Rusty hated scavenging for medicine.
The hospital's entrance was barely holding together. Its glass doors had shattered long ago, leaving jagged edges like broken teeth. The lobby beyond was hollow and ruined, its tiled floors cracked and dusted in a fine orange layer. Old chairs lay scattered, some flipped over, their metal frames corroded and brittle. Ceiling panels sagged, wires spilling from open wounds in the roof. The air smelled of rust and something stale, like time had rotted along with the building.
Rusty stood beside her brother, Timothy, pressing bare fingers against his glove. His suit was layered, sealed, built for survival. A thick mask dulled his breath, slow and careful. Rusty's was thinner, looser. She never liked how they suffocated her, but now, with the rust spores thick in the air, she regretted it. The inside of her throat itched.
Neither of them spoke. Hospitals demanded silence.
They stepped inside. Each footstep crunched softly, kicking up flakes of glass. The reception desk sat abandoned, its computer nothing more than a rusted husk fused to the counter. A wheelchair stood frozen mid-roll near the hallway, its wheels locked in a crust of orange.
And the figures.
Unmoving, lining the walls. Some slumped in chairs. Others stood eerily still. Not bodies. Not exactly. Just remnants of what used to be people, their forms stiff and corroded, as if time had stopped mid-motion.
The hallway stretched in both directions, littered with rusted remains of stretchers and overturned wheelchairs. The figures were everywhere. Some stood, some slumped against the walls, others sat frozen in chairs as if still waiting for care. Corrosion had eaten through them, leaving them dark orange, almost brown, their forms brittle.
Rusty didn't stare too long. If you looked too closely, you'd notice the slight shifts—fingers trembling, jaws twitching, a shoulder subtly tilting out of place as if the body inside was still resisting.
A faded hospital map loomed ahead, its plastic cover peeling, grime streaking the once-clear layout. The emergency power left little light, so Timothy hesitated, then flicked on his flashlight.
A sharp, jerking motion snapped to their left.
Timothy shut the light off immediately. Both froze.
A figure that had been leaning against the wall twitched violently, like something inside had just woken up. It shuddered, its head tilting, but didn't move beyond that.
They waited.
Seconds passed. The hospital was silent again, save for the distant flickering of a failing light. Timothy exhaled shakily and turned the flashlight back on—briefly this time, just enough to catch the map.
His finger traced the layout. Pharmacy. Second left.
He nudged Rusty, and they moved.
The halls narrowed, closing in with more rust-streaked walls. The air was worse here—thicker with rust spores. Rusty tried to swallow the itch in her throat, resisting the urge to cough. More figures lined the way, positioned in unnatural stillness. Rusty guided their movements, her grip on Timothy tightening when she sensed danger, slowing him when a figure was too close.
Near the end of the hall, the metal shutters of the pharmacy loomed.
Rusty lifted a hand and wiped away the dust on the sign.
PHARMACY.
She pressed her palm against the handle and slowly turned it, testing for resistance.
Unlocked. That was good.
But as she pushed, the door barely budged. Something scraped beneath it—a layer of rust, thick and stubborn, grinding against the floor. She moved slower, forcing the door inch by inch, her breath tight in her chest.
Then, a creak.
Not loud, but enough.
She stopped. Listened.
Nothing.
She forced it open just enough for them to squeeze through. Any further, and the sound would get worse. Rusty slid inside first, twisting through the gap. Timothy followed, careful, his mask pressing against his face as he exhaled.
Inside, the air was still.
The fluorescent light overhead flickered, casting the room in uneven glows. Shadows shifted along the walls, making the empty shelves look even more stripped. It was clear—someone had been here long before them. The cabinets stood open, many already picked clean. The counter where a pharmacist might have once stood was empty, its drawers left ajar.
Scratches marred the locks of some cabinets—signs of past scavengers. A crowbar lay forgotten in a corner, its metal rusted over. Whoever had come before them had tried to get into everything.
Rusty exhaled, her shoulders finally relaxing. Timothy, still by the door, nudged it back into place—enough to keep them hidden, not enough to trap them.
They could whisper now.
Rusty knelt beside an overturned shelf, fingers brushing away dust and crumpled packaging. Most of the boxes were empty—ripped open, their contents long gone.
She whispered, "What was the name of the medicine?"
