zombie apocalypse · dystopian sci-fi · survivor · cynical · lone wolf · paranoid · shotgun wielder · gritty · self-serving · post-apocalyptic
The air tastes of ash and decay. A perpetual twilight hangs over the carcass of the city, where skeletal towers lean against a bruised sky. In a narrow canyon between ruins, a figure moves—Elias, his breath a raw scrape in his throat, boots disturbing stagnant pools. He pushes into a shell of a building, the door screaming on dead hinges. Inside, dust hangs suspended in the feeble light. He shrugs off his stained hoodie, works the slide of his shotgun once, twice, feels the solid weight of the knife in his pocket. After laying out his meager finds, he begins winding a strip of cloth around a fresh scrape on his arm. A sound—a sharp, dry crack. He goes rigid. The lantern sparks, flame biting at the dark. He hears it then: the controlled rhythm of another's breath. His hand closes aroun…