Creak. Creak. Creak.
The door to the shelter groaned open, its hinges protesting every inch. As it swung wide, they were met with a grim sight: flickering lights and pools of congealed crimson blood. The metallic tang in the air clung to their nostrils, making their stomachs churn. It was a scene straight out of a nightmare—enough to unsettle anyone who had lived a normal life.
Silas glanced at Keith and Thomas, noting their pale faces and clenched jaws. He felt no relief in knowing they were just as disgusted as he was.
It had been hours since the noise—the event—that had shattered the world, and the bodies were starting to decompose. The floor was slick with serous drainage, better known as pus. "Jesus Christ…" Thomas muttered, his voice muffled by the hand covering his mouth. He was clearly fighting to keep his breakfast from joining the grotesque mess on the ground.
With the dim, flickering light barely illuminating the small building, the trio made a quick decision to stop exploring further. Not because they were heartless or unwilling to search for survivors, but because it was painfully clear: there was no one alive here. The silence was absolute, save for the occasional creak of unstable wood or the distant hum of wind outside.
As they continued their trek into the shattered city, the horrors only multiplied. Corpses littered the streets, their forms mangled and broken. At some point, the stench became unbearable. Keith and Thomas lifted their jackets to shield their noses, while Silas did his best to breathe shallowly.
"Should we check the houses?" Silas asked, his voice strained but steady. "They might have something useful—clothes, supplies, anything."
The suggestion wasn't uplifting, but it was practical. Breaking into the homes of the dead wasn't exactly a moral high ground, but survival had its own rules.
The brothers exchanged reluctant glances before nodding, and the trio made their way to a nearby house with a slightly cracked door.
Inside, the grim scene continued. A headless corpse slumped near the entryway, but something else caught their attention: a dog.
The animal sniffed at what was likely its owner's body, its tail drooping with an air of hopelessness.
A wave of sadness washed over them. Silas tightened his jaw and turned away, signaling to the others to leave quietly. The dog didn't need their pity—it needed time with its lost companion.
Back on the street, Keith broke the silence. "So… animals aren't affected?"
The question lingered, unanswered, as they pressed on. The sun dipped lower, casting the city in shades of orange and red. After half an hour of trudging through decay and ruin, they stumbled upon something unexpected: a school.
Silas hadn't thought he'd ever feel relieved at the sight of a school, but here he was. The trio circled the perimeter before cautiously entering.
Inside, the walls and lockers were streaked with blood, and the stairs were littered with teeth and brain matter, as if someone had painted a grotesque masterpiece. They ascended carefully, trying not to step on the mess.
Halfway up, a noise froze them in place.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Silas peered around the corner and spotted… a person. A living, breathing person. Their head was intact. They weren't clawing at their skin or screaming. Just a person, as ordinary as Thomas, Keith, and himself.
Overcome with relief, Silas called out. "H-Hey! You there!"
The person startled, whipping around to face them. His black, puffy hair bounced with the motion, and his expression was one of pure panic.
"There really are other peopl—"
The sound of a fist connecting with a jaw could be heard.
Before Silas could finish, the stranger's fist collided with his mouth, sending him sprawling back down the stairs. Blood splattered on the ground as Silas landed hard, the world spinning around him.
Silas hadn't been punched in over 20 years, and now he remembered why. The pain was sharp, his mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood. He groaned as Keith and Thomas rushed to his side, glaring at the young man who stood defensively at the top of the stairs.
"W-Who the hell are you guys?!" the stranger shouted, his fists still raised. He wore a school uniform, the emblem matching the one Silas had noticed downstairs. He was a student here.
"Don't sneak up on people like that! Especially not now!"
Thomas held up his hands in a calming gesture. "Wait, wait! We're just like you! It'd be stupid to hurt each other in a time like this."
The student hesitated, his fists lowering slightly as he stepped back. Silas, with Keith's help, got to his feet, spitting blood onto the floor. He winced but kept quiet, observing the stranger with growing curiosity.
'That punch wasn't random,' Silas thought. 'This kid has form. Probably an amateur fighter.'
The student finally relaxed, his shoulders dropping. "S-Sorry about that," he muttered. "I've been… on edge."
Thomas nodded. "It's understandable. We've all been through hell."
The student leaned against the wall, rubbing his arm nervously. "I… I heard this weird humming song. It was pleasant at first, but then—then everyone's heads just… popped. My teacher, my classmates—everyone. And then…" His voice cracked. "I was the only one left."
The trio exchanged uneasy glances.
"And when I tried to leave…" the student continued, "my body stopped working. I just collapsed. And I heard a voice. It said… 'Cleanse this world of filth. Only the worthy shall remain.'"
Silas's blood ran cold. He remembered hearing those exact words.
"You heard it too?!" Silas asked, his voice trembling with equal parts relief and dread.
The student nodded, his expression grim. "Yeah. I thought I was going crazy. I thought… I was going to die."
Feeling the fear of someone so hopeless and alone, Silas extended his hand. "I'm Silas Grayson. That's Thomas Redfield and Keith Redfield." He nodded toward the brothers, then looked back at the student. "And you?"
