The hot wind swept through the hollow town as the grouped stepped off the cracked pavement. Lucas gave one last glance down the strip before turning to his team. "Alright. I'll handle the pharmacy. Ethan, Maurice—you're on the hardware. David, Dylan—convenience store up the road, see if there's anything left that hasn't rotted or shrieked off."
"Copy that," David said, adjusting the strap on his shoulder.
"Be careful," Lucas added, already crossing toward the shattered glass doors of the drugstore.
The teams split off.
Inside the convenience store, the door jingled mockingly as Dylan pushed it open, tomahawk in hand. The place smelled like expired deli meat, motor oil, and dust. Coolers were long dead, shelves half-picked but still cluttered. David grunted, nudging aside a fallen snack rack. "Man… remember Slurpees?"
Dylan kept moving, eyeing the darkened back corner. "I remember brain freezes. Ain't worth the pain."
David snorted. "You ever enjoy anything?"
"Quiet's pretty nice," Dylan muttered, thumbing a dusty can of baked beans.
Behind the counter, a shriveled hot dog spun in a frozen loop on a dead roller grill. David stared. "Don't know whether to cry or salute."
Dylan smirked. "Leave it. Might be the last thing holdin' the line."
David swept a few unopened protein bars into his pack. "Find anything with caffeine and I'll name my firstborn after you."
"I'll pass," Dylan grumbled. "Don't need a kid named Monster Ross runnin' around."
At the hardware store, Maurice lifted a crowbar triumphantly. "Now we're talkin'."
Ethan crouched by a shelf of batteries, sorting through them. "If they ain't corroded, grab 'em all. We're low."
Maurice gestured to a dusty box of Christmas lights. "Bet I could rig these into a motion alarm."
Ethan looked up, snorting. "Yeah right."
"Look, man, just 'cause the world ended don't mean we can't have style." Maurice added.
A sudden clatter echoed from deeper in the store. Both men froze. Maurice tightened his grip. "Please be a squirrel."
From the back corner of the hardware store, past collapsed aisles of bins and paint cans, a low hissing groan rippled through the silence. Ethan froze mid-step, flashlight shaking in his hand.
"You heard that?" Maurice muttered, gripping his crowbar.
"Yeah," Ethan whispered, eyes narrowing toward the shadows. "Back left."
They edged forward. The groan cracked again—louder, sharper, like gravel forced through lungs. Then a shriek. High, jagged. Ethan barely raised his weapon before something launched from the darkness.
The shrieker slammed into the shelving unit, scattering screws and nails everywhere. Its mouth gaped, serrated teeth flashing, snapping at the air. Nails tore across the metal like shards of glass.
"Shit!" Maurice swung his crowbar wide, metal ringing as it struck the side of the shrieker's skull—but it barely flinched. Its head whipped toward him, throat vibrating with another piercing wail, eyes locked on his heat.
Ethan lunged, jamming the steel flashlight into its jaw and twisting hard. The shrieker screamed again, fast, alive, impossible for something dead.
Maurice got behind it, crowbar under its throat, yanking it off balance. The creature thrashed violently, nails raking the floor, nearly dragging him down.
Ethan grabbed a shattered shelving rack and kicked off, shoulder slamming into its chest, flattening it. "Get it—get it now!" he shouted.
Maurice raised the crowbar and drove it down—once, twice, again—into the chest.
The shrieker stilled, twitching once before going slack.
Both men panted, the stench of old meat and rust thick in the air.
Maurice wiped his brow. "Tell me that was the only one."
Ethan didn't answer, keeping his flashlight trained on the dark corner it had come from. "Better hope so," he said. "Or we're gonna need more crowbars."
They exchanged a glance, breaths shallow, then edged toward the corner. Ethan kept the beam forward while Maurice nudged open a crooked door with his crowbar. The hinges groaned, giving way to a small storage room choked with shadows and rusted metal.
