Chapter Text
Grey, murky light seeped through the boarded-up gaps in the high windows, leaving pale streaks on the concrete floor. The former warehouse smelled of mould, rusted iron, and something sweetish-cloying – the kind of smell Phainon had learned to recognise from a distance. The walls had once been painted a dull beige, but now they were covered in grime, streaks, and someone's black, ingrained silhouettes. Along one wall stood empty shelving units, which had probably once held toolboxes. Now there was only dust and a few shards of glass.
In the corner, on an old, sagging sofa that had clearly seen better days, lay a person under two crumpled blankets. Too large for this narrow, greasy bed, he was curled up with his knees drawn to his chest, his breathing heavy but steady. Tangled white hair stuck out from under the blanket, standing out brightly against the dark stains of the sofa. Somewhere in his half-sleep, Phainon heard the wind howling outside; he pulled the blanket tighter around himself, trying not to think about what was happening out there (at least for now) and give himself the rest he deserved.
Somewhere in the distance, a long, chilling howl sounded outside. Phainon immediately jolted up as if burned. His eyes snapped open, his hand already groping under the pillow where a loaded revolver always lay. His heart pounded against his ribs like a wild thing.
The howling faded into distant, raspy muttering. Phainon froze, listening. Silence. Only birds – or not birds – rustled somewhere on the roof. He had long since forgotten how to tell the difference.
"Shit," he whispered with just his lips, slowly sitting up on the sofa.
He didn't put the revolver away. He gripped it in his hand while looking around. The room was the same: a locked door, propped shut with a heavy workbench; boarded-up windows; the only way out was through that one door, but outside could be anyone. Or anything.
Phainon ran a hand over his face, rubbing it, trying to fully wake up. He didn't know what day it was. Week, month – everything had blurred into one endless grey streak of survival. He only managed to sleep in snatches, two or three hours at a time.
Sliding off the sofa, he placed his feet on the cold concrete. He hadn't taken off his boots for five days now – it was more convenient. If uninvited guests showed up, there would be no time to put on footwear, and he wouldn't get far running barefoot. From his jacket pocket he took out a canteen and took a small sip. The water was warm, with a metallic aftertaste, but it was better than nothing.
His stomach growled. Phainon grimaced and reached into the backpack that served as his pillow. Inside were a few cans of stew, crackers, and – a real treasure – a small packet of instant coffee. He carefully took out one can, opened it with a dull knife, and ate it cold, not looking at the grey, greasy mass. He could barely taste it. The important thing was just to fill his stomach so he'd have the strength to keep moving.
While he ate, he remembered his home. He had been born and spent his childhood in an ordinary little village. Phainon had never dreamed of moving to a big city, as many young people his age did. It was enough for him to spend time with his family, with his dear friend, with the warm lamps, the smell of baking, and the voices he would never hear again. Phainon swallowed the lump in his throat along with the last bite of stew. He tried to push away all thoughts of the past. Every time he remembered his warm home, those pleasant memories were inevitably followed by others that made his blood run cold.
He put the empty can back into the backpack, counted his bullets: twelve. Not enough. He would need to check the houses he had spotted yesterday, but only if it wasn't too dangerous.
Phainon shouldered the backpack, zipped up his jacket, and tucked the revolver into a shoulder holster. In his right hand appeared a knife, long, with a black, textured handle. He approached the workbench that braced the door and tensed, listening to what was outside.
Nothing.
Just the wind blowing between the burnt-out shells of cars, and somewhere in the distance a loose shutter banged.
Phainon begins to carefully move the workbench. Every motion is precise. He can't let the metal scrape against the concrete. He holds his breath when the wood creaks — barely audible, but in this deathly silence, any sound seems deafening.
The workbench is moved aside. Phainon straightens up, pressing his back against the wall next to the door. With his free hand, he slowly, very slowly, turns the handle.
The door gives way inward — he pulls it toward himself. Outside is a pale dawn, an empty street littered with debris and leaves.
He takes a step, then another. He's on the porch. The wind tousles his hair, hitting his face with the smell of smoke and decay. Phainon squints, scanning his surroundings. To the left — a wrecked truck, to the right — a pile of bricks. Straight ahead — a road leading to a destroyed bridge.
And then, from behind the truck, it emerges.
A former man. A torn jacket, an unnaturally twisted arm, and the face... there's almost no face — just a charred mask, from which murky, white eyes stare. The creature freezes, turns its head, sniffs the air. And then it starts moving toward Phainon.
Phainon doesn't breathe. He grips the knife tighter in his palm. If he shoots, he'll attract other creatures.
When the thing is three steps away, he suddenly steps out from the wall, moves to the side, and in a swift motion drives the blade straight into its temple. The strike lands at just the right angle, and the blade pierces the skull with a crunch that makes his insides churn. The body crumples to the ground, twitches a couple of times, and goes still.
Phainon wipes the knife on the creature's dirty jacket and, without looking back, walks forward — toward where the horizon disappears into the morning haze. The sun has already risen, but it doesn't bring any warmth. He zips up his jacket all the way, shoves his hands into his pockets, and quickens his pace, not looking back.