Part 1
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning, striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
—
“The Wasteland”, T.S. Eliot
#
Light snowflakes fell in a synchronised dance. The layers they created started covering all traces of what had lain beneath. Time was frozen over the street.
His boots crunched over the snow, each step compacting it into a reminder of his presence — a trail he didn’t like leaving behind. Still, he had faith they would soon be covered again and his way forgotten. Ahead, an old two-story brick house, the wooden beams of its roof exposed, offering no resistance to the delicate white flecks drifting inside. Might be something valuable within.
He eased the wooden door open, his gaze darting to ensure he caught anything inside before it moved on him. All was still. With a click, he turned on his flashlight, its cold blue beam cutting through the dimness, scanning the room. The windows had been barred long ago, letting in no light but his, as dust-coated furniture sat untouched. The room might have once been cosy if you ignored what time had done with the place; a couch faced an old, lifeless chimney, and for a moment, he could picture himself sitting before a warm fire. Not having anything to burn — just another futile thought — he shut the door behind him.
A thin fog of dust hung in the air, its particles moving away from him with each step. The light caught them, making it harder to see, so he killed the beam, letting his eyes adjust. The house creaked and groaned under the weight of wind pushing through cracks in the walls above. If there was something inside, it remained silent, waiting.
He waited, too, listening to the house breathe until shadows became shapes again. Room by room, he searched, just as he had done countless times before — methodically — his back always towards the spaces he had already cleared.
He went up to the second floor, the outside light pouring inside freely through broken beams and shattered windows. Dust, wood and snow littered the floor, but the walls still stood. Echoes of a life long past lingered in discarded objects: pictures, books, and toys. But nothing of value amidst this museum of life, no sign of living people either — hardly a surprise.
From the main bedroom, the city lay below, now buried beneath a white blanket. This time of year, it almost resembled its former self — no greenery, just endless concrete and metal. A giant sea of stone, humanity’s monument to hubris, now crumbling under the weight of time and snow. The city had been taller and sharper, but time and weather had ground down the towers. Someday, perhaps, it would all be gone.
He shook off the thought; there were still doors left unchecked. He always did that last. It’s safer this way. He headed back downstairs to finish his search.
#
When he opened the last door, something was wrong. The stairs led down into darkness, but the smell triggered him — a sickening blend of rot, dust, blood, and moisture — the scent of death.
Three of them lay on the floor, their bones poking through tattered skin. One had been a woman, tall and slim; maybe she had been beautiful once. She still was — in a twisted way. Her dress pressed against the stone floor; the mould bloomed across the fabric like grotesque flowers, the first stage of an infection that would spread.
The other two were probably males; it was always more challenging to tell when the flesh had started to melt away. One sat slumped in a wooden chair, his head almost resting on his chest. The other lay sprawled on the floor, a hand resting on a metal handle fixed in the ground. The room was a square cellar, its walls lined with wooden racks, old bottles lain horizontally across their structure. Some had long spilt their content, just as their owner had.
He checked the corpses, searching for anything useful. They wouldn’t need it anymore. They were civilians, most likely, and it was hard to tell how they had died. But they had, as they all had ages ago. He always felt more alone in the presence of the dead. Their lifeless forms were a reminder that he was neither part of them nor part of the world they had left behind.
The stench of decay was overwhelming, but he had grown used to it in some way. He found nothing of interest and turned his attention to the handle. Dust covered the edges of a trapdoor, but it was still there, waiting. He nudged the body aside and brushed away the grime with his worn hands, revealing the wood beneath.
A creak from above froze him in place.
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His senses were suddenly on alert. Something had made the wood groan upstairs; it wasn’t just the old house. Slow, deliberate steps — searching the house, just as he had. They followed the tracks.
He took the time to assess the situation. He couldn’t go up the stairs; he would surely open the door to find a knife — or worse, a gun — and, at the end of it, a man. No, men. There were now two distinct pairs of shoes wandering over his head. The trapdoor seemed like his only option. He was not willing to pick up a fight. Not this close to the city.
The trapdoor resisted, but he pried it open with minimal noise. He clicked the flashlight back on, sweeping the beam over the space below. It was damp and narrow, a long concrete tunnel that stretched into the darkness.
He let himself drop down.
#
His leather boots were splashing through a thin layer of water. The sound was impossibly loud. By the time they would find the trapdoor, he needed to be as far away from the house as this gallery would let him. He had no choice but to keep moving forward, praying this tunnel wouldn’t lead to a dead-end — his instincts told him it wouldn’t.
There were a series of tunnels shaping the underground landscape of the city. He used them often back then; before the end, they had been teeming with life. Now, they were hollowed-out veins, a refuge for things he’d rather never meet. But this tunnel felt different — with a purpose beyond the mundane. The only thing that mattered now was finding a way out. Preferably before the daylight expired and the city was swallowed by darkness.