Inside, the air was stale. Shelves packed wall-to-wall with tools: cordless drills, hammers, bolts, boxes of screws, buckets of nails, coils of wire, broken locks, duct tape, even a roll of chain. Signs someone had been living here—at least trying: a food wrapper, a stained mattress pad in the corner, a cracked thermos.
Maurice knelt, picking up a rusted wrench near the door. "Damn," he muttered. "Guy tried to hold out in here."
Ethan swept his beam across the walls. Wood slats nailed across window frames, some torn off from the inside. "He fortified this," he said, voice low.
Maurice nodded. "Well. Guess we make it count." They quietly gathered what they could and hauled it back to the truck.
The sun hung low. Dylan dropped the last dented can of beans onto the truck bed with a quiet clunk.
"That's it?" Maurice asked, eyeing the haul.
"Unless you're into moldy pickles and expired peanut butter," David said, wiping his forehead.
"Bean buffet it is," Ethan said, half-sarcastic, tossing a bundle of coiled wire next to a box of tools. "We'll dine like kings."
Lucas stepped back from the tailgate, scanning the gear—tools, a few medical supplies, enough hardware to patch parts of the Complex. He gave a short nod, then looked at the sky. Sunlight was fading fast. "Get it packed," he said. "We head downtown next. Try and sweep a couple more blocks before dark."
"Downtown?" Dylan muttered, eyes narrowing. "Risky at this hour."
Lucas didn't answer, just shook his head. "Then we move fast. And smart."
David clapped Dylan on the shoulder as he climbed into the passenger seat. "C'mon. Could be worse. Could be stuck with a guy who only found beans."
Dylan grunted, shrugged. They climbed aboard, tailgate shutting behind them, engine rumbling low. Downtown waited—and if luck held, so did more supplies.
As the sun sank, casting long shadows over the remnants of downtown, they split up to cover more ground. Dylan found himself drawn to a house set slightly apart. Small, front door hanging ajar, lawn overgrown with weeds.
He stepped inside. Musty air, thick with decay and dust, met him. He swept the living room, then the kitchen, nothing but silence.
He moved toward the stairs, tomahawk strapped tight, senses on edge.
A low thump echoed from upstairs. Dylan paused.
The noise grew, soft, irregular, almost childlike. At the end of the hallway, a door stood shut, paint peeling, edges chipped.
Without hesitation, Dylan stepped forward and kicked the door open. The shrieker on the other side tumbled backward, flailing, thrown off by the sudden force.
It scrambled to rise, shrieking, hair tangled, jaw unhinged, but Dylan didn't hesitate. He raised his weapon, aimed carefully, and fired. The bullet struck the shrieker square in the chest before it could reach him.
It went down with a wet thud, body twitching once before lying still.
Dylan kept his stance for a moment, chest rising, eyes scanning the hallway.
He stepped inside and let his gaze sweep over the bedroom. The bed was stained with blood, toys scattered across the floor. A picture frame lay face down on the desk beside the bed. Dylan knelt and turned it over carefully. The photo was faded, but he could make out the smiling face of the little girl he had just killed.
"I'm sorry, lil' girl," he whispered.
Among the clutter, something caught his eye. A music box lay open, its mechanism exposed and broken. Inside, a small mermaid figurine stood frozen mid-dance, long hair flowing, tail curled—eerily reminiscent of Yve.
He slipped the music box into his backpack, shoulders tightening as he rose. Dylan moved through the room, focus shifting back to the hunt for supplies, leaving the silent bedroom and its ghost behind.
Back at the VIRA Complex, the group gathered around their haul, sorting through supplies and planning the next steps. Dylan kept to himself, sitting in a corner as he pulled the music box from his pack. He studied it carefully, eyes sharp, picking out the broken pieces. It would take some work, but it could be fixed.
Rising, he approached Maurice, who was sorting through the hardware. "Got a toolkit?" he asked, holding up the box.