The student hesitated before shaking Silas's hand. "Warren Hale. And… sorry about earlier. Just don't sneak up on people again."
Silas bit back a retort, reminding himself that
Warren was just a kid—albeit a kid who could throw a mean punch.
Thomas interrupted the tension with a lighthearted comment. "Nice to meet you, Warren. Let's try to keep the punching to a minimum from now on, huh?"
Warren gave a small nod and gestured toward the stairs. "We should leave. There's nothing here for us."
As the four of them descended into the ruined city together, Silas felt a spark of hope.
…
Two years had passed.
The world was still far from the one they had lost, but humanity had proven its resilience. Survivors began to gather, and small communities emerged from the ruins like flowers pushing through cracks in concrete. Cities that had once been eerily silent now hummed with cautious hope, filled with people rebuilding in whatever ways they could. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
Silas stirred in his sleep, the distant murmur of voices drifting into his dreams—adults chatting, children laughing, and the sharp, rhythmic chime of an old alarm clock he had salvaged from an abandoned house. It was a peaceful backdrop, a stark contrast to the chaos of two years ago.
But it wasn't the alarm clock that woke him.
"Get up. We need to get ready," came Keith's familiar voice, calm but firm.
Joining the community had meant taking on responsibilities, and for Silas, Thomas, Keith, Warren, and a group of others, that meant venturing into the city to scavenge for livestock, supplies, or anything else the community might need. Livestock, especially, was a priority—animals that had escaped into the wild after The Collapse, as everyone had come to call it. It wasn't official, but it didn't need to be. The phrase was universal now, an unspoken rule of language.
Pulling the blanket from his body, Silas sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It had been a little over four months since he and the others joined this small survivor community, and though the adjustment was difficult, it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. "Life after the apocalypse" didn't always mean relentless despair, at least not when you weren't running from brain-eating zombies.
"I'm up… Jeez, what's the time?" Silas asked, his voice hoarse with sleep as he stretched.
"8:58 AM," Keith replied, already heading for the door. "Me and the others are waiting on you. Don't take all day."
The door clicked shut behind Keith, leaving Silas to shake off the last traces of grogginess. He slipped on a heavyweight jacket and a pair of durable jeans—both scavenged during one of his earlier raids. Life in the ruins meant clothing was more about practicality than style.
On the dresser beside him sat his watch, backpack, a map, and a dagger. The dagger always gave him pause. He'd never been in a fight before The Collapse, but survival demanded he carry it. The livestock wouldn't just walk up and surrender themselves, after all. Still, Silas rarely had the stomach to use it, usually leaving the others to take on the grim task of slaughtering the animals they managed to catch.
Taking a deep breath, Silas slung his backpack over his shoulder, strapped the dagger to his belt, and picked up the map. As he made his way to join the others, he couldn't help but think how strange life had become—rebuilding a semblance of society in a world that had fallen apart.
Opening the handmade map, Silas studied the city he had marked the night before. It was a rough sketch, patched together with scavenged maps and scribbled notes, but it served its purpose. Each dot and line told the story of a world forever changed.
The Collapse had wiped out governments almost overnight, leaving a power vacuum too vast to fill. Most officials perished, and those who survived were no longer in control.
Without central authority, survivors across the globe began claiming land, carving out territories in the ruins of the old world.
Here in Cinderhaven, the country that now encompassed all of North America, reminders of the past were everywhere.
Abandoned buildings loomed like skeletal remains of once-thriving cities. Rusting cars lined overgrown streets, and the relics of a forgotten era cluttered the landscape. It was a place where the old world was impossible to escape, and yet, people were determined to rebuild.
Silas's eyes flicked over the other regions marked on the map, territories he had only heard of in stories and rumors:
Norcrest, sprawling across Norway, Sweden, and Finland, was a land of unforgiving cold and brutal terrain. The survivors who called it home were said to be the strongest of them all, hardened by the icy wilderness and relentless winters.
Redmarsh, covering much of South America, was a swampy, overgrown expanse where rainforests merged with decayed farmland. Rich in resources but dangerous to traverse, its rivers flooded unpredictably, and its wildlife was just as hostile as the environment.
Lakefell, in Central Africa, was a region of immense lakes and lush greenery, scattered with ruins of ancient civilizations and makeshift shantytowns. The land teemed with life, both natural and human, making it a hub for those willing to adapt to its challenges.
Stormhollow, the coastal region of Southeast Asia, was a land battered by unrelenting storms. Survivors there lived in makeshift villages perched on higher ground, clinging to the remnants of coastal cities. For them, survival meant weathering both nature's fury and the scarcity of resources.
Ironhold, once Eastern Europe, had become a militarized stronghold. Fortified cities and rigid hierarchies dominated the landscape, where resources were controlled by an elite few who maintained order through fear and discipline. It was a place where the apocalypse seemed to have merely shifted the chains of power.
