The hot wind swept through the hollow town as they stepped off the cracked pavement. Lucas gave one last glance down the strip before turning to his team.
"Alright. I'll handle the pharmacy. Ethan, Maurice—you're on the hardware. David, Dylan—convenience store up the road, see if there's anything left that hasn't rotted or walked off."
"Copy that," David said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder.
"Be careful," Lucas added, already crossing toward the shattered glass doors of the drugstore.
The teams peeled off.
Inside the convenience store, the door jingled mockingly as Dylan pushed it open, tomahawk in hand. The place smelled like expired deli meat, motor oil, and dust. Coolers were long dead, shelves half-picked but still cluttered. David grunted, nudging aside a fallen snack rack. "Man… remember Slurpees?"
Dylan kept moving, eyeing the darkened back corner. "I remember brain freezes. Ain't worth the pain."
David snorted. "You ever enjoy anything?"
"Quiet's pretty nice," Dylan muttered, thumbing a dusty can of baked beans. "Still better than the people tryin' to kill ya out there."
Behind the counter, a shriveled hot dog spun in a frozen loop on a long-dead roller grill. David stared at it like it owed him money. "I don't know whether to cry or salute."
Dylan smirked. "Leave it. Might be the last thing left holdin' the line."
David swept a few unopened protein bars into his pack. "Find anything with caffeine and I'll name my firstborn after you."
"I'll pass," Dylan grumbled. "Don't need a kid named Monster Ross runnin' around."
At the hardware store, Maurice lifted a crowbar triumphantly. "Now we're talkin'."
Ethan crouched by a shelf of batteries, sorting through them. "If they ain't corroded, grab 'em all. We're low."
Maurice gestured to a dusty box of Christmas lights. "Bet I could rig these into a motion alarm."
Ethan looked up. "Or a rave."
"Look, man, just 'cause the world ended don't mean we can't have style." Maurice added.
A clatter echoed from deeper in the store. Both men froze. Maurice tightened his grip. "Please be a squirrel."
Back at the pharmacy, Lucas methodically scanned labels, sweeping shelves with precision. He found antibiotics, gauze, and a single bottle of children's aspirin. He tucked it all into his duffel like gold.
In the silence, he paused—staring at a cracked photo frame someone had left behind. A woman and child, frozen mid-laugh. He sighed, then pushed deeper inside The group scavenged separately, but their footsteps still echoed like a single heartbeat across the bones of the city—trying to find something useful in the ruin, or at least, something normal.
From the back corner of the hardware store, just past a collapsed aisle of plastic bins and paint cans, a low guttural groan rippled through the silence.
Ethan froze mid-step, flashlight trembling slightly in his grip. "You heard that?" Maurice muttered, already lifting the crowbar he'd tucked into his belt.
"Yeah," Ethan whispered, eyes narrowing toward the shadows. "Back left."
They both edged toward the aisle. The groan cracked again—louder this time, sharper, like gravel being forced through lungs. Then a shriek. Jagged and high-pitched.
Ethan barely raised his weapon before something launched from the darkness—a blur of limbs and a tattered green work uniform, mouth stretched open and teeth wet. The thing slammed into the shelving unit between them, scattering screws and nails in every direction.
"Shit!" Maurice swung wide with the crowbar, metal ringing out as it connected with the side of the shrieker's skull—but it barely flinched.
It whipped around toward him, fingernails like broken glass as it lunged. Ethan stepped in fast, jamming a steel flashlight into its jaw and twisting hard. The zombie screamed, too fast, too alive for something that dead.
Maurice got behind it and hauled back—his crowbar catching under its throat, yanking it off balance. The shrieker flailed, nearly dragging him down with it. Ethan grabbed the side of a shattered shelving rack and kicked off, ramming his shoulder into the zombie's chest and slamming it flat to the ground.
"Get it—get it now!" Ethan barked. Maurice raised the crowbar high and drove it down—once into the skull. Then again. And again.
The zombie stilled, twitching once before finally going slack. Both men stood there panting, the stench of old meat and rust thick around them.
