Cormac was awakened by a faint, persistent hum coming from the depths of the bunker, buried beneath the first floor of his two-story cottage. The LEDs on the ceiling flickered; their dim light trembled. A red light on the inverter control panel blinked insistently, warning of critically low battery charge.
In recent days, the fog and endless rains had weakened the solar panels installed on the roof. Without power, the bunker would turn into a cold tomb where the air filters could stop at any moment. Leo understood they needed to be repaired during the day, when the weak rays of the July 2030 sun pierced through the gray, rainy sky. But this always meant risk—military patrols might spot his silhouette on the roof, and the mad ones, though thinned by their raids, still lurked in the ruins, always ready to attack.
He pulled on the leather jacket; its worn collar chilled his neck. He gathered his tool kit and tucked the revolver into his belt with now-habitual caution. Emerging through the hatch to the first floor, Leo climbed onto the roof, surrounded by an overgrown lawn where grass pushed through cracks and the wreckage of rusty cars frozen like monuments to a bygone life.
The air was thick, saturated with remnants of the gas that had destroyed the City, and each breath burned his lungs. Inspecting the panels, he noticed a crack on one of them; wires protruded like torn nerves. Working quickly, he connected spare batteries, but every rustle of wind or creak underfoot made him freeze and look around, his heart pounding with adrenaline. Muffled engine sounds came from the highway—the military were somewhere nearby; their presence was always felt like an invisible threat.
Sweat trickled down his temples, mixing with grime. Leo prayed the drones hovering in the sky wouldn't track his silhouette against the gray horizon. After an hour, the panels came to life, and weak light returned to the bunker. He descended, exhaling with relief, but the tension tightening his shoulders didn't let go, still leaving a sense of impending danger.
Several more long days of July 2030 passed. Cormac felt despondency squeezing his heart more and more, as if the bunker's concrete walls were pressing on him from within. Loneliness was becoming unbearable; the silence roared louder than the footsteps of mad ones on the street. He knew that if he didn't find survivors—people who had avoided infection and transformation into twisted beings—his own mind would surrender under the weight of this hell. The gas had taken everything: families, streets, hope. But somewhere in this dead city, those who, like him, were fighting the poison might have survived.
He remembered the silence of the streets, where rare rustles—the rustle of leaves or a distant moan—could be more than just the play of the wind. They could be a hint of life. He had to act, otherwise, he would drown completely in this solitude.
Leo decided to start with the nearest place—house No. 14 on his street. A week ago, he had noticed movement in a tightly closed window: a curtain lifted, and for a moment, two faces flickered—a man and a woman, pale, gaunt, more like ghosts emerging from the fog than people. Their images haunted him during long, nightmare-filled nights, giving hope in this dead world.
He checked the 12-gauge shotgun, shortened for convenience; its metal pleasantly chilled his fingers, heated with excitement. He distributed shells into his backpack pockets. The Smith & Wesson revolver took its place in his belt; its grip fit comfortably in his palm.
Waiting for darkness, when the shadows thickened, concealing his figure, Leo slipped out of the bunker like a shadow, shotgun at the ready. Each step echoed in his tense consciousness.
The streets stretched before him, almost empty, but their silence was deceptive, like the calm before a storm. Military raids had cleared them of most mad ones, leaving only rare traces of their presence—torn clothing or blood on the sidewalks. But Leo knew caution was his only shield in this world.
Moving along the walls of the cottages, their cracked plaster chilling his fingers, he hid in shadows where moonlight couldn't reach him. Every rustle—water droplets dripping from roofs or a distant moan of wind creeping through broken windows—made him sharply turn around. His fingers clenched the shotgun tighter, trembling with tension. The weapon felt heavy, but he didn't lower it, knowing even a second's delay could cost him his life.
House No. 14 approached; its windows were dark like empty eye sockets staring into nowhere. Leo pressed against the cold wall, feeling the dampness seep through his jacket. He listened, but the silence was deathly—no footsteps, no cries, no sound of life. Only raindrops and his own breathing echoed in his ears.
