Fujioka poured water into the pot. We couldn’t find any drinks, only empty bottles. But the building’s water pipes hadn’t been cut off, so we filled the bottles with tap water. Although I worried the water might not be clean, boiling it should make it safe to drink.

As we waited, Fujioka continued to work on her hand crossbow. With nothing to do, I took out my handgun. I had never mentioned it to Fujioka before—not out of secrecy, but simply because I had forgotten about it during the chaos.

To be honest, when we were clearing out zombies, I didn’t think a handgun would be more useful than an axe, especially since it only had six bullets.

"Ha, a revolver," Fujioka glanced at it and chuckled, not at all interested in taking it.

"It has six bullets, I’ll give it to you," I said.

"I’d rather have your axe."

"That’s not happening."

"Seriously," she looked up at me, staring with intensity, "I’m better with an axe than you. Don’t you think you’re more suited to using a gun?"

"I don’t think so," I replied firmly.

"Why? All men like shooting. It’s a natural instinct to be a marksman." She said, dragging out the words as though giving a speech.

"I’ve only fired ten shots during military training, and it was with an outdated rifle... I think you’re probably better with it than I am."

"Listen, Akawa," she said, calling me by my first name. It sounded strange, almost intimate, but not quite. No one had ever called me that before; even my closest friends and parents always called me by my full name, "Takakawa."

"Takakawa," a name that held a casual distance.

"With a handgun, as long as you pull the trigger, it poses a threat. But with an axe, the real power depends on the skill of the user."

"My skills are good. I killed the ghost dog."

"But I handle it better. Whether it’s you or me using the handgun, the power doesn’t change much. Shouldn’t we distribute our weapons wisely to maximize our combat effectiveness?"

Fujioka met my gaze with a serious look. After a moment, I handed her the axe and placed the handgun back at my waist.

She grabbed the axe with the delight of a child receiving a beloved toy, and smiled broadly.

"Thank you."

Suddenly, I had the urge to smoke, so I pulled out my cigarette case. It hit me then that I wasn’t alone here, and I’d never smoked in front of anyone before. Taking them out and putting them back felt awkward. Fujioka noticed my movements, narrowing her eyes.

"Cigarettes? I knew it. All that ‘top student’ nonsense is just a lie, huh?"

"No... maybe. I was a good student, top ten in my class, even made it to the finals of the math competition." I awkwardly defended myself. "Um... I’ve even published articles in magazines and newspapers, and I get a scholarship every year."

Fujioka gave me a knowing look, as if she had seen right through me.

"Your classmates probably don’t know, do they?"

"...Some do."

"But no one exposed you? So, you must be one of those bad students?" She stared at me like she was trying to read my face. "I wonder who else knows you smoke? Teachers? Friends? Family? ...Ah, you’ve been lying to everyone. You big liar."

"No... I just didn’t want them to know," I explained dryly. "You know, it’s personal."

"You’re so not straightforward."

You’re the one who’s too blunt.

"Okay, I’m just like that," I gave up and lifted the cigarette. "Can I smoke?"

"Give me one," she answered unexpectedly. Taking the cigarette, she added, "Camel? Nice, I like this brand."

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I gave a meaningless smile.

We lit our cigarettes using the gas stove, both of us inhaling and exhaling in silence as we waited for the water to boil.

The water in the pot had been boiling for some time before we poured it into the cup noodles. After letting it sit for five minutes, we began eating voraciously. Fujioka was probably starving, making slurping noises without any care for her manners. She wasn’t shy at all. Maybe she didn’t care about that stuff. I usually ate instant noodles the same way, but they never tasted this good.

During our meal, I mentioned a senior from my school, the one who had gone missing and returned with no memory.

"Some people go missing and never return, others come back with no memory. It’s something to keep in mind," I said.

"If they all ended up here…" Fujioka shook her head, not finishing her thought.

"The ones who can’t come back are probably dead, or didn’t find the right way. The ones with amnesia... maybe something happened to them on their way back, or maybe they don’t want us to return with our memories," I speculated.

"Why? Who are they? Didn’t they say we were supposed to be the heroes saving the world? How can we do that without our memories?"

"I don’t know," I said, "But I want to try."

"Try what?"

"To record our memories. Write a journal, either in a notebook or on the computer, and then… **."

At this, I took out the notebook I had prepared and waved it in front of her.