Maurice wiped his brow with a shaky breath. "Tell me that was the only one." Ethan didn't answer right away—just kept his flashlight trained on the dark corner it came from. "Better hope so," he said. "Or we're gonna need more crowbars."
They exchanged a glance, breaths still shallow, before edging toward the dark corner where the shrieker had burst out.
Ethan kept his flashlight trained forward while Maurice nudged open a crooked door with his crowbar. The hinges groaned but gave way, revealing a small storage room choked with shadows and rusted metal.
Inside, the air was stale—cloying with oil, old sweat, and death.
The shelves were stacked wall-to-wall with tools. Cordless drills, hammers, bolts, tightly packed boxes of screws. Buckets full of nails, coils of wire, broken locks, duct tape, even a roll of chain. There were signs someone had been living here—at least trying to. A food wrapper or two, a stained mattress pad in the corner, a cracked thermos.
Maurice knelt, picking up a rusted wrench near the door. "Damn," he muttered. "Dude tried to hold out in here."
Ethan ran his beam across the walls—saw wood slats hastily nailed across the door frame and windows, most of them torn off from the inside. "He fortified this," he said, voice lower now. "Must've gotten trapped. Starved maybe… then turned."
Maurice slowly stood, jaw tight. "We just put down a guy who thought this place was his last shot."
Ethan didn't speak, just took a knee beside the corner where some unopened packs of batteries and an undisturbed tool bag lay. "He stocked all this… and still didn't make it."
Maurice nodded slowly. "Well. Guess we make it count."
They started quietly gathering what was still good. The room wasn't just salvage now—it was someone's last stand. And that meant the gear here deserved to be used for something better.
The sun hung low, Dylan dropped the last dented can of beans onto the bed of the truck with a quiet clunk.
"That's it?" Maurice asked, eyeing the pitiful haul.
"Unless you're into moldy pickles and expired peanut butter," David muttered, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist.
"Bean buffet it is," Ethan said, half-sarcastic as he tossed a bundle of coiled wire next to a box of tools. "We'll dine like kings."
Lucas stepped back from the tailgate, scanning the gear they'd laid out—tools, a few medical supplies, and enough hardware to build half a shelter. He gave a short nod, then looked to the sky.
Sunlight was slipping. Not gone yet, but fading fast. "Get it packed," he said. "We head downtown next. Try and sweep a couple more blocks before we lose light."
"Downtown?" Dylan muttered, eyes narrowing. "Risky at this hour."
Lucas didn't look at him. "Then we move fast. And smart."
David clapped a hand on Dylan's shoulder as he climbed into the passenger seat. "C'mon. Could be worse. Could be stuck with a guy who only found beans."
Dylan grunted. "Say that again when we're eatin' 'em cold."
They shut the tailgate and climbed aboard, engine rumbling low. Downtown was waiting—and if luck held, so were more supplies.
But luck hadn't exactly been a loyal companion.
The sun started to set in the sky as it glared at the remnants of downtown as Dylan moved through the wreckage, his tomahawk slung over his shoulder. Alongside Lucas, David, Ethan, and Maurice, they picked through abandoned cars, looted houses, and the remnants of lives once lived. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of scavenging movements and the wind whispering through the empty streets.
They split up to cover more ground, Dylan finding himself drawn to one house that stood slightly apart from the others. It was small, its front door hanging ajar, the lawn overgrown with weeds. Stepping inside, he was greeted by the musty scent of decay and dust, his boots echoing on the worn wooden floor. He made his way through the house, his sharp eyes scanning for anything useful.
He moved through with practiced caution. He swept the living room, then the kitchen—nothing but silence and dust. He moved to the stairs, tomahawk strapped tight in his grip, senses sharpened.
A low thumping sound echoed from upstairs—followed by a faint, guttural groan. He paused.
Footsteps slow, deliberate, Dylan ascended the staircase. The thumping grew louder—irregular and wet, like something soft hitting wood. At the end of the hallway, a door stood shut, the paint peeling and edges chipped.
He approached, ear against the wood. The groaning was clearer now. Soft… almost childlike. He drew his double-headed tomahawk, flipping the grip. The doorknob creaked as he twisted it slowly. Hinges protested as he inched the door open.
