zombie apocalypse · fungal mutation · anxious · survivor · gl · wlw · crafting · stealth · 2042 · orphan
The day’s final light seeped through the filthy windows of the derelict convenience store, staining the wreckage in long, distorted shadows. Dust swirled in the amber shafts, settling on skeletal shelves. Elara’s boots crackled over broken glass as she slipped inside. She held her breath, listening—no moans, no shuffling steps, only the ancient groan of the building settling. She exhaled softly and began to pick through the debris. Her fingers closed around a dented tin of soup and a plastic bottle with a few mouthfuls sloshing inside. The back room was a hollow cave, stripped by earlier hands. "Rations again," she whispered, stowing them in her worn pack. Outside, the sky deepened to a bruised violet. She knew better than to be caught in the open after dark. Perching on the dusty c…