"Any idea when you're coming back?"

"None," I explain to the shopkeeper— once the old gatekeeper of the apartment complex.

He rummages through his supplies, which encompass a little bit of everything: dry rations created by his apocalypse-paranoid grandson, clothes sewn from the new monsters' furs and hides, and strange paraphernalia that sometimes forms after something is killed or when exploring the strange space warping dungeons.

"Did you at least say goodbye to your mother?" he asks, his wrinkled face distorting in deep worry as he places bottled water, sets of clothes made out of monster hide, and a few homemade flashbangs and smoke bombs on the counter.

"What do you think of me? Of course I did," I state, placing everything in my new large backpack over the stacks of books, disc drives, memory cards, small solar-powered battery chargers, knives, fire-starting kits, tents, and three different cell phones. Everything fits snugly, leaving space for a little more.

The shopkeeper leans on the counter. "We're gonna miss you." His expression turns nostalgic, then hurt as he searches my face for the same sentiment and doesn't find it.

"What are you looking for?" I ask, confused. "I won't miss the time here."

"You need to lay off the medication. I heard other residents complaining about how you've cleaned out all the pharmacies in the city."

I shrug, zipping up my backpack. "First come, first serve."

"Feelings are part of survival, kid. You can't spend the whole day in a daze," he replies, his tone softening.

He isn't wrong. Feelings helped us unite at the start of the apocalypse. You can't rally a whole apartment under a banner and then command them to fight against carnivorous plants that learned how to walk without the ability to first empathize with them. Or be highly manipulative by sending those against you on missions close to the fraying edges of a building whose structural integrity was dubious.

But I don't have anyone to command now. It's me, myself, and I— and my sleep paralysis demons, which may or may not be real now.

I consider his words for a few moments more but don't let them sink too deep. "I'll be fine. Thanks for the supplies."

He nods, resigned. "Do you at least have a plan?"

"Yes, follow the main road, hope to not get ambushed by wild goblinoids, and spend a few days at Green Ear."

"That's it?" He asks, somewhat incongruous at the non-plan plan.

I give a noncommittal grunt and head towards the exit. The door creaks as I push it open, and the familiar sounds of the world outside flood in.

During this time of day, most residents are enjoying themselves with what luxury was saved. Attempts at making alcohol born from a few saved internet videos and books are spread around. Instruments are numerous—talented people playing them, not so much.

A raid on the city happened two days prior, yielding enough resources to splurge for a day or two. Unfortunately for humans, they evolved past the point of just looking for basic necessities. They need something to strive for, a dream, some form of ambition.

A person who doesn't wait for tomorrow with bated breath will not fight tooth and nail; they will give their all but never surpass their limits. Humans need a reason to push beyond their boundaries, a cause to rally around. Without that, they're just existing—alive, but not truly living.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The residents of Green Springs gave me the common casual "hello," with the odd ones giving me a salute.

The street is mostly clean now, any signs of the plant infection are gone. Yet the trauma ran so deep that if a single flower dared to bloom within the restored walls of the complex, it was scorched and salted. I think that is overboard. The original plants were a threat because of how quickly they expanded when the world ended; after their apocalypse-aided growth spurs, they still grew quite quickly, but more like moss— possible to deal with without such drastic measures. The real threats were sure to be growing in the wider city, slowly spreading.

Thinking about it, nostalgia hits. Slight nostalgia. Nothing major.

A dozen people stand on the walls; half laze off while the rest keep watch for danger. A routine set early on to not overwork the limited force at the cost of a higher chance of a surprise.

No words are needed, just a hand gesture and the ones paying attention call the others. Together, they pull on the ropes that control the gate.

The gate system is a scrappy yet effective piece of engineering. A series of ropes are threaded through old pulleys salvaged from the nearby industrial district. The pulleys are mounted on wooden frames reinforced with metal scraps. When the ropes are pulled, they rotate a set of gears connected to the heavy metal gate, lifting it slowly but steadily.

It takes a coordinated effort to operate the system. Four people pull on each side, their combined strength necessary to lift the gate. The ropes creak under the strain, and the pulleys groan, but the system holds. The gate rises inch by inch, revealing the world beyond the walls of Green Springs.