She stared at it for two or three seconds before nodding.

"Let’s do it."

So, I began writing my journal, documenting everything from the old school restroom to everything that had happened up until now. I had intended to keep it simple, but with time on my hands and the experiences so vivid, it gradually turned into something more like a story—capturing my feelings, thoughts, and guesses, whether subjective or objective.

For a moment, I felt like I was copying my own soul onto paper.

Maybe I have the potential to be a novelist. But after reading it over, I realized it didn’t quite match the feeling I had when I wrote it, and I couldn’t help but wonder, *Is this really what I meant to write?*

No wonder many authors tear up their drafts right away—I think I finally understand their feelings.

When I looked up, Fujioka was peering over my shoulder, having somehow approached silently. I quickly covered the pages with my arm, feeling embarrassed.

"Don’t hide it, it’s pretty good," she said, smiling.

I couldn’t tell whether her smile was kind or mischievous, but it made me feel awkward.

"If you want to see, you can write your own," I shot back.

"That’s boring, and I’ve never written a journal or a story before," Fujioka suddenly suggested with enthusiasm, "How about we clean it up and submit it to a publisher when we get back? It could totally sell, it looks like a fantasy story. You could be a famous author one day."

"Are you joking?"

"Not at all. I’m serious, but you have to make me look great."

"My journal has nothing to do with you."

"I’m the heroine," Fujioka said, without a hint of embarrassment.

I didn’t want to dwell on this topic, so I asked about her crossbow.

"It’s done," she said, picking up the homemade hand crossbow from where she had been sitting.

It wasn’t quite a hand crossbow, more like a bow crossbow—about two feet long. It resembled a rifle with a bow attached, with a wooden frame, trigger, sights, and a shoulder stock. The bowstring was a tight mix of rubber and string, and if she didn’t have enough strength to draw it, she could use a lever she’d made herself to help.

She also made six bolts, carved from wooden strips into half-round shapes, with shallow grooves carved on the flat side, sharp tips, and weighted ends.

It looked like it could do some damage, though we weren’t sure how effective it would be.

Fujioka walked over to the window, slightly lifting the thick dark-blue curtain, and peered outside, then waved me over.

I carried the crossbow to her side, and she took it, silently aiming it at a female zombie that was loitering outside the iron gate. I understood what she meant and, through the reinforced wood, I opened a small crack in the window.

Fujioka drew the string, carefully inserted a bolt into the track, and aimed it like she would a rifle. Due to the limited window, my body almost pressed against hers, and I could feel the warmth radiating from her. It was the first time I was this close to a woman who wasn’t a family member, and I felt uneasy.

Fujioka’s full attention was on the chosen zombie.

I focused, following her gaze.

The bowstring gave a soft twang, and the sound of the air slicing was almost imperceptible as the bolt flew through the night, barely visible in the shadows.

The female zombie collapsed with a thud, the bolt protruding from her right eye.

The sound of her falling stirred the other zombies, but they couldn’t pinpoint the source of the noise and eventually quieted down.

I closed the window, and Fujioka drew the curtain back. We returned to the portable gas stove.

"At that distance, you need to aim for the eyes. Within twenty paces, you can pierce the skull," she said, tossing the crossbow to me. "The sound of a gunshot is too loud. You should use this instead."

"But..."

"I’ll handle close combat with the axe. You cover us from a distance."

A reasonable and practical pairing.

"If you insist," I nodded, not bothering to say something silly like "men should be the ones to protect."

Later, Fujioka and I made thirty more bolts and a quiver.

After ten o'clock, we cleaned up the mess and laid out our bedding side by side.

Though it hadn’t been long since the apocalypse began, the fatigue felt like I’d been working non-stop for three days straight.

The moment I lay down, I had no intention of getting back up, but sleep still wouldn’t come. My mind felt like a pile of scattered debris, spinning restlessly in a dryer, and my calm demeanor had shifted to something more alert, almost as if bouncing back from a low.

Fujioka turned over, wrapped in her blanket, and faced me. She didn’t say anything, just stared at me quietly, and I didn’t speak either. We simply gazed at each other.

In the silence, emotions hung in the air, delicate and undefined.

The night was still only a third through. What would happen tomorrow?

Would we make it out safely?

"Do you want to hold hands?" Fujioka suddenly asked, her hand reaching out from under the blanket.

After a while, I took her hand, and it was so warm.