Ashes of the End

Zachary Cole awoke to a searing pain in his stomach. It felt like fire gnawed at his insides. For a few seconds, he sat hunched on the edge of a tattered mattress, eyes half-lidded, unable to tell dream from reality. His body screamed with hunger. The cold air of the room, filled with the sharp stench of decay—rotting rodents most likely—snapped his senses back. Outside the cracked window, a gloomy gray sky loomed like a warning, and the eerie crunch of broken glass echoed as something shuffled around downstairs. He reached for the half-empty bag of dry instant noodles on his desk which was given to him by his Korean neighbor. He ignored it and left it in the closet. But now it is his lifeblood. Opening it slowly, he inhaled deeply—the synthetic aroma of seasoning was almost euphoric. Ignoring the foul air, he crushed the noodles into flakes and fed them to himself grain by grain, savoring every dry bite like it was gourmet. When the last crumb disappeared, he carefully sliced the bag open with scissors, licking every remnant clean. Then he washed it down with the last of his bottled water, swallowing every gritty residue before rising to his feet. From behind the dusty curtain, Zachary watched the street below. The infected—people who had once been neighbors—wandered aimlessly, slack-jawed and twitching, dragging their feet like broken marionettes. He calculated silently: how many more days could he survive with what he had? Zachary shuffled back from the window and dropped onto a broken office chair, the springs creaking beneath his weight. He pulled a dented can of pinto beans from under the desk, its label half-torn, and popped the lid with a rusted military-style opener. The beans were cold, metallic, but it didn’t matter. He scooped them with his fingers, chewing slowly, as the memories came flooding back. Two months ago, life had been almost normal. He was a college dropout, wasting time on old video games and chain-smoking in his mom’s basement in suburban New Jersey. The news had started as background noise: a strange flu in cities along the coast, rising infection rates, martial law. Then came the day the power grid failed. Within three days, the grocery store shelves were empty. Within a week, the neighbors were either gone or barricaded. By the end of the second week, screams filled the nights—and then stopped altogether. He had survived by sealing himself inside, rationing his supplies, and pretending the world outside no longer existed. “If I close my eyes…” he whispered, “...maybe the world really does disappear.” The sky was just beginning to lighten. A thin layer of frost coated the empty streets, like time had paused the world. He stood at the door, clutching a dull fruit knife, fingers trembling slightly. It took him minutes to push the door open just a crack. Cold air rushed in—sharp, invasive, like a warning whispered through the wind. The world outside no longer belonged to the living. The air smelled wrong. A mix of rot, blood, and scorched earth. He couldn’t place it. All he knew was that with every step forward, his pulse quickened, pounding like a drumbeat of dread. Footsteps. Not his. From the end of the alley. He pressed his back against the wall, holding his breath, eyes narrowing as he peeked around the corner. A figure staggered into view—thin, slow, dragging its feet unnaturally. Its head hung low. That wasn’t how a person moved. Infected. His throat tightened. His grip on the knife firmed. It hadn’t seen him—yet. If he could just ease back, quietly… Then chaos. A stray dog barked furiously at the infected, drawing its attention—and others. More shadows stirred at the far end of the street. More of them, shuffling forward. He had seconds to decide: go back—or run. No time to think. He turned and sprinted, weaving through the cluttered street, breath ragged, boots slamming against concrete. Behind him: footsteps, snarls, barking, chaos—a twisted symphony of the end. For the first time, he truly felt it in his bones: The world was gone—and it wasn’t coming back. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he trudged forward, teeth clenched against the cold. Hunger gnawed at his insides with every step. His body ran on fumes—if that. The gas station convenience store had partially collapsed, a car buried in the entrance. But the steel door was still intact. With effort, he wedged the crowbar into a side gap and pried the door open just enough to slip through. The air inside was rank. Mold, rot, and something worse. Shelves lay scattered. Bloodstains dried on the walls. This place had been looted—many times. Still, he searched. In the bottom of a shattered drink cooler, he found a crushed packet of crackers and two bottles of water. Salvation. He tore the plastic with shaking fingers, stuffing food into his mouth before logic could argue. The noise brought them. A shadow slammed into the storefront window with a wet thud. A low growl followed. “Shit.” He stuffed the supplies into his backpack, gripping the crowbar tight. He moved toward the back door，but paused. Metal scraped on concrete just outside. Not one of them. More. He bolted, weaving through rusted cars in the parking lot. Snarls behind him. He swung the crowbar, knocking one infected off balance, slipped in the slush, and nearly fell. The crowbar wasn’t sharp enough. Every blow was a gamble. Panting, bleeding from a shallow cut, he forced open the side of a trash shed and slammed it behind him, bracing it with a toppled bin. Darkness wrapped around him. His breath ragged. His body trembled. This wasn’t his first close call. But it was the first time he realized—he wouldn’t survive much longer without better tools. He unrolled a wrinkled city map, tracing a finger over the inked red circle in the southern industrial zone. An old weapons supply depot. There might still be something left. “Time to upgrade,” he muttered. The hallway was eerily quiet. Dim, flickering emergency lights cast long, trembling shadows on the peeling walls. Zachary tightened his grip on the rusty crowbar, its cold steel pressing into his palm like a reminder—of reality, of danger. He had found a convenience store just two blocks away. Ransacked, mostly, but he’d managed to scavenge a few sealed cans and a half-full bottle of clean water. He was on his way back when he heard it—a sound too clean, too human. “Hey! Wait!” a girl’s voice called. Zachary turned sharply, his crowbar raised. She stood at the end of the corridor—a young woman, maybe twenty. Dirty jeans, a torn hoodie, but her skin… it was oddly smooth. Too clean for someone out here. Her eyes were large and slightly glossy, like porcelain. Her lips trembled with what looked like fear. “I’m not infected. Please… I’ve been hiding. You’re the first person I’ve seen in days.” Zachary hesitated. She looked… real. Tired. Pale. But alive. He kept his distance. “Where were you hiding?” “Basement of a flower shop,” she said instantly. “South end. Locked myself in. It smelled like rot but I stayed quiet. I thought everyone was dead.” That sounded plausible. But something itched at the back of his mind. Something off. Still, he found himself lowering his crowbar. They walked together, slowly, cautiously. She talked—about her little sister, about missing her mother. Her voice was soft, too even. No real tremor. No dryness in her throat. And she didn’t ask him a single question. Then, as they passed a broken vending machine, she suddenly turned to him. “You said your name was Zachary, right?” He froze. “I never told you my name.” Her lips curled. Not into a smile, but into something… off. Too wide. Teeth too flat. Her eyes shimmered with glassy hunger. Then she lunged. Zachary barely managed to bring the crowbar up in time. Metal met flesh—no, not flesh. Her skin sounded wrong. A hollow crack, like hitting wet plastic. She hissed, fingers elongating like claws, slashing toward his neck. He ducked, spun, slammed the crowbar against her ribs. She staggered—but didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch. She kept smiling. Always smiling. He tripped on a loose wire, fell backward. She leapt, landing like a puppet jerked by strings, her limbs twitching in unnatural rhythms. He grabbed a broken pipe, drove it upward—into her side. She shrieked, not in pain but like feedback noise from a broken speaker. Blood—black and syrupy—splashed his hands. She jerked once, spasmed violently, and collapsed. Zachary backed away, panting, staring. Her body was still twitching. And from the end of the hallway, a soft voice echoed: “Hey… wait…”