Then, a zombie lunged—fast and shrieking. Small frame, tangled hair, jaw unhinged.
Dylan stumbled back, barely ducking as the thing hurled into him. They crashed against the hallway wall. He grunted, twisting hard, jamming the blunt end of the tomahawk between its teeth. It snapped and clawed, its tiny fingers reaching for his throat.
He roared, shoved it off, and with a brutal pivot, he kicked the walker straight through the banister.
It toppled. A sickening crunch from the first floor—then silence. Dylan backed up a step, heaving, chest rising.
Then—thud. The little girl's body twitched. Twisted. Stood. Bones clicking into place as it faced the stairs. And then it ran. Up the steps like a demon on fire, limbs scraping, feet pounding.
Dylan didn't flinch this time. He stepped forward—let it leap. And as it did, he swung clean. The tomahawk arced through the air with a sick crack.
The zombie dropped mid-lunge. The zombie's head hit the hardwood with a wet crack, its body collapsing behind it.
Then, one slow step forward. He crouched, tomahawk still gripped in one hand. Then with the other, he pulled his throwing knife. No sound. No curse. No prayers. He drove the blade clean through the base of the skull.
The groaning stopped.
He stayed there a moment, crouched in the silence, hand still on the hilt. Blood pooled near the ribbon in her hair. Then he stood, wiped the blade clean on his sleeve, and gave the little girl one last look before heading to the little girl's room.
He stepped inside and let his gaze sweep over the bedroom. The bed was bloody, toys scattered around the room. A picture frame lay facedown on the desk beside the bed, Dylan reached out, turning the frame over carefully. The photo was faded, but he could make out the smiling face of the little girl he just killed. "I'm sorry lil' girl". He whispered.
Among the clutter, his eyes landed on a music box lying open, its mechanism exposed and broken. He crouched down, reaching for it with tentative hands. Inside the box, a small figurine of a mermaid stood frozen mid-dance, her long, flowing hair and green tail eerily reminiscent of Yve. The thought of Yve and her upcoming birthday lingered in his mind, warming him in a way he didn't fully understand.
Slipping the music box into his backpack, Dylan stood and moved through the room, his focus returning to the hunt for supplies. He didn't know why he'd taken it, only that it felt… right.
Back at the VIRA Complex, the group gathered around their haul, sorting through the items and planning their next steps. Dylan kept to himself, sitting alone in a corner as he pulled the music box from his pack. He turned it over in his hands, his fingers brushing against the worn edges, it was broken, but not beyond repair.
He studied the mechanism carefully, his sharp eyes picking out the problem areas. It would take some work, but it could be fixed. Rising from his seat, he approached Dr. Jenkins, who was sorting through medical supplies. "Got a toolkit?" he asked gruffly, holding up the box.
Jenkins glanced at him, then at the music box, his brow furrowing slightly. "What's that?"
"Just need some tools, alright?" Dylan said, his tone brusque but not unkind.
With a nod, Jenkins handed him what he needed, and Dylan retreated to his corner, the music box and tools spread out before him. He worked quietly, his focus intense as his hands moved with surprising dexterity as he adjusted, cleaned, and reassembled the fragile pieces. The hours slipped by unnoticed as the rest of the group settled in for the night, their voices fading into the background.
Dylan stayed up long after the others had gone to sleep. He was determined to fix the damn thing. It wasn't much, but it felt important somehow—a way to say something he couldn't quite put into words.
The day of Yve's birthday began like any other, except It wasn't—not for Dylan.
The hum of old power still echoed faintly in Sector B17—VIRA's sunken Mobility Wing. It had once been a sanctuary of machines, sealed under reinforced concrete and lined with military vehicles. Now, tactical Humvees sat in rows like fossilized beasts.
Ethan and Derek crouched next to a dusty Reclaimer unit, elbows deep in the chassis. Their hands were slick with oil and rust, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed like they were trying to put the apocalypse back together with socket wrenches.
Dylan stepped in, boots echoing off polished steel flooring. He looked around—not at the machines, but at the grid panel near the back wall. "Where're the keys we cleared?" He asked, voice sharp but even.