Maurice glanced at him, then the music box, brow furrowing. "What's that?"
"Just need some tools, alright?" Dylan said, brusque but not unkind.
Maurice nodded and handed him the kit. Dylan returned to his corner, tools and music box spread out before him. He worked quietly, hands moving with surprising dexterity as he adjusted, cleaned, and reassembled the fragile pieces. Hours slipped by unnoticed. The rest of the group settled in for the night, their voices fading into the background.
~~~
The day of Yve's birthday started like any other. Except it wasn't—not for Dylan. The hum of old power still echoed faintly in VIRA's Mobility Wing. Ethan and Derek crouched next to a dusty Reclaimer unit, elbows deep in the chassis. Their hands were slick with oil and rust, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed like they were trying to put the apocalypse back together with socket wrenches.
Dylan stepped in, boots echoing off polished steel flooring. He looked around. "Where're the keys we cleared?" he asked, voice sharp but even.
Derek didn't look up. "Back panel. Above the biometric rack. Don't mess up the order—I just got 'em reorganized after Maurice dropped 'em like a bowl of spaghetti."
Dylan found the grid. His eyes flicked past models until they stopped. "Which one's for the SilentHawk Hybrid?"
Derek stood, cracking his back. "Black tag, chipped on the corner. Looks like it lost a fight with a grinder. Third row, left column."
Dylan grabbed the key, cool metal in his hand. The SilentHawk waited at the far end of the wing. Sliding into the driver's seat, he shoved the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, a low growl that promised stealth and speed.
The heads-up display glowed pale green, scanning boot protocols. Dylan exhaled, fingers tightening on the controls. Today was going to be interesting.
[VIRA-SH1 — HYBRID MODE: ACTIVE]
[LAST SYNCED: 21 DAYS AGO]
[MODS: NOISE SUPPRESSION SYSTEM · MANUAL OVERRIDE PLATE]
[FRONT CAM: OFFLINE — MANUAL OVERRIDE REQUIRED]
[CHARGE: 83% · AUTONOMY: 207 km]
Dylan's first stop was a small, abandoned department store. The aisles were chaotic, clothes scattered everywhere, but he sifted through the mess, grabbing shirts, jackets, dresses, even a pair of women's sneakers—practical choices over style. At one point, he held a bright pink dress, muttering, "What the hell do women even wear?" before shoving it into the pile.
Next, he moved to an abandoned house, checking each room quickly. In the bathroom, he turned the faucet—nothing. Tracing the pipes outside, he found a rain tank and a basic catchment system. Clogged with leaves and silt, he cleared the filter, rewired a broken clamp, and cracked the valve open. Water trickled, then flowed steady through the house.
The shower was cold, almost punishing, but it stripped the rot and ash from his skin. He toweled off with a sun-bleached curtain, then rummaged for packing. In a closet, beneath wires and moldy linens, he found an old gift bag. Wrapping the music box in a torn silk pillowcase, he slipped it inside the bag, put on fresh clothes, zipped up his pack, and loaded everything onto the SilentHawk.
Time to ride.
By the time he arrived, it was just before afternoon. He parked the SilentHawk at a distance and spotted Yve sitting on the dock, sorting through the fish she'd caught. Her tail glistened in the sunlight, swaying gently with each movement. Dylan's chest tightened. For someone like him, carrying sentiment in his hands felt foreign, and the bag seemed heavier than it was.
He crouched behind a pile of driftwood, watching her. "Damn it," he muttered, gripping the bag. "How the hell am I supposed to—" He groaned, running a hand over his face. Rehearsing seemed like the only way to get it right.
"Happy birthday, Yve," he muttered under his breath, mimicking the gesture of handing her the bag. "Gotcha this… hope ya like it." His voice came out stiff, almost robotic. He scowled. "Nope. Sounds dumb."
