Papers whoosh off a desk. A reception area comes into view, but no people. No flicker of light. Am I on the southwest side? I venture in, past the receptionist area, to find more private offices along an interior corridor. I open the nearest and everything is illuminated by an exterior window. I have to move a corpse in the rolling chair out of the way to get a better view down below. He’s flopped over the desk. With all that glass stuck in the side of his head, my guess is it was the initial shockwave of the shift that did him in.

Poor guy, but not an uncommon sight.

Yep, there are the kayaks, right down there. I’m on the correct side. They must be further down the way a bit.

I enter the main hallway and make my way down, knocking on doors as I go. I stop when I notice a sliver of flickering light from underneath one near the end. I grip my ax tight, make my way there, and knock.

“Room service,” I say, and chuckle to myself. I’m so funny, I know. You have to have a sense of humor to survive post-apocalyptically. You just have to. If you don’t, you lose your mind. I’m about to knock again when the door swings open. Light spills out, and I’m suddenly face to face with the barrel of a shotgun.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa” I say, stepping back, holding up my gloved hands.

The guy is a foot taller than me and has the look of a bodybuilder turned ill. There's a strange, stretched look to his gaunt face and he’s got fresh scratch marks across his cheek. He looks me up and down.

“No need for that, bucko,” I say. “I come in peace.”

“Your pack,” he says, in a deep gruff voice. “And the ax.”

“Sure,” I say, slunking it off. It's heavy so it hits the floor with a weighty thunk. I drop the ax. “All yours.” I try to smile. Be calm. I’ve been in worse situations, I remind myself. Much worse.

“Who is it?” comes another man’s voice from within. This one is just as gruff. He’s around the corner so I can’t see him though. Then a woman’s face pops into view.

“Old guy,” she says. Her voice is like sandpaper on concrete.

“Inside,” says the big man with the shotgun. He motions with the barrel for me to enter. As I do he grabs my stuff and closes the door, gun trained on my back.

I turn the corner to find a large waiting room. A large window, miraculously still intact, fills the southwest wall. There are brown leather couches against two of the walls, and a fire in the middle of the room is consuming the remnants of another piece of furniture. There’s a hallway over there to the left, but a desk’s been shoved in place to dissuade entry.

Sitting on the edge of the far couch, crouched over the fire, is a man. His hands are bare, and he’s sharpening a set of cooking knives. Standing by the window is the woman. She’s holding a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. I can’t tell if she’s excited or terrified. Her eyes look a little crazy, and she’s swaying side to side, as if waiting for a signal to pounce. On what, I’m not sure. Me maybe?

And then I notice them: a pair of teenagers sitting on the floor against the wall in the far corner of the room. It's a boy and girl, both maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. Their wrists and ankles are bound together with twine and are both nearly naked. The boy only has a pair of boxer shorts and is shirtless. The girl has torn leggings and a tank top on. That’s it. They’re shivering, pale, and in parts covered in frost.

“Oh,” I say, realizing what’s going on. “That’s not good.”