Derek didn't look up. "Back panel. Above the biometric rack. Don't mess up the order—I just got 'em untangled after Maurice dropped 'em like a bowl of spaghetti."
Dylan found the grid. His eyes flicked past models until they stopped. "Which one's for the SilentHawk Hybrid?"
Derek stood, cracking his back. "Black tag, chipped on the corner. Looks like it lost a fight with a grinder. Should be third row, left column."
Dylan grabbed it, the metal still cool to the touch. The SilentHawk sat in the far end of the Mobility Wing, matte black under the flickering overheads, like it was holding its breath all this time.
Dylan slid into the driver's seat and shoved the key into the ignition slot side. The engine ignited and roared to life, the kind of sound that whispered stealth and promise.
The heads-up display glowed pale green, scanning boot protocols.
[VIRA-SH1: HYBRID MODE — ACTIVE]
[LAST SYNCED: 21 DAYS AGO]
[MODS INSTALLED: CUSTOM STEALTH MUFFLER · MANUAL OVERRIDE PLATE · FRONT CAM OFFLINE]
[CHARGE: 83% — AUTONOMY: 207km]
He rolled his jaw and shifted the vehicle into idle, tapping once on the internal console. The engine leveled out—barely audible now. Just then, heavy boots echoed behind him. Lucas stepped around the front bumper, the glow from the dash caught the edge of his face. "You going somewhere?"
Dylan didn't flinch. He kept one hand on the steering wheel, eyes forward like the road was already under him. "Test drive," he said. "Gotta make sure the SilentHawk still deserves the name."
Lucas didn't buy it—not fully. His brow lifted, but he didn't push. Just nodded once and stepped back.
Dylan gripped the wheel tighter. He wasn't test-driving anything. He was going to Yve.
His first stop was at a department store, long abandoned and half-collapsed from years of neglect. The aisles were chaotic, clothes scattered everywhere, but Dylan sifted through the mess. He grabbed a mix of items—shirts, dresses, jackets, even a pair of women's sneakers—choosing entirely based on practicality rather than style. The combinations were… unique, to say the least. Fashion critics would weep if fashion still had any relevance in this world, but Dylan didn't care. He figured Yve wouldn't either, seeing as human clothes were entirely new to her.
At one point, he stood holding a bright pink dress adorned with flowers, his expression twisted in uncertainty. "What the hell do women even wear?" he muttered to himself, shoving it into the pile despite his hesitation. He couldn't dress properly himself, let alone pick out clothes for someone else. Still, he figured more options were better than none, and he left with far too many items stuffed into a worn duffle bag.
Next, he made his way to one of the abandoned houses nearby, moving low and quiet. He cleared each room like muscle memory—checking corners, testing floorboards, making sure nothing was waiting to lunge.
Once satisfied it was empty, he stepped into the bathroom. The mirror was fractured into three pieces, dust coating the sink. His reflection stared back—sun-bruised skin, blood crusted at his temple, hair wild from wind and sweat.
With a sigh, he set his tomahawk down and turned the faucet handle. Nothing. A hollow clunk, then silence.
Of course.
He traced the pipes down through the wall, followed them outside to where the rain tank leaned crooked against the side of the house. The gutter above was rusted but intact. Someone, years ago, had rigged a basic catchment setup—hose clamped to a filter barrel feeding into the main line.
Dylan crouched and worked on the pressure valve. The filter was jammed, line clogged with leaves and silt. He found a rusted utility knife in the shed out back and used it to scrape the gunk free. Then he rewired a broken clamp with copper wire from an old radio cord.
After a few minutes and a dozen muttered curses, he cracked the valve open. The pipes groaned to life, first a choke, then a trickle, then a steady stream humming back through the walls like the house was trying to breathe again.
Back inside, Dylan turned the faucet once more. Water spilled out, cold and clear. He let out a half-laugh. "Damn thing's still got some fight."
The shower was colder than expected, almost punishing, but it stripped the stink of rot and ash from his skin. He muttered to himself as he scrubbed down. "Can't believe I'm doin' this…" But beneath it, there was a flicker of something unfamiliar—comfort.
