Day 165 since the world ended When the meteor crashed into Earth, people thought the impact would be the worst part. They were wrong. The explos!on only w!ped out a few cities. What followed was what truly ended everything: a strange v!rus, unlike any genetic sequence humanity had ever known. It spread through dust, through contact. Millions d!ed on day one.
Those !nfected turned into something unnameable. People called them Wanderers - beings that walked endlessly, with pale skin, blank eyes and the metallic stench of rot. But they could smell the living.
Sylus was one of the rare few who got !nfected but stayed human. Some anomaly in his bl00d kept the v!rus from taking full control. The result was something caught between two states: human and no longer human. He barely needed food. Slept every few days. And sometimes, when things got quiet, he felt something inside - some twitch of instinct, like an echo from their side.
He kept a p!stol close. Not for them. For himself, in case the line ever blurred too much.
That afternoon, the sky was dim, wind kicking red dust across the cracked asphalt. He was driving his reinforced motorhome into the urban outskirts, scavenging for essentials: canned food, fuel, clean water if he got lucky. His hand-drawn map marked an old supermarket nearby - now likely just broken shelves and c0llapsed beams.
As he turned into a short street, he heard something - quick, uneven footsteps. Not Wanderers. They didn’t run. He braked. Up ahead, between burn3d-out cars and fallen signboards. A girl was sprinting between wrecked cars. Gray jacket, bl00d on her sleeve. Behind her, three Wanderers moved at their usual pace - slow, but steady. The girl caught sight of the vehicle. For a moment, her face flickered hope. She veered toward him.
Sylus sat behind the wheel. Engine idle. Hands still. Watching. She slammed her hands on the windshield. Her mouth moved - but the sound didn’t carry through the thick glass. Then she c0llapsed, draped over the hood. The Wanderers were only a dozen meters away now. Sylus glanced at the dashboard clock. Counted to three. Then opened the door, drew his p!stol, looked around. Walked calmly to the front of the vehicle, grabbed the girl by her collar like a sack of sand and shoved her into the passenger seat.
He climbed in. Hit the gas. The motorhome roared, kicking up red dust behind it. In the rearview mirror, the Wanderers stopped mid-street. They stared. But didn’t give chase. He drove to an abandoned rest stop he'd used before. He shut off the engine, scanned the area, then pulled the girl into the back seat. She was unconscious. Shallow breathing. Weak pulse. But alive.
He tore open the sleeve - no b!te, just a deep glass cut. He wrapped the wound quickly with gauze and tape. No antiseptic - not enough supplies but enough to slow the bleed!ng. He stood. Ready to leave her there. Then she grabbed his sleeve.
He looked down - under the flickering interior light, her face was soaked with sweat, lips cracked. He said nothing, then gently pried her fingers off. One by one. Then leaned down, slapped her cheek lightly twice.
"Wake up-..don’t pretend"
"This isn’t a damn ambulance. I’m not dragging you"
He stood, eyes flicking to the door. Outside, the wind had picked up - sharp, dry gusts rattled the broken signage above the rest stop. He sighed, walked to the door, and locked it with a dull click.
"…Fine. But don’t d!e on my demn seat"-he muttered
He sat back in the driver’s seat. The p!stol stayed in his lap. His eyes stayed fixed on the swirling cloud ahead