Before making the sortie, Leo took one last look at the monitor. The cameras showed empty streets, their grayness gaping like a wound, but he knew the silence was deceptive; every rustle could hide a threat. His armored police SUV, hidden in a neighbor's garage, was his only chance for mobility. Its steel body was a shield in this chaos, but fuel was running out; the needle on the gauge trembled near empty. Even half a tank wouldn't be enough to continue exploring the city or to muster the courage to try to escape and search for Anna—her image flickered in his thoughts like a beacon. He had to act. Fear and resolve fought in his chest.
He put on the respirator, its rubber chilling his face, and the leather jacket, still heavy with moisture. He checked the revolver—five bullets, a reminder of his first kill; their weight pressed on his soul. Leo took the backpack with the shortened pump-action shotgun, its barrel gleaming in the semi-darkness, and went outside, sticking to the shadows of the wrecked houses. Their debris crunched underfoot. His goal was simple: find a canister and hose to siphon gas from intact cars. Every step was an act of survival.
Leo moved cautiously, avoiding open spaces where light could betray him; his shadow slid along the walls. In a wrecked taxi, its windows smashed like tears, he found what he was looking for: a plastic canister, cracked with age, and a rubber hose whose flexibility squeaked in his hands.
He worked quickly, siphoning fuel from the tanks of abandoned cars—an old sedan with rusting metal, a pickup truck stuck in wreckage, even a school bus jammed between vehicles on the shoulder, its yellow color a pale ghost. The canister filled slowly; its gurgling broke the silence. Leo tried not to look at the bodies frozen at the wheel, their burnt fingers still gripping the steering wheels as if trying to drive away from this hell. Their silence screamed.
By noon, he had filled the canister and the SUV's tank; its hum was faint comfort. Every time he left the garage where he hid the vehicle, he blocked the gate with junk—boards, rusty pipes, trash—their smell rising into the air to create the illusion that no one had been there for a long time. Every detail was part of the camouflage.
He wiped sweat from his forehead, his hand trembling, and returned to the bunker, feeling fatigue mingling with anxiety; its weight pressed on his shoulders. The world outside was dangerous, but he couldn't sit in the bunker forever; the walls were becoming a cage.
Sitting at the work desk, its surface cold as memory, Leo reviewed camera footage and analyzed what he had seen over the past days in this new world he had suddenly found himself in. His mind searched for patterns. In recent days, he had made several observations that helped him survive.
The mad ones, despite their rage, were predictable. Their movements were chaotic but aimless; they attacked only things that moved or made sound. Their cries echoed in the night. Leo had learned to move quietly; his steps were barely audible. Staying in the shadows, with the 12-gauge pump-action shotgun in his backpack and the revolver in hand, he now felt much more confident. Their weight was calming.
One shot—and a mad one would fall, its body crumpling on the ground. But each shot was a reminder that ammunition was dwindling. This problem burned his mind, demanding a solution, though he didn't yet know how to resolve it. He was sure he would find an answer in time.
A much greater threat was posed by the military—or whoever they were; their shadows lurked in every corner. Leo had seen them several times already: columns of vehicles moving along the dead streets; their roar shattered the silence. Sometimes an armored van led the way, clearing the road with its massive bumper, followed by covered trucks from which muffled sounds emanated, like groans. The column was always escorted by several Humvees with machine gun mounts on the roofs; their silhouettes were threatening.
They spared no one. Spotting mad ones, the military opened fire, and bodies fell like cut grain; their blood mixed with the mud. The corpses were loaded into the trucks, and the column moved on, leaving behind silence like a trail of death.
Leo also noticed that the mad ones, despite their madness, had learned to recognize the threat posed by these columns; their survival instinct pierced through the chaos. They sensed the danger, disappearing into alleys or behind wreckage as soon as they heard the roar of engines; their shadows flickered in the fog.
But the military were relentless; their methodical nature was frightening. They returned again and again, sweeping the streets, as if their goal was to cleanse the city of everyone who still moved. Their presence was like a death sentence.
Leo wrote in his notebook:
Military. Cremation?
He circled the word "cremation," his ink trembling, recalling the words heard at the supermarket. Their cold meaning tormented his soul. This was more frightening than the mad ones, whose rage was chaotic, not organized.
Returning to the bunker, Leo unloaded the haul: the canister of gasoline, its smell filling the air; a couple of batteries, their wrappers crackling; a can of stew, its metal chilling his fingers. He turned on the hydroponic greenhouse; its weak light reflected off the lettuce sprouts—his small oasis in a dead world. Their greenery was a faint hint of life.
But his thoughts returned to Anna; her image was like a wound. He took out her photograph, hidden in the desk drawer, taken last year during their joint vacation. She was smiling, smoothing her hair, with a river in the background; her light was warm. Leo closed his eyes, trying to remember her voice, her laughter; its echo trembled in his memory. She had left to care for her sick mother on the farm where she grew up when the gas enveloped the city; her fate was a mystery. He didn't know if she was alive, but hope was the only thing holding him back from despair. Its thread glowed in the darkness.