Minutes passed with Dylan pacing and crouching behind the driftwood, each attempt sounding more awkward than the last. At one point, he stopped, letting out a frustrated grunt. "Ain't a damn speech. Just hand it over, Pierce," he muttered to himself.
Finally, he straightened, shoved down the nerves, and trudged toward the dock. The bag clutched tightly in his hands, he still wondered if this was the dumbest thing he'd ever done—but there was no turning back now.
Yve turned her head as he approached, her face lighting up. "Dylan!" she called, pushing herself up slightly with her hands.
Dylan took a deep breath. The gift bag dangled from his fingers, suddenly heavier than it should have felt. His eyes drifted to the side.
A small mountain of fish lay on the dock—glossy, mismatched, and far more than a casual catch. Some were bigger than his forearm. "…That normal?" he asked, nodding toward the pile. "You run a seafood racket while I was gone?"
Yve looked up, eyes gleaming as she sorted through the fish. "What?"
"That," he said, gesturing. "You usually catch just enough to feed us, not… stock a market stall."
She grinned. "Well… if I'm gonna meet your found family, I need to make sure they like me right away."
Dylan blinked once. "By smothering 'em in fish?"
"Exactly," she said proudly.
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Gonna give someone a heart attack with kindness at this rate."
Yve tilted her head. "If it works, it works."
Dylan scratched the back of his neck, a faint ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He took a slow step forward, the bag still hidden behind him.
"You alright?" Yve asked, her voice gentle but amused. "You seem… nervous."
"Nervous? Nah," Dylan replied too quickly, glancing away. He shifted awkwardly, fingers tightening on the bag's handle. "Look, I… uh… brought you somethin'. For… for your birthday."
Her eyes widened. "You did?"
Dylan nodded stiffly, avoiding her gaze. He held out the bag. "Here. Take it. Ain't much."
Yve's fingers brushed his as she took it. "Thank you," she said, smiling. She peeked inside, then back at him. "You didn't have to."
"Figured I'd… dunno," Dylan muttered, rubbing his neck.
She laughed. "You're full of surprises, Dylan Pierce."
He leaned back, arms crossed. "Yeah, yeah. Don't make a big deal."
Yve pulled the bag closer, eyes fixed on the music box. She lifted it carefully, tilting her head to examine the tiny mermaid inside.
"What is this?" she murmured, turning the box over in her hands. She shook it gently, listening to the faint rattle, brow furrowed in concentration. Dylan smirked.
"Ain't gonna bite you," he said, teasing.
Yve pouted. "It's just… odd."
Dylan leaned closer, settling beside her. "Here," he muttered, reaching out. He wound the tiny key on the back. Soft clicks filled the air as he set the box between them.
"Now watch," he said.
The music box began to play. The tiny mermaid twirled, hair and tail moving in graceful arcs. Yve's eyes lit up. Her hands clapped lightly, and she laughed. "It moves! And… the melody! It's beautiful!"
She turned to Dylan, eyes sparkling. "I love it."
Yve's smile brightened, and without thinking, she leaned in, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "Thank you, Dylan," she said softly.
Dylan froze. Her touch was warm, her arms firm yet gentle, and he had no idea what to do—hug back? Pull away? Say something? He just sat stiff, eyes fixed on the horizon as the music box played on.
Yve pulled back, oblivious to the turmoil she'd left him in. Dylan cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. "You're… uh… welcome," he muttered, voice low.
Even as he tried to act normal, he couldn't deny it: the moment was perfect.
---------------------------------------------
Author's note;
This chapter was a big one—action, heartbreak, and a little awkward romance. I wanted to show Dylan's growth not through grand speeches, but through small, quiet choices: fixing something broken, picking out a gift, letting someone in.
A broken music box. A girl who shouldn't have lived. A gift Dylan never thought he'd give.
What do you think matters more in the apocalypse—what you fight for, or who you remember?
Next chapter… the water gets deeper.