Leo crossed the asphalted area in front of the garage, meant for a car, where the rusty remains of a wrecked vehicle were sinking into grass that had broken through the cracked asphalt. In the absence of people, nature was slowly but surely reclaiming its rights. He quickly ran past the empty playground next to house No. 14. Plastic playhouses, resembling light, transparent igloos, stood abandoned; their bright colors had faded in the rain. Swings creaked in the wind as if weeping for the past. Even before the catastrophe, there had been few children in this area, and now the playground seemed ghostly, sinking in overgrown weeds that entwined it like a web.
He approached the house—which, at least outwardly, was no different from his own cottage, dark and silent with peeling paint—and stepped onto the external staircase leading to the second-floor terrace, which was shrouded in utter darkness.
Leo slowly and carefully began ascending the narrow stairs to the second floor. Their steps creaked under his weight, and the railing, covered in rust, chilled his palms. He suspected those he had seen in the window might not be at all happy about his intrusion. Each of his steps resonated in his chest, reaching his very heart.
Halfway up, he stopped, catching his breath; sweat rolled down his forehead, mixing with grime. He listened, straining his hearing. He was sure there was someone in the house. The cottage walls, thin and sound-permeable, trembled at the slightest sound, but there was silence all around, heavy and oppressive.
On the second-floor terrace, he froze for a moment and risked turning on his flashlight to look around—shadows danced under its beam—then lightly knocked on the door. No sound in reply. Leo waited, holding his breath, then knocked harder; his fist thudded hollowly against the wood. Silence again, only the echo of his knock dissolved in the air.
Then he banged on the door with his fist and shouted.
"Open up! I know you're here!"
He thought he heard a faint sound from the room—a rustle or a suppressed sigh, piercing the silence like a knife. Leo took a set of keys from his pocket, selected one that looked suitable for this lock, and turned it, hearing a light click confirming the door had given way. He pushed it, and it swung open with a slight creak, as if complaining about years of neglect.
Curtains on the windows were drawn with rags, allowing only weak moonlight through. The flashlight beam illuminated the room furnished with standard furniture, similar to his own—a worn sofa, a table with peeling paint. In the middle of the room stood a woman—motionless as a statue, with wide-open eyes that held neither interest nor life, only emptiness.
Leo froze, looking at her. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. To his right, through the noise of rain from outside, he caught suppressed breathing, a hoarse sound emerging from the shadows. Someone was clearly hiding behind the door.
Cautiously stepping inside, he suddenly sensed a sharp movement—and at that same second, a mad one lunged at him. It was a man of small stature, shoeless, in an unbuttoned shirt hanging on a thin body, with a hammer raised to strike. Leo managed to dodge; his body reacted instinctively. The shotgun blast shattered the silence.
The man collapsed on the floor mid-lunge; blood from his chest, pierced by the large-caliber 12-gauge bullet, sprayed onto the dirty floor, mixing with dust.
At the same moment, the woman, as if snapping out of her stupor, threw herself at him; her nails dug into his face, leaving burning streaks of pain. The struggle was fierce but brief; her scream, full of madness, cut his ears. Leo, wrenching free from her grip, drew the revolver and fired. The mad woman fell, her body going still.
The room sank into a dead silence.
Leo stood, breathing heavily. Blood dripped from the scratches on his face, leaving more dark spots on the blood-soaked floor. A silence so thick settled in the room that he could hear his own pulse throbbing in his temples. But he knew that a minute ago, there had been life here—distorted, sick, but still life—now ended by his hands.
He walked around the room, inspecting the dwelling. The flashlight beam slid over walls covered in cracks and mold. The windows and doors were tightly sealed with rags; their edges were soaked with moisture, holding back the gas for a while. This explained how they had lasted longer than others. But unlike the filters in his bunker, this protection had proven insufficient. The gas had still penetrated the house, though more slowly than elsewhere, turning them into mad ones.
On the table lay empty cans, an extinguished candle with a wick blackened from soot, and scraps of paper scattered around the room. These traces spoke of their desperate struggle—attempts to survive in a world where every breath could be their last.
Outside, the rain continued to drizzle; its drops tapped on the roof like quiet weeping. The fog enveloped the City, hiding the streets under a gray veil. The clouds hung so low that their weight pressed on his shoulders, as if foretelling the end.
Leo turned off the flashlight, and darkness enveloped him, leaving only the weak moonlight seeping through the cracks. He retreated to the door, glancing back at the bodies. These two had tried to survive, like him, but lost the battle with the gas.