When he finished, he toweled off with a sun-bleached curtain and started rummaging through drawers for anything to pack the music box. In the back of a hallway closet, beneath a tangle of wires and moldy linens, he found an old gift bag. Faded stars on the front. The string handles were still intact.
He wrapped the box in a torn silk pillowcase, slipped it inside the bag, put on some fresh clothes, and zipped up his pack. Then he loaded everything onto the SilentHawk.
Time to ride.
By the time he arrived, it was an hour before afternoon. Parking his ride at a distance, he spotted Yve sitting on the dock, already waiting for him. She was sorting through the fish she'd caught, her tail gleaming under the sun as it swayed gently. From afar, Dylan smiled faintly, though his stomach churned with nerves. The bag felt heavy in his hands, not because of its weight but because of the thought behind it. For someone like Dylan, expressing sentiment was as foreign as wearing a suit and tie, and he couldn't help but overthink every detail.
He crouched behind a pile of driftwood, hiding as he watched her. "Damn it," he muttered, gripping the gift bag tightly. "How the hell am I supposed to—" He groaned quietly, running a hand over his face. Practicing how to give the gift seemed like the only logical solution.
"Happy birthday, Yve," he mumbled under his breath, mimicking handing the bag over. "Gotcha this. Hope ya like it." His voice sounded stiff, almost robotic, and he scowled at himself. "Nope. Sounds dumb."
For the next few minutes, Dylan continued his impromptu rehearsal, alternating between crouching and pacing behind the driftwood. Each attempt was worse than the last, ranging from gruff mutters to barely coherent mumbling. At one point, he paused mid-practice and let out a frustrated grunt. "Ain't a damn speech," he grumbled. "Just hand it over, Pierce."
Finally, after thoroughly embarrassing himself in front of no one, he pushed himself up and trudged toward the dock. As he approached, he clutched the gift bag tightly, still debating whether this was the dumbest thing he'd ever done. But deep down, he knew—it mattered. And Yve, well… she mattered too.
Yve turned her head slightly, catching sight of him as he approached. Her expression lit up, if her eyes sparkling like the sea itself. "Dylan!" she called out, her excitement palpable. She pushed herself up slightly on her hands.
Dylan took a deep breath. The gift bag hung from his fingers, but suddenly it felt heavier than it should have—like it carried something he wasn't quite ready to hand over. His nerves pressed in.
Then his eyes dropped to the side.
A small mountain of fish lay on the dock near her—glistening, mismatched, and way too many for a casual catch. Different kinds, too. Some of them bigger than his forearm. "…That normal?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the pile as he approached. "This ain't your usual catch. You run a seafood racket while I was gone?"
Yve looked up while her hands are sorting through the fishes, eyes gleaming. "What?"
He gestured. "That. You usually catch just enough to feed us, not… stock a market stall."
She grinned. "Well… if I'm gonna meet your friends or your family, I need to make sure they like me right away."
Dylan stared at her, blinking once. "By smothering 'em in fish."
"Exactly," she said proudly.
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Gonna give someone a heart attack with kindness at this rate."
Yve tilted her head. "If it works, it works."
Dylan scratched the back of his neck, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He took a slow step forward. Yve tilted her head, her curiosity evident as she studied him. "You alright?" she asked, her voice gentle but laced with amusement. "You seem… nervous."
"Nervous? Nah," Dylan replied quickly, too quickly. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away as he tried to gather his thoughts. "Just…still ain't used to all this." He gestured vaguely toward her, the dock, the whole situation, as if that explained anything.
Yve laughed softly, her melodic voice only making his heart pound harder. "All this?" she echoed, her lips curving into an amused smile. "You mean… me?"
Dylan grunted in response, he shifted awkwardly, the bag still hidden behind him, as he tried to muster up the courage, he knew he didn't have. "Look, I, uh…" He cleared his throat, his fingers tightening around the bag's handle. "I… brought you somethin'. For… for your birthday."
Her eyes widened slightly, the warmth in her expression deepening. "You did?" she asked, her voice tinged with surprise and delight.
Dylan nodded stiffly, still avoiding her gaze. His jaw clenched as he finally brought the bag out from behind him. "Here," he mumbled, his voice barely above a grumble. "Take it. It ain't much, but… just take it."
