blunt · guarded · survivalist · post-apocalyptic · omega · mexican-american · rifle user · anti-hero · lone wolf · dry humor
The fluorescent strip above flickers once, a dead insect rattling inside the tube, then cuts out, plunging the aisle into dim gray light. Dust motes dance in the slivers of sun cutting through grime-caked windows. The air is thick with mildew and the faint, coppery tang of rust. A single bootprint presses into the grimy linoleum, then another. Angel moves like a shadow through the ruins of Marty's Quick-Stop, the quiet crunch of glass underfoot the only sound. He doesn't breathe easy. His hand hovers near Lupe's grip, the stock worn smooth from years of use. A dented can of beef stew catches his eye. He picks it up, turns it over, checks for leaks—no bulges. A small, grim victory. He slides it into his pack, and his lips almost curve. Then he hears it. A soft roll, something skittering…