The sound came again.
Clink—clink—clang.
Ed jolted awake; breath caught in his throat. For a second, he didn't know if it was real or just a cruel echo from a dream. But then he heard it again—the distinct rattle of his perimeter alarm: a bell tied to rusted wires and tin cans strung along the broken fences outside.
He sat up in bed, heart pounding. Silence returned, heavy and expectant.
Ed grabbed his machete and crept to the window.
Outside, the pale light of morning was breaking through the gray. He scanned the street first—empty. No movement. Then the yard.
There.
A lone infected. Bent over something.
It groaned, jaws moving hungrily.
Ed narrowed his eyes.
It was eating a cat. The animal twitched once, letting out a final, pitiful cry. Then it fell still.
"Damn it..." Ed muttered.
He moved to the back window, his eyes searching the alley and rooftops. If a horde had heard the cat, they'd be here soon. But the street was quiet. Still.
He let out a slow breath. "Only one."
Ed stepped back and grabbed his crossbow from the wall. He knelt by the window, leveled the weapon, and aimed.
Thwip!
The bolt struck the infected clean through the skull. The thing dropped like a sack of meat.
Ed exhaled. "Bullseye."
He made his way outside. His movements were swift and practiced. First, he confirmed the kill. Then he approached the cat. It was a mess of blood and torn fur, one eye still open.
He knelt beside it. "Poor thing."
He drove his knife into its skull, quick and clean. If there was even the slightest risk of infection, he couldn't take the chance. Not even with an animal.
Back inside, he hung his crossbow on the wall and poured water into a dented tin cup. He drank slowly, his muscles still tense from the jolt of waking. But the quiet held.
Safe—for now.
He stepped outside again and began checking the perimeter. The fence held. The traps were untouched. But there were weak points. Places where a wave could push through.
So, he worked.
He dragged scrap metal from the pile out back, stacking it along the weaker parts of the wall. Reinforced the windows with plywood and nails. Covered the ground-level glass with steel mesh. Every movement was part of a routine—daily repairs, daily preparation.
He didn't know when the next wave would come. He only knew it would.
Still, something about this morning felt... heavier. The air. The silence. The smell of ash riding the breeze.
By midday, he was working in the backyard—clearing debris, salvaging materials, patching a gap in the fencing.
Then it happened.
The sound of a creaking chair. The scent of warm milk and sunlight. A baby's soft breath against his chest.
The flashback hit like a wave.
Suddenly, he was holding her again.
Kia. Tiny. Just hours old. Wrapped in a pink blanket that was far too big for her.
She yawned.
Ed's heart, even then, felt too full.
"You're so small," he had whispered. "But you already own my whole world."
He'd never held something so precious. So fragile.
He remembered how he didn't sleep that night—just watched her, terrified he might miss something, even a breath.
Another memory.
Kia's laugh echoing across the backyard as she ran barefoot in the grass. Chubby hands reaching out to catch bubbles floating in the air. She wore a sunhat too big for her head, and sandals that always slipped off.
"Faster, Papa!" she giggled.
"You'll run me ragged, monkey," he said, chasing after her.
"I'm not a monkey! I'm a racer girl!"
She jumped into his arms, breathless, cheeks red from joy.
They collapsed into the chair beneath the mango tree. He held her close as the sun dipped low.
"I don't want today to end," she said, voice small against his shoulder.
"Me either," he whispered.
Another memory.
It was her third birthday. He had saved for weeks to buy a cheap cake and a fairy princess costume. She spun in circles, arms out, wings fluttering behind her.
"You look beautiful," he told her.
"I'm going to fly, Papa!" she shouted.
And she ran—toward the sunlight, toward the fence at the back of the yard, arms wide like wings. Laughing.
"Wait, slow down, Kia!"
But she didn't stop.
She kept running.
The memory dissolved.
The sunlight faded. The fence was no longer painted. The grass was gone. The laughter was replaced by the low howl of distant wind.
Ed stood frozen in the backyard, one hand on the old, rotting chair.
He hadn't realized he was crying.
A single tear slid down his cheek. Then another. He didn't wipe them away. He just stood there, staring at the place where Kia had once run.
"I miss you, kiddo," he said, voice raw. "Every day."
The wind carried no reply.
After a long moment, he inhaled deeply, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and turned toward the house.
Inside, he packed his gear methodically. Filled his canteen. Counted his bolts. Checked his sidearm—loaded. Machete—sharpened.
He pulled on his jacket and slung his backpack over his shoulder. Before stepping out, he paused at the shelf where the photo frame rested.
"Another day," he whispered to it. "Maybe today."
Then he walked out into the ruins once more, the door closing behind him with a heavy click.
And the search continued.