The shelter wasn't falling apart—it was tearing itself apart, slowly but surely. The zombies weren't clawing at the gates, not yet, and the food hadn't completely run out. But those were distractions. The real cracks were inside, among the people.
Dinl leaned against a cracked concrete pillar near the edge of the shelter, arms crossed as his sharp eyes swept the camp. It had taken him less than two days to see it: this place was doomed. Not because of what was outside, but because of what was happening within.
The soldiers barked orders, their boots crunching against gravel as they moved between the barricades. Civilians shuffled around, their movements small and hesitant, their heads low. And then there were the others—the ones who didn't wait, who killed to survive and grew stronger because of it.
Killing wasn't easy. Even now, three weeks into this nightmare, most people flinched at the sight of blood. Their hands trembled on the grips of their weapons. Their eyes darted away from the bodies on the ground.
Dinl had no patience for that kind of hesitation.
He glanced at a group of civilians near the food line, their voices hushed and worried. They clung to each other like that would somehow save them.
"They're waiting for someone to save them," Dinl muttered under his breath, the words coated in quiet disdain.
His gaze shifted to the soldiers, led by a man named Rollins. They were the opposite of the huddled masses—pragmatic, ruthless, their patience worn thin. If someone stepped out of line, they didn't hesitate to remind them who was in charge. Then there were the ones who had already started climbing the Tower in their own way. Dinl caught a glimpse of them trading quietly in the corners, their weapons stained and their eyes cold.
And the rest? The rest were just waiting to die.
Dinl didn't like to think about the past. It wasn't useful. It didn't change anything. But sometimes, when the nights stretched too long or the silence around him grew heavy, his thoughts wandered back.
He hadn't seen Zeke, Sarah, or Jake since the mall collapsed. He'd told himself it didn't matter. They weren't his responsibility anymore.
Still, their faces drifted to the surface of his mind now, uninvited. Zeke with his cocky grin, always acting like he had something to prove. Dinl's jaw tightened as he thought of the cursed dagger Zeke had taken. He'd seen weapons like that before in his first life. They came with power, yes, but also a price. And Zeke… Zeke wasn't the kind of person who thought about consequences.
Sarah had been the sharp one, the one who kept her head while the rest stumbled through their mistakes. Dinl respected her for that. But even her resolve might not be enough if Zeke's recklessness led them into something they couldn't handle.
Then there was Jake. Dinl exhaled through his nose, the sound soft and bitter. Jake had been weak. Too scared to fight properly, too slow to react when it mattered. But there had been moments—small ones—where Dinl thought maybe the boy could change.
'I hope they're alive,' Dinl admitted to himself, though the thought left a sour taste. He didn't like caring. It was a weakness he couldn't afford.
Miles away, Zeke drove the cursed dagger into the chest of another zombie, the blade glowing with an unnatural blue light. His heart pounded as the creature crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
"Zeke, stop playing around and help us hold the line!" Sarah's voice cut through the noise, sharp and furious.
"Relax!" Zeke called back, his voice tinged with laughter. "I've got this!"
"You don't!" Jake shouted, his bat swinging clumsily at another zombie. "You're drawing too many of them!"
Zeke ignored them, the rush of power from the dagger drowning out their voices. Each kill sent a jolt of energy through his veins, a high that made him feel untouchable. He slashed at another zombie, the blade cutting cleanly through its neck.
But the horde kept coming. More zombies shuffled into the narrow alley, their groans rising into a deafening chorus.
"Zeke, we're trapped!" Sarah snapped, her crowbar smashing into another undead skull.
Zeke faltered as the dagger pulsed brighter, the glow almost painful now. And then he heard it—a voice, low and insidious, curling around the edges of his mind.
"I will grant you power… if y…ou give m.e. .wh.at I h .u.nger for…"
His breath hitched, his grip on the dagger tightening.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sarah demanded, her voice cutting through the noise.
Zeke's gaze flicked to her, then to Jake. The meaning of the dagger's whisper sank into him like a cold blade. It wanted two lives—two people he cared about.
'No,' he thought, his chest tightening. But the dagger pulsed again, the voice louder now.
"Kill them… or die here."
The horde was closing in. Zeke's heart pounded as he raised the dagger slightly, his hands trembling.
Back at the shelter, Dinl packed his bag in silence. He'd spent two days here, long enough to see the writing on the wall. This place wasn't going to last. The shouting matches over rations were growing louder. The soldiers' patience was fraying.
The people in this shelter were already dead—they just didn't know it yet.
He slung the bag over his shoulder, adjusting the straps. The extra blade he'd traded for rested at his side, sharp and ready. He didn't bother saying goodbye. No one here cared that he was leaving, and he preferred it that way.
The air outside was sharp and cold as he stepped past the barricades. The ruins of Toronto stretched out before him, jagged and unforgiving.
Dinl paused, glancing back at the shelter one last time.
"They'll tear themselves apart before the Tower even has a chance," he murmured.
With that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, his footsteps fading into the quiet of the ruined city.