Timothy pulled out a folded piece of paper, smoothing it with gloved fingers. "Aspirin, paracetamol, and vitamin E." His voice barely carried. He pointed at the rough sketches their dad had made—little box outlines, labels, even the milligrams.
Rusty nodded, returning to her search.
It took time. Cabinets creaked as she pried them open. Some were already looted, others held expired pills or shattered bottles. Eventually, her fingers closed around a familiar box. She lifted it, brushing away grime.
Empty.
She set it aside and kept looking.
Minutes passed before she finally found something—aspirin, still sealed. She checked another cabinet and, after some careful digging, pulled out a pack of paracetamol. It wasn't much, but it was something. She passed them to Timothy, who carefully wrapped each in a silicon sheet before tucking them into his bag.
Then she whispered, "No vitamins."
Timothy frowned, glancing at the note again. His eyes skimmed the bottom, where their dad had scrawled an extra line:
If the vitamins aren't there, check the supply storage.
Rusty exhaled, glancing toward the back of the room. The pharmacy had another door—metal, rusted at the hinges. A faded sign above it read Storage Access – Authorized Personnel Only.
Figures.
The door groaned as Rusty eased it open. No light inside. Just black.
Timothy gave her his flashlight on. The beam cut through the dark, revealing rows of rust-eaten shelves. The air smelled sharp—metallic, stale. Dust curled in the light as Rusty stepped forward.
Everything was in disarray. Boxes split open. Glass vials shattered on the floor. Labels peeled, ink smudged beyond reading.
She moved slowly, her breath shallow behind her thin mask.
Fingers traced along the shelves. Rough textures. Empty pill bottles. Nothing.
Then—her hand closed around a plastic bottle.
Vitamin E.
She exhaled, just a little.
And then—
A weight in the air. A shift.
Rusty didn't hear it move. She felt it.
A crackle of rust. A slow, trembling twitch.
She twisted—
Something lurched out from between the shelves.
Not fast. Slow. A series of jerking spasms.
Its arms, brittle and stiff, twitched toward her in unnatural pulses. Its face—if it could be called that—was locked in a silent scream, rust flaking from its open mouth.
Then—the lunge.
A burst of sudden, violent motion.
Rusty dropped.
She hit the floor, the bottle slipping from her grip as the Rustling staggered past where she'd stood a second ago. A hand nearly grazed her, rough and cracking.
No time.
She grabbed the vitamins and bolted.
Light poured in from the pharmacy as she burst through the door, slamming it shut behind her.
Timothy jerked, half-risen from his spot.
She braced against the door, breath sharp. Hands shaking.
Then, under her breath—
"I hate hospitals."
Rusty shoved the bottle into Timothy's hands. A quick wave—let's move.
He nodded, slipping it into his bag.
They stepped out of the pharmacy, and Rusty pulled him back before he could take the lead.
Something felt off.
The hallway was the same. The flickering lights, the rust-eaten walls, the still air. But the figures—
The figures weren't where they were before.
She knew they weren't.
Rusty didn't speak.A sharp double chop of her hands—Timothy understood.
Dash.
She shifted first, making sure they had space—no tripping, no crashing into each other. Timothy adjusted his grip on his bag, holding it tight.
They moved. Slowly at first. Steady steps, measured.
Then—
Rusty felt it.
A cold twist in her gut. A presence, wrong and heavy, pressing against her spine.
Her body reacted before her mind did.
Run.
She bolted, Timothy just a half-second behind—
And then the rustlings moved.
Not all. Not in unison. But enough.
Figures that had been frozen lunged—some staggered, some fell, their bodies barely holding together. Limbs twisted, cracked, snapped apart as they jerked toward movement.
The slumped woman slammed forward, scraping against the tile. The seated man jerked upright, one arm flailing—
Rusty didn't look back.
The hall stretched too long, the exit too far. Timothy was right behind her, his breathing sharp under his mask.
Something collapsed behind them. A weighty, corroded thud.
The door—there—
Rusty hit it first. Pushed. It stuck—
Timothy slammed into her, shoving alongside—
A creak, a groan, and then the door gave.
They spilled outside.
Rusty barely caught herself. Timothy staggered, gripping his bag like a lifeline.
They turned—
Inside the hospital, behind the rusted glass, figures twitched.
One had fallen. Another tilted its head, slow and deliberate, watching.
The weight in the air hadn't lifted.
Rusty swallowed, breath shaking.
Then, without a word, she grabbed Timothy's wrist—
And they ran.