HASSAN
Morning light felt wrong. It came in weak and pale through cracks in the building, touching dust and broken concrete without any warmth. Hassan sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, counting the sounds of the apartment—breathing, shifting fabric, the faint hum of power still lingering.
Craig stood near the balcony, arms folded, eyes focused outward.
"Three days," Craig said without turning. "That's how long most fridges last if nobody opens them."
Hassan nodded. "Packaged food should still be fine."
Craig turned then, studying him. "You're sure?"
Hassan swallowed. "As sure as anyone can be now."
Craig exhaled slowly and knelt, tearing a page from an old notebook. He wrote neatly, taking his time. When he finished, he handed it to Hassan.
Hassan read it twice.
- Rice
- Pasta
- Canned food
- Bread
- Water
- Medical supplies
- Batteries
- Soap
No extras. No comfort items.
"Stick to this," Craig said. "If something feels off, you come back."
Abdi stood quietly near the door, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He met Hassan's eyes briefly—no words, just acknowledgment.
They didn't say goodbye.
The descent felt slower than before.
Abdi took his time, adjusting constantly to avoid the web. Hassan focused on breathing, on the rhythm of Abdi's movement, on anything but the drop beneath them.
They landed near the supermarket's loading bay.
The air smelled normal.
That unsettled Hassan more than the stench of decay would have.
Inside, the supermarket was dim but intact. Sunlight streamed through shattered windows, casting dull golden stripes across the aisles. Shelves leaned, carts lay abandoned, but nothing had been completely destroyed.
Hassan grabbed a trolley and tested the wheels.
It squeaked.
He winced and nudged it gently until it rolled more quietly.
They moved aisle by aisle.
Hassan checked expiration dates out of habit. Everything still had months. Years. He stacked rice carefully, then pasta, then cans—beans, vegetables, meat. He placed them instead of tossing them, trying to keep the noise down.
At first, Abdi stayed near the entrance, watching the street through broken glass. When Hassan reached the water aisle, Abdi joined him, helping load bottles into the trolley.
"How much can you carry?" Hassan whispered.
"More on the way up," Abdi said. "Less on the way down."
Hassan nodded and kept working.
They found bread near the front. Still sealed. Still soft. Hassan pressed a loaf lightly and felt it spring back.
Normal.
That word felt dangerous.
Next, they moved to the medical aisle. Bandages. Painkillers. Antiseptic. Hassan grabbed everything and loaded it into the trolley, his hands moving faster now. His chest felt tight—not panic, but something close.
Then a sound drifted in from outside.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
A voice.
Hassan froze.
Abdi lifted a hand.
They crept toward the window together.
On the street, two figures stood near a stopped car.
A man and a woman.
They were close enough that Hassan could see their faces clearly.
The woman was talking quickly, her hands moving sharply. The man stood stiff, shoulders hunched, staring past her instead of at her.
Then the man moved.
He slammed her into the car door.
The sound carried—metal ringing, breath knocked from lungs.
Hassan's mouth went dry.
The woman screamed.
The man didn't shout back.
He bit.
Hassan felt his stomach drop as the man tore into her shoulder, ripping fabric and flesh. The woman thrashed, hands clawing at his face, at the air, at nothing.
The man made a sound—low, desperate, almost relieved.
He didn't look around.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't stop.
Abdi tightened his grip on Hassan's arm.
"He doesn't see us," Abdi whispered.
The woman's movements slowed.
Then she stopped.
The man remained where he was, crouched over her, eating.
Hassan backed away from the window slowly, carefully, until his shoulders hit the shelf behind him.
"He's not thinking," Hassan said quietly. "He's just reacting. Like nothing else exists."
Abdi didn't respond.
They didn't run.
In silence, they finished loading the trolley, moving quickly and efficiently. Hassan avoided the windows and didn't think about how close the man really was.
The ascent was quiet.
Too quiet.
The apartment felt smaller when they returned.
Craig looked up immediately. Zak was already standing. Selma moved closer. Chris paused mid-motion. Abdi set the trolley down without a word.
No one asked questions at first.
Craig started unloading supplies, placing them neatly along the wall.
"Food's good?" he asked eventually.
"Yes," Hassan replied.
Water bottles clinked softly as they were laid out.
Then Craig paused.
"You saw something."
That wasn't a question.
Hassan nodded.
"There was a man," he said. "Outside. On the street."
Selma's shoulders tensed.
Zak's eyes sharpened.
"He attacked a woman," Hassan continued. "Didn't hesitate. Didn't look around. Just acted."
Chris swallowed. "Alive?"
"Yes."
No one spoke.
Abdi leaned against the counter, eyes on the floor.
Hassan felt the silence stretch, thick and heavy.
"He didn't even notice us," Hassan said finally. "That's what scared me."
Craig straightened slowly.
Outside, the web creaked.
The building answered with a low groan.
Zak hugged his arms to himself.
Selma sat down hard on the couch.
Hassan felt like he shouldn't have said anything.