I stepped through the door, releasing it behind me. The heavy clunk of metal locking into place echoed louder than it should have. I didn't have time to think about that.
The sight ahead sucked the air from my lungs.
Buildings. Blocks of them. All made from the same worn, weather-beaten red brick. The town sprawled in every direction, its alleyways stretching like veins through the heart of some forgotten beast. Everything looked aged, battered, like it had been left to rot for decades. Shattered windows, crumbling rooftops, and streetlights that flickered like they were barely holding on.
"What the hell...?" I muttered, slowly turning in place.
For a moment, I thought maybe they'd let me go. Maybe I'd passed the test. This had to be a mistake, right? Wrong.
CLICK!
I spun around so fast I almost lost my footing. "Shit!" My hands flew to the door handle. I yanked. I yanked again. Nothing. Locked tight.
I slammed my palms against it, my breath wild and shallow. "No. No, no, no!" I pulled, twisted, threw my weight into it. Still nothing. Panic surged up my throat. "Crap, crap, crap..." My hands trembled against the cold steel. I'm trapped. I'm trapped.
Clenching my fists, I backed away, breathing deep, slow. "Get it together," I whispered, squeezing my hands so tight my knuckles popped. "Get it together."
My eyes darted back to the street. Red bricks as far as the eye could see. But something was wrong. Something was… off. I squinted at the skyline, eyes tracing the horizon. There was no horizon.
It wasn't a town. It was a stage.
The walls stretched too far, too perfect, too clean. The endless buildings were nothing but an illusion, a massive painted mural so perfectly crafted it felt real until you really focused. A prison disguised as freedom. The "sky" overhead wasn't a sky at all. I spotted the faintest lines of segmented panels, the glow of false stars, and a mechanical moon hanging in the center of it all.
Not outside. Not free. Nowhere close.
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the cold sweat trickle down my scalp. They want me exposed. I scanned the street, eyes flicking left and right. Every shattered window, every crumbling wall, every alley was a potential threat. This is a trap. This whole damn street is a hunting ground.
I had to move. I had to get off the street.
I sprinted for the nearest building, boots slamming against the cracked concrete. Every step echoed, bouncing down the street like a warning bell. My heart pounded in my ears, keeping rhythm with my frantic footfalls.
The sign on the front of the building read: IMPERIAL CLOTHES.
I shoved my shoulder into the door, expecting resistance, but it creaked open with ease. Too easy. My eyes darted across the dimly lit store. The moonlight filtering in through the cracked front windows was just enough to make out the layout. Racks of clothes. Tables piled with folded jeans. Mannequins posed like they were waiting for applause.
And the smell.
It hit me like a slap to the face. Rot. Decay. Like something had been dead here for weeks. My stomach flipped as bile surged up my throat. I gagged, slamming the door shut behind me, my back pressed against it. My breath came short and fast, my ribs tight like they were bound with wire.
"Pull it together," I gasped, crouching low, hands on my knees. "Pull it together." I swallowed hard, the acid sting still clinging to my throat. I'd smelled that before. I knew that smell. It clawed at the back of my mind, stirring static like a broken radio signal. But the more I reached for it, the more it slipped away.
I forced myself to stand. "Alright... okay..." My eyes locked on the racks of clothes. A fresh wave of cold hit me, and I realized for the first time just how exposed I was. Bare skin. Bare everything.
Not for long.
I moved with purpose, weaving through the racks. Men's section to the right. Women's to the left. I bolted straight for the men's aisle, crouched low like I expected something to leap out. Nothing moved. No sound. Just me.
I snatched the first plain white shirt I could reach. It wasn't fancy, but it fit snug enough. Next came the cargo pants. Fire hose material. Thick. Durable. Pockets galore. Jackpot. I yanked them on, fumbling with the buttons as my breath came in shallow bursts.
Still nothing. No sound.
Until I saw the boots.
Steel-toe. Heavy-duty. Black leather. They sat on display like a prize just waiting for me. I grinned, moving toward them with quick, quiet steps. These'll do.
BZZZZZZZTTT... BZZZZZZZTTT...
The low, guttural buzz of flies grew louder with each step. Not the faint, annoying hum of a lone housefly. No. This was a swarm. The kind that fills the air like static, sharp and endless, rattling against the eardrum.
My pace slowed, my breath shallow. The air grew thick, heavy with the rancid stink of rot. I pressed my hand tight over my nose and mouth, trying to filter it out, but it was like trying to breathe through wet fabric. My eyes stung as I edged around the corner of the cashier desk, moving slowly, deliberately, like walking into a minefield.
Don't gag. Don't throw up. Breathe slow. In. Out. In. Out.
The flies were everywhere, their bodies big, too big, like beetles with wings. Their glossy eyes caught the dim light as they buzzed past, ricocheting off the walls and ceiling. One bumped my arm, its heavy little body skittering along my sleeve before taking off again. I fought the urge to swat it. Stay quiet. Stay calm.
I took another step, then another, each footfall muted but sharp in my ears. My eyes locked on the source of it all, and I knew — I knew — what I was about to see before I even saw it.