With the gate less than halfway, I lean down and swiftly leave Green Springs. "I'm through!" I warn, and the gate falls loudly, lifting a plume of dust and making my bones shake.

My first breath after straightening myself feels... loaded. A slight shakiness is mercilessly dealt with by another portion of the pills.

Shaking my head, I take the first step into the unknown.

+++

The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying vegetation. Every step on the old asphalt takes me deeper into a world that has reclaimed its territory from humanity.

In the heart of the city, I pass through curtains of ivy and vines. Buildings here have bent and twisted but not collapsed, creating sinuous shapes where greenery hangs like cascading curtains. The plants drape delicately over the human structures, hiding the rusting cars, broken roads, gushing pipes of waste, and bone piles in a veil delicate like a wedding dress.

The ground beneath my feet is soft, almost sponge-like, from layers of moss and creeping vines. Each breath I take is choked with the smell of overgrown flora. Massive roots coil around the skeletal remains of cars and buses, their bark rough and gnarled. The buildings not devoured by greenery have their once-clear windows now opaque with grime.

I make my way cautiously, every rustle and creak demanding my attention. The sounds of the city, once cars and overlapping voices are now the constant hum of insects and the occasional distant roar of some unknown creature.

A sudden movement catches my eye, and without hesitating I crouch before jumping inside a car devoured by fern.

Slowly, I lift my torso to peek through the leaves, barely spotting the creature hidden between the layers of green. It's the run-of-the-mill abomination; a massive, insectoid beast with iridescent wings and long, spindly legs. It moves with grace while its antennae twitch in search of prey.

I take slow breaths and stay as still as humanly possible while pulling one of the smoke grenades from the side of the backpack.

The creature pauses, its head tilting as if listening. After what feels like an eternity, it skitters away, disappearing into the shadows. I let out a shaky breath, my neck and core hurting from the awkward position I stood in.

I stifle a scream when a hardy flower growing from one of the vines swings, hitting my eye.

After escaping the green curtains, and navigating the overgrown streets for a few more hours, I finally reach the edge of the city, where the urban jungle gives way to an actual forest, a dense, sprawling stretch of trees and undergrowth stretching out into the horizon.

I actually freeze at the sight.

It's far from my first time being here, but it's my first time choosing to go inside the green hell, and that seems to change the forest. I know it's the same, but it doesn't feel the same, it feels more treacherous, more dangerous, more enigmatic.

Even if the danger is the same as the city, the city offers familiarity, and familiarity creates comfort. No matter how decrepit or overrun with nests and vines an arcade is, you'll see it hidden beneath the layers of the apocalypse through the power of your wanting to see it. If you want, any hill can be Everest in your eyes.

Before the world ended I wanted to see more of the world, to really live, to travel and explore. But traveling is not simple. Traveling is expensive, you need to make sure you have money to not sleep on the streets and feed yourself. Explore more so with the notion of private property, plots of land, pieces of the earth that are owned and you can't step in.

The safety offered were weights and the chains of the rules created the best for the average, for the common man, or at least that's how it was sold.

Rules and regulations create a status quo, creating a sense of safety since change is frightening. Fear is the monster carving its home in the old bones of the powerful. But in this new world, you can be as selfish as you want. There's no need to worry about paying for food, you can scavenge for it— even if your food tries to eat you instead. There's no need to act 'civil', you can shoot first and act question later, or just force your way to what you want.

It's the purest freedom, both for the good and the terrible.

My hands shake, subconsciously snaking to my pocket, yearning for another handful of nerve stabilizers.

"Lower the dosage, noted," I whisper, stopping my hands. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, pulling air until my chest puffs out and my lungs burn.

I hold it, letting the searing sensation travel from my lung, to my throat, my mouth, and to the rest of my body. I use the pain to forget my nerves. Only when my head feels light, the world starts wobbling and my nerves quell, do I let it out.

"A last coffee," I tell myself. "One more cup, one last meal at my favorite place and I'll be regretless."