Lastly, there was Dunewatch, covering much of the Middle East. Almost nothing was known about this region. Its people were notoriously uncooperative, refusing contact with other territories. Stories painted them as strictly independent, with beliefs and goals so different from the rest of the world that peace seemed impossible.
Silas traced his finger back to the section of the map marked for Cinderhaven. He still wasn't used to the idea of "countries" being so dramatically reshaped, let alone the idea of territories forming without formal leadership. Each region's isolation and distrust of the others only deepened the fractures left by the Collapse.
Feeling ready, Silas stepped out of his room and into the open air of the bustling community. The familiar rhythm of life surrounded him—people walking to their tasks, hammering nails into makeshift structures, or sorting through scavenged supplies. They greeted him with nods or quick words, a simple acknowledgment of his presence as he made his way toward the group he would be venturing out with.
"Took you long enough," Keith said, his voice carrying that usual mix of teasing and impatience. He sat on an overturned crate, methodically sharpening his dagger with a focus that sent a shiver down Silas's spine. The sound of metal scraping against stone was sharp and deliberate, a reminder of the unspoken threats from their earliest days together.
Silas couldn't help but remember the conversation he overheard when they first met—the brothers, Keith and Thomas, standing over his unconscious body, debating whether to kill him if he showed any signs of being "off." The memory was faint now, but the chill it brought had a way of creeping back when he least expected it.
A familiar figure approached, pulling Silas from his thoughts. His fluffy black afro was unmistakable, standing tall like a crown, and his deep brown skin glowed faintly under the morning sun. Warren Hale trudged toward them with a stride full of slothfulness, his face twisted into a familiar scowl. Even from a distance, it was obvious he had just woken up—his half-lidded eyes and the grumpy way he rubbed them gave it away.
"You look thrilled to be here," Silas said with a faint smile as Warren joined the group, his mood as cloudy as the overcast sky.
Warren shot him a glare that spoke millions of words, each one more venomous than the last. His dark eyes narrowed into slits, and the intensity of his stare made it clear that if looks could kill, Silas would be six feet under. It's not that Warren disliked Silas or anyone for that matter.. he just wanted sleep.
Noticing that everyone was ready, the group began their descent into a nearby abandoned city. The city, once full of life, now lay in ruin, a shell of its former self. To reach it, they took the forest path that wound its way through the dense, overgrown woods. The forest was thick with the scent of earth and foliage, its shadows deepened by the canopy above. The sound of their footsteps was swallowed by the weight of the trees around them, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
As they walked, a flash of white caught Silas' eye—a small bunny, its fur almost glowing against the dark green of the underbrush. Its black eyes seemed wide and alert, but there was something wrong. The creature moved slowly, dragging one of its back legs behind it in an awkward, painful hop. The leg, twisted in an unnatural angle, looked like it had been broken—whether by an accident or some cruel predator, Silas couldn't tell.
Silas paused, kneeling down to the rabbit, his eyes softening. He reached out slowly, his fingers brushing gently against the rabbit's snow-white fur. The animal's body tensed for a moment, but as Silas continued to stroke it, the rabbit relaxed, its breaths becoming slower and more even. The poor thing, Silas thought, had probably been running on pure fear for days, never allowing itself to rest, its senses always on high alert for predators. He couldn't imagine the kind of terror it had endured.
"Poor thing… you must've been scared," Silas whispered, as if the rabbit could understand him. The creature blinked, then closed its eyes in a rare moment of peace. Its tiny body shivered for a second, then stilled entirely, succumbing to exhaustion. Silas watched, a pang of sympathy pulling at his chest. It was strange, how fragile life could be—how quickly something so small could be crushed by the weight of the world.
He could feel the weight of that moment in his bones, the heavy silence that followed as the rabbit slipped into a sleep it had long needed. But there was no time for sentiment. Silas' thoughts darkened as his hand moved to his side, fingers wrapping around the cold hilt of his dagger.
With a steady hand, he drove the blade into the skull of the animal, ending its suffering with a quick, efficient strike.
A quiet prayer escaped Silas' lips, barely disturbing the stillness of the forest. He pulled the dagger back, the finality of the action hanging in the air. The rabbit, once a symbol of innocence, now lay still in his hands. It was a harsh world—a truth Silas had learned long ago. Survival wasn't just about taking what was needed; sometimes it was about ending suffering, even if it broke your heart.
He stood, wiping the blade on his pant leg, his gaze lingering on the small creature for a moment. "Rest now," he muttered, before cradling the rabbit and walking back toward the group.
Thomas glanced up as Silas approached, raising an eyebrow when he handed over the rabbit. "Didn't think you had it in you. Looks pretty healthy. Should make a good meal." He nodded, satisfied. He examined it before coming to that conclusion.
Silas and the group continued their walk, the silence of the forest giving way to the stark sight of broken and crumbled buildings as they drew nearer. The remnants of a once-thriving city now lay in ruin, a testament to the collapse of the old world. Never did Silas expect the world to come to this—fractured, abandoned, and unrecognizable. But this was the reality they now lived in, and whether he was ready or not, he had no choice but to face it.