Post-apocalyptic place
1015 Words
The silence of the alley pressed in on broken glass, rusted pipes, the distant hum of a neon sign flickering like it might die any second.
It was late. Too late. Maya could feel the cold settling into her bones—not just the night air, but something else. Something off.
They’d already seen too much. This is insane, she thought.
But maybe… it’s safer than outside.
She was just about to open her mouth—just about to quietly say yes—when Sofia beat her to it.
“Yeah, no thanks,” she snapped, folding her arms. “I don’t make it a habit to crash in stranger danger dens with psychos.”
Malina didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just shifted her weight, gaze steady and flat.
Then, with a quiet sigh, she said,
“Do what you want.”
“Just don’t blame me if you end up lost or worse.”
Maya groaned and turned to Sofia, exasperated.
“Sofia, can you not be this stubborn for once? Like just once?”
Her tone wasn’t harsh—more tired, borderline begging the way you talk to someone you love but also want to throw a shoe at.
Sofia was just starting to raise a perfectly shaped brow when—
“Enough,” Pablo muttered.
He didn’t wait for another debate. With one swift motion, he moved behind the girls and nudged—more like herded—them toward the door.
Maya stumbled slightly.
Sofia gasped, half spinning around.
“Hey…”
But Pablo cut her off with a low, sarcastic grumble.
“Yeah, yeah. I don’t have all night to referee grown-up toddlers with death wishes.”
He pushed the door open and half-shoved them inside like he was done playing host.
“Inside. Now. Before I throw you both a pity party with matching body bags.”
The door shut behind them with a heavy thud.
Inside, the air was thick.
That unmistakable scent of old wood, mildew, cigarette smoke, and something faintly metallic—the kind of smell that lingered in places that had seen too much and cleaned too little.
Sofia wrinkled her nose immediately and leaned toward Maya, whispering,
“If we die here, it won’t be from a bullet. It’ll be the air quality.”
Maya shot her a look and muttered under her breath,
“You really expected a scented candle and room service in the murder zone?”
Their shoes echoed softly as they followed Malina up a narrow stairwell. The place creaked like it was older than all of them combined, but somehow still holding together.
Upstairs, the air shifted slightly. It didn’t exactly smell fresh, but at least it didn’t reek of regret and damp walls.
Malina led them down a short hallway and stopped outside a door. She pushed it open and stepped aside wordlessly.
“You can stay here for the night.”
The room was small. Not fancy—just a mattress, a tiny table, and one cracked window that let in more noise than light. But compared to downstairs? It was practically a penthouse.
They stepped inside the room.
Sofia flopped down on the mattress with a sigh and looked around.
“Chic. Very post-apocalyptic place.”
Maya leaned against the wall, glancing at the cracked window.
“Yeah… not the worst place we’ve ended up in,” Maya said, then took a pause,
“But definitely top three.”
Malina stood at the doorway, unmoving.
Her voice came flat.
“It’s not meant to be a sleepover spot for two teenagers who followed the wrong people.”
Neither of them replied.
She lingered for a second longer, then added—same cool tone, just a little quieter,
“I’m not great at… hosting.”
A pause.
“But if you need anything, I can get it.”
Before she could disappear completely, Sofia spoke—her voice quieter this time, with a rare thread of sincerity running through it.
“Hey…”
Malina paused, barely turning her head.
Sofia shifted slightly on the mattress, eyes on her.
“You’ve been living here?”
A beat.
“Like, actually living in this place?”
Her voice came back low, guarded, almost like a reflex.
“Why do you care?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she stepped back into the room.
The dim light caught her more clearly now and both girls noticed what they hadn’t seen before.
Not just the bruise around her eye.
But something worse.
A fresh wound, low on her side, partially hidden beneath her loose black shirt—the fabric darkened, stiff with dried blood. Jagged and raw, the kind of wound that didn’t come from an accident.
Maya’s breath caught. Sofia blinked, her expression shifting fast—from bold to stunned.
A gunshot. It had to be.
The silence in the room thickened.
Maya opened her mouth, ready to ask, but the words died on her tongue when she caught the look in Malina’s eyes—cold, unyielding, but laced with something else. Fear.
Then, from somewhere below, the floorboards groaned. A door creaked.
Pablo’s voice carried faintly up the stairwell. Low. Urgent. Not alone.
His usual smirk was gone. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as if he could already see through the walls. The mocking edge in his face had vanished, replaced by something colder, harder—a look that made Maya’s chest tighten.
Malina stiffened instantly, her gaze snapping toward the hallway.
She didn’t speak, but her expression said everything.
They weren’t safe here. Not at all.
Maya’s stomach twisted. Her pulse hammered in her throat, so loud she swore the others could hear it. Her eyes darted to Sofia, wide with the kind of panic you try to hide but can’t.
She wanted to ask what’s happening? but her lips stayed parted in silence, her breath shallow, caught between fear and disbelief.
The footsteps below were getting closer… and there was more than one pair.
And from the sound of it, whoever had come in… wasn’t a friend.
- Writer