But knowing doesn't prepare you.
On the other side of the desk lay what used to be a man.
His upper half lay sprawled face down, arms stretched out like he'd tried to crawl away. His bottom half was gone. Not "missing" — gone. His torso had been split clean through at the waist, jagged bits of bone and shredded muscle spilling out from the open cavity. His spine hung loose from his back, trailing behind him like a rope of ivory vertebrae. The dried blood sprayed in arcs across the floor, long since hardened into dark, crusty streaks.
What was left of him had bloated and rotted in the heat. Fat dripped slowly from his body, cooling into yellow sludge that pooled beneath him like spoiled gravy. Maggots writhed in it, squirming in frantic little loops as they burrowed into his melting flesh.
I could hear them. Tiny, wet pops and squelches.
I swallowed hard. Don't throw up. Don't throw up.
I didn't look away. I couldn't. My gaze traced every inch of the carnage, heart thudding hard in my chest, breath coming too fast, too sharp. Stay calm. Stay calm.
"What. The. Fuck," I muttered under my breath, taking a step closer. My body moved without permission, curiosity overtaking fear. What did this? Who did this?
Or what… thing.
The thought slid in uninvited. Not a person. Not a person. A person couldn't do this.
But this wasn't the time to be squeamish. Whoever he was — whoever he used to be — he wasn't getting up. His eyes were closed, face turned away like he'd been too ashamed to meet death head-on. His clothes were still intact, mostly. His boots, though... Those I needed.
"Sorry, man." I crouched down, wincing as the flies buzzed closer. "But I need these way more than you."
My hands hovered over the boots, fingers curling in the air like I was bracing to touch a stove. Just grab and go. Quick. Clean. But as soon as I tugged on the boot, something resisted. It didn't slip off like I'd expected.
I pulled harder. Come on, come on.
Instead of coming loose, the entire foot came with it.
POP. SNAP. SNAP.
I yanked backward as thick, rubbery strands of flesh and tendon stretched like melted cheese. The sinew trembled, sticky and taut, as if the body was still fighting to hold on. For a second, I froze, watching it. Too long. Too long. The last strand snapped, and the foot broke free with a wet squelch.
Plop.
Maggots poured from the hollow cavity like rice spilling from a torn bag. My breath hitched. My whole body jerked back, eyes wide, chest tight. My gut twisted hard, lungs squeezing tight. Don't throw up. Don't. I gagged, dry heaving once, twice. Don't look at it. Look at something else. Look at the boots.
I dug my fingers into the boot's lining and scooped out the sludge and worms as fast as I could. My hands moved on instinct, heart still racing, bile still burning at the back of my throat.
Focus. Survive. Move.
I moved to the rest of his body, searching what was left of his clothes. His name tag was still pinned to the shredded fabric near his collar. Harris Daniels. He had a name. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did. I pulled out a wallet, but it was soaked with sludge and useless. Then I spotted the holster on his side.
Gun.
I gripped the holster, unfastened it, and pulled it free with one hard yank. A black, mid-sized pistol. My fingers curled around it. It felt heavier than I expected, but my hands knew what to do. Familiar. Too familiar. Muscle memory guided me. I ejected the clip. 9mm hollow points. Full mag. Three extra clips on the belt.
Good. Good. Stay ready.
CRASH!!!
Glass shattered in the distance.
I froze. My whole body went rigid, every muscle locking up. My breath stopped. My eyes darted toward the noise. Somewhere past the front of the store. Not close. Not far either. The sharp heat of adrenaline hit me like a match striking oil. My fingers twitched, and my breath returned in shallow, frantic bursts. Don't move. Don't make a sound.
Stay still. Stay small.
I backed away from the corpse, feet moving slow, heel-to-toe. Don't step on the glass. Don't crunch. My eyes scanned the front of the store. Past the flickering ceiling lights. Past the racks of overturned goods. The street outside was dark, shadows stretching long and thin.
Then I saw them.
Two figures. Creeping. Slow. Intentional.
They didn't walk. They stalked. No swaying arms. No human rhythm. Their bodies hunched forward as they skulked low to the ground. Their heads moved too smoothly, scanning from side to side like predators on a hunt. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Every step shattered bits of broken glass underfoot.
My heart stopped.
They were a block away, but they were coming.
They'll see you. Move. Move. Move.
I spun toward the back of the store, forcing my legs to move faster than my brain could think. No more scavenging. Time to go. The boots were heavy on my feet, the wet, sticky feeling of rot squishing under my toes. I swallowed back the rising bile and forced myself to ignore it.
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter. Run.
I slipped through the narrow aisles, moving toward the back exit. Each step echoed in my ears, too loud, too heavy. I could hear my heartbeat in my skull, a drum that wouldn't stop. My hand hovered near the pistol at my side, fingers flexing over the handle.
If they see me, I shoot. If they see me, I shoot.
I reached the back door. My hand touched the cold metal handle. Not yet. Don't push it yet. I glanced back, eyes catching the edge of the window.
They were closer now.
Too close. Too fast.
I twisted the handle, wrenched the door open, and stepped into the cold night air.