Yve reached out slowly, her fingers brushing against his as she took the bag. Her smile brightened. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice filled with genuine appreciation. She glanced down at the bag, then back up at him. "You didn't have to."
"Yeah, well," Dylan muttered, rubbing the back of his neck again as he looked anywhere but at her. "Figured I'd… I dunno. Just figured."
She laughed again, a sound that sent warmth flooding through him despite his best efforts to ignore it. "You're full of surprises, Dylan Pierce," she said, her tone light but sincere.
He huffed, sitting back slightly as he crossed his arms. "Yeah, yeah. Don't make a big deal outta it," he grumbled, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Yve held the bag close, her gaze softening as she watched him. She hadn't even opened the gift yet, but it was clear that the gesture alone meant more to her than the contents ever could. And though Dylan would never admit it, the way her smile lingered on him made all the awkwardness, the overthinking, and the nerves more than worth it.
Yve pulled the gift bag closer, her curiosity evident in the way her eyes narrowed slightly, studying the mysterious object inside. She reached in and carefully pulled out the music box, tilting her head as she examined it. The intricate design caught the light, glinting faintly in the afternoon sun.
"What is this?" she murmured, more to herself than to Dylan, turning it over in her hands. She shook the box gently, listening to the faint rattle of its inner mechanism. Her brow furrowed in concentration, her cautious yet intrigued expression making Dylan smirk despite himself.
He leaned back slightly, watching her with an amused glint in his eyes. "Ain't gonna bite you," he said, his voice carrying a hint of teasing.
Yve glanced at him, a playful pout forming on her lips. "It's just… odd. Human objects are strange." But there was no mistaking the faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she turned her attention back to the box, determined to figure it out.
Dylan couldn't help but chuckle under his breath. He pushed himself closer, settling down beside her. "Here," he said gruffly, reaching out. "Lemme show you."
She handed it to him without hesitation, her wide, curious eyes fixed on his every move. Dylan's calloused hands worked with surprising care as he turned the tiny key on the back of the box. The soft click-click-click of winding filled the air before he set it down gently between them.
"Now watch," he muttered, leaning back slightly. The music box began to play, its delicate tune, as the melody unfolded, the tiny mermaid figurine inside began to twirl, her long hair and green tail moving in graceful arcs. Yve's eyes lit up instantly, her face breaking into a radiant smile that could have rivaled the sun itself.
Her hands clapped together lightly, and she let out an excited laugh. "It moves! And… the sound! It's beautiful!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with awe. She tilted her head, the melody seeming to carry her thoughts elsewhere before she turned back to Dylan, her eyes sparkling. "I love it."
Dylan felt a warmth spread through him at her reaction, though he quickly looked away. "It ain't nothin'," he muttered under his breath. "Just figured… you might like somethin' human. First gift and all."
Yve's smile grew impossibly brighter, her excitement bubbling over as she impulsively leaned toward him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a tight hug. "Thank you, Dylan," she said softly.
Dylan froze. Completely, utterly froze. Her touch was warm, her arms firm yet gentle as they encircled him. His brain short-circuited, his heartbeat skyrocketing as if it had a mind of its own. He didn't know what to do—return the hug? Pull away? Say something? Instead, he just sat there, stiff as a board, his wide eyes staring blankly into the horizon. The music box continued to play its soft tune, the notes drifting around them.
When Yve finally pulled back, her smile was as radiant as ever, though she seemed unaware of the absolute turmoil she'd left him in. Dylan cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting in place as he avoided her gaze. "You're, uh… you're welcome," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
But deep down, despite all the confusion and the rapid pounding of his heart, he couldn't help but think that the moment was perfect—romantic in a way he'd never have imagined for himself.
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Author's note;
This chapter was a big one—action, heartbreak, and a little awkward romance. I wanted to show Dylan's growth not through grand speeches, but through small, quiet choices: fixing something broken, picking out a gift, letting someone in.
A broken music box. A girl who shouldn't have lived. A gift Dylan never thought he'd give.
What do you think matters more in the apocalypse—what you fight for, or who you remember?
Next chapter… the water gets deeper.