The siren wails in the distance, a hollow echo that barely pierces the dreamlike haze, the sound thick and muffled. Outside, the world burns in a painter’s smear of unreal red and orange, beautiful in its terrible stillness, like a memory half-forgotten. The TV that once showed gameshows, now replaced with an eerie broadcast. You watch as furniture shifts, and chairs get knocked down by scrambling bodies. You are suspended in chaos as your mother drifts through cabinets searching for a mug you made her in kindergarten. There is no urgency in the air, only a heavy, sinking feeling. You’re swept off your feet by your father, his grip, pulling you along a current you cannot fight, everything moving in slow motion. You feel yourself getting pushed into the back of your parent’s car, buckled in hastily.
**
Marrow woke with a gasp, the dream still clawing at his throat. He sat up in the dilapidated tent, sweat plastering his thin shirt to his back despite the pre-dawn chill. Decades after the collapse, humanity was a flicker, and the past was a nightmare he couldn’t escape.
Outside the tent, Morgan and Scott were already packing their meager gear at their makeshift camp. “You okay, Mar?” Morgan’s voice was soft, her eyes reflecting wisdom far beyond her years in this dying world.
“Yeah,” Marrow rasped, rubbing his face. “Same old.”
“Today’s the day,” Scott interjected, his focus already on the task ahead. “We spotted that grocery store yesterday. Might have something left.”
They set out, moving with the practiced quiet of survivors. The world around them was a testament to environmental reclamation—vines choked skeletal buildings, and wild grasses burst through cracked asphalt. The air still had the same stench of acid and rot. The silence of the end of an era was heavy.
The grocery store loomed, a concrete carcass overgrown with green. The automated doors were long dead, but a gaping hole in the wall served as an entrance. Inside, the air was stale, the silence broken only by the crunch of broken glass and the distant call of a scavenger bird.
They split up. Morgan headed for the pharmacy section, Scott to the back storage, and Marrow to the canned goods aisle. The shelves were mostly bare, a testament to the initial panic, but here and there, a forgotten tin sat like a treasure. Marrow’s eyes landed on a dented can of peaches.
“Found something!” he whispered into his comlink, the static echoing like a companion.
Suddenly, a guttural sound echoed from the back of the store—a language Marrow had never heard, a series of clicks and harsh syllables. They weren’t alone. This wasn’t an abandoned store; it was a camp for others.
Heavy breathing flooded his ears, Marrow stilled, glancing to his left. He caught a glimpse of a burly figure, wrapped in scraps of fabric. Its face was covered, but he could see a sliver of mangled skin and bulging eyes, free of eyelids. When they stepped closer, Marrow immediately snapped out of it and bolted out of the aisle.
“Abort mission!!” He yelled, making way for the door.
Morgan and Scott look over from where they are scavenging. Confused at first, they barely pay Marrow any mind. But when they see that…thing chasing after him, they rush to leave.
They fled, grabbing what little food they had found, their hearts hammering a frantic beat. The “people”—if they were even people—were fast and relentless. Their burned, unrecognizable faces bore twisted scars in ways that didn’t seem human. Marrow glanced back over his shoulder, almost tripping on cracked asphalt as he does. They were the Scorched, and their foreign language was a terrifying cacophony.
The trio reached a rundown neighborhood, the uniformity of the houses a ghost of the life that once was. They needed a plan, they needed protection. They ducked into a small, overgrown backyard and found a shed. The wood was rotted, but the hinges held firm. Inside was a treasure trove of forgotten items.
“Weapons,” Scott said, his voice urgent.
They scavenged quickly. Morgan found a claw hammer, its head heavy and reassuring. Scott pulled a rusty but sturdy garden hoe from a corner. Marrow’s eyes fell on a pristine, well-oiled machete, likely a pre-midnight survivalist’s prized possession. It felt balanced in his hand, a legacy of a different, more prepared time. The tools were weathered and rusty, but it would have to make do.
They made their way back to the grocery store. This wasn’t about just survival anymore; it was about pride, about not letting these creatures hoard what little was left.
The confrontation was brutal and swift. The three of them, armed with their makeshift weapons, faced the Scorched. The foreign language of their enemies filled the air, a war cry that was chilling and alien.
Marrow swung his machete, the steel singing as it met with bones. Morgan’s hammer found its mark, and Scott’s hoe kept their adversaries at bay. They fought with desperation born of a dying world. One by one, the Scorched fell.
As the last of the enemies lay still, an eerie quiet settled over the grocery store once more. They had won, but the victory felt hollow. They had food, yes, but they had also taken a life, ensuring the memory of violence that had still lived on in the quiet aftermath of humanity’s slow extinction. They looked at each other, the weight of the end of an era settling around them, finding only a grim peace, even knowing they would see another sunrise.
-Nazara Heath