The tunnel continued for what seemed like an eternity. Time was blurred into a monotonous rhythm of footsteps and breath. Finally, he could see something at the end of the tunnel: a wall appeared, and the corridor split into two paths. There were no signs or clues as to where to go, so he gambled on the left, brushing his hand against the wet stone of the outer wall.
After a while, his flashlight started catching particles floating ahead, but it wasn’t dust this time. Spores. Panic seized him as he fumbled for his backpack, dropping it to the floor, he searched for his mask. His heart pounding harder with every second, he pulled the mask over his head and took a long breath.
This had been a mistake: entering the house. He should have known that there would be nothing inside. The looters had found anything worth having long ago. The city was just an empty carcass now, a graveyard of scraps and dusty bones. Each search was a gamble; usually, the risk was too high, the reward too small. But what choice did he have? Staying still meant a slow death; moving meant risking it. One way or another, they all had to gamble.
He had had a few lucky sweeps lately. With winter coming, the city became more quiet and the risk lower. So he could afford to make moves he would otherwise think hard before making. Those were usually more rewarding because the looters knew just as well and stayed far from those places. He had found food quickly and enough to last a fortnight — maybe. Then, a bunch of batteries; most had melted, but some were still all right. Otherwise, he would be in another situation now, and he thanked god he wasn’t. He didn’t believe in god or any entity that could be above all, for that matter, but he liked to pretend. It was comforting to know someone could be watching.
Finding valuables that weren’t wholly useless had awakened his addiction. So when the house had caught his eye, he thought he’d win again.
#
The spores thickened, closing in on him. His breath came in short bursts, fogging the lens of his mask — the tunnel conspired to blind and trap him. The beam of his flashlight cut through the haze, but his visibility was down to mere meters. However, he had to keep the torch on, as his eyes would never adapt to the obscurity. He strained to listen; an unsettling, rhythmic scraping now accompanied the soft drip of water.
Something moved down the tunnel. A small, scurrying squeak on the ground. It’s just a rat. He shivered. Rats were a sight that was becoming rare; their food source had died so long ago, and those who remained weren’t willing to share. At least, that’s the theory he had come up with. That, or something was chasing them to extinction — the latter was less pleasant somehow.
The rodent had disappeared almost instantly in the dark. The walls felt closer than ever, and his mind was racing, the uncertainty fraying the edges of his focus. He hated this — losing control. Control was survival. Calculated moves and measured steps; that’s how you stayed alive. But out here, the choices weren’t his to make. Surviving alone for so many years had taught him many valuable lessons, but accepting to release control wasn’t one of them, which was ironic because he had never been in control.
His life had been planned for him. His parents had chosen his education — their suggestion had seemed safe. So, he studied biology for years before the collapse. He woke every day to follow teachers who didn’t want to teach, students who didn’t want to learn. He was more attentive than most people simply because it was better than doing nothing for hours. But he didn’t know a thing about surviving. None of it had mattered when everything fell apart.
He met his girlfriend there and thought maybe it wasn’t so bad. She had made all the choices back then, too. Even when it all ended, she had picked what they would do that day. Girlfriend. That was a term that seemed foolish, now more than ever. Sometimes, he thought about her, mainly when he felt alone at night. All that remained of her was a faint, warm feeling, a memory dulled by time. She was dead probably now, and it was for the better. Recalling the warmth of her laughter on a summer day, she was driving, a song in the air. But as the cold seeped into his bones, that memory felt distant, like a flickering light about to go out. He’d never see her again except in memory; her name had faded into oblivion. Now, he called her Sunlight just because he needed a term for when he thought of her, and the memories were warm and bright.
His thoughts were interrupted. The light emanating from his torch caught the reflection of metal fixed on the wall. A ladder, rusty and warped, bolted into the wall and going up. Up towards the surface, he hoped. His heartbeat quickened. He moved towards it and brushed the metal with his gloved hands, testing its strength. Rust crumbled under his touch, but it seemed sturdy enough — soon, he’d be out there again.
Then, something moved.
Something in his peripheral vision. He froze. His flashlight swept across the tunnel in front of him, catching something. Something big.
A figure stood just meters away, looming in the darkness. Tall and unmoving. It was humanoid in a way, but its arms were too long, almost dragging on the floor. The thing’s pale, bloated flesh glistened under the light, wet and pinkish. The air around it shifted with every laboured breath it took. Its chest moved in uneven, rasping gasps.
His body refused to move, submerged by a primal terror that surged through his veins. The creature didn’t move either; its black, hollow eyes were fixed on him. Waiting.
It made a clicking sound, like a roller coaster coming to a stop. The creature’s joints snapped as it pounced.
Fuck.
In the darkness of the tunnel, the thought of Sunlight flashed in his mind. The creature’s grating breaths louder now. I didn’t turn right.
He wished he had.
***