"Ugh, how could I freaking forget? I need to focus and get my head straight," John cursed under his breath, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of the ruined school. He almost slammed a palm against his forehead, the phantom sting of past missteps a familiar ache. Every instinct screamed at him to stay vigilant, yet here he was, retracing his steps like a rookie as he headed back towards the main building for the mundane necessities in a supply room. The machete felt like an extension of his arm, its weight both a comfort and a constant reminder of the brutal new reality far better than the knife. His grip tightened as his knuckles turned white, muscles coiled and primed that he tried to turn into a habit for the future horrors. The memory of his first kill not that much earlier still clung to him like a shroud – the wet thud, the desperate gurgle, the sickening heat of blood on his hands. Fae's calm presence had helped anchor him, offering a fragile sense of normalcy, but the raw and visceral trauma remained as a fresh wound beneath the skin. He needed more than time; he needed oblivion, a mental reset button that simply didn't exist in this new and unforgiving world. The school's corridors stretched before him like an echoing maze of shadows and forgotten knowledge, each step a testament to his precarious survival.
Locating the supply room wasn't difficult; the faded sign still clung precariously above a heavy, fire-resistant door. John shoulder-barged it open, the screech of protesting hinges echoing eerily through the empty hall. He swept his gaze across the interior – dusty shelves lined with forgotten stationery, cleaning supplies and thankfully the towering stacks of industrial-sized toilet paper rolls. No lurking dangers, just the mundane detritus of a past life. With a sigh of relief, he unslung his battered pack, dropping it with a thud onto the tiled floor. "Thank God," he muttered, the words escaping as a small, desperate prayer. He began methodically stuffing the soft, white rolls into any available space within his pack. "Honestly, John, what kind of apocalypse survivor forgets the essentials?" The thought of being caught unawares, facing nature's call without the necessary provisions was almost more terrifying than any monster. His stomach, despite the adrenaline, had a nasty habit of reminding him of its biological imperatives. He shivered but not from cold, rather from the stark contrast between his new, brutal reality and the persistent, inconvenient demands of his human body that still existed despite it. How he wished this world had fully embraced its fantastical transformation, shedding the need for such indignities. A world where warriors simply didn't need bathroom breaks felt like a small, achievable mercy he was inexplicably denied.
Pack now bulging with his precious hoard, John exited the supply room, his mind already shifting to the next task at hand. He scoured the surrounding classrooms, quickly locating some sturdy glass bottles possibly from old science experiments. Back in the corridor, he tore strips from a discarded classroom curtain, the rough fabric ideal for makeshift wicks. His next target: a source of ignition. He skirted past the faint, lingering scent of decay that came far to soon than should be possible as he visually scanned the scattered remains of the newly transformed, hoping to find a discarded lighter but having no luck whatsoever. A wave of frustration washed over him. He cursed the unpredictable 'changes' that had swept through the world, not only reshaping humanity but also stripping them of their former possessions, replacing worn clothes with new, fantastical attire. It made scavenging for possible tools incredibly difficult. A fleeting, almost philosophical thought crossed his mind: if their clothes were new, were they actually items now? Would they ever get dirty or damaged, or would some inherent magic keep them perpetually pristine? He shook his head, pushing such abstract musings aside. Practicality first.
He moved towards a dented, but surprisingly mostly intact sedan parked haphazardly near the school entrance. Its side bumper, rusted but pliable offered access to the fuel tank. With a grunt, John wrenched it open, exposing the metallic glint of the tank. Wrapping the machete's blade with a careful wrapping of cloth ensuring it was layered extremely thinly before laying it aside. His crowbar, a reliable companion, was retrieved and with a few forceful, rhythmic blows against the tank he managed to produce a sickening clang then a gurgle followed by the pungent and unmistakable smell of gasoline. He lowered the glass bottles, patiently filling them with the amber liquid, the scent stinging his nostrils. Then, with an almost ritualistic care, he drenched the cloth covered machete blade, ensuring it was thoroughly saturated to give it a new and terrifying purpose.
Next, he popped the hood of the same car, revealing the greasy, defunct engine. Using the dagger at his side he severed the thick cables connected to the battery, sparks briefly spluttering in the dim light. He positioned the battery carefully on the engine block, then gripping the insulated ends of the remaining cables, he touched them together. A shower of intense, blue-white sparks erupted perfect for what he had planned. He placed the machete blade upon the engine and touched the points together making the sparks jump to the blade, with a whoosh, it caught. Flames danced along the cloth and visible steel now casting flickering, amber light into the encroaching darkness. The flaming blade was more than a weapon; it was a beacon, a primal comfort against the encroaching night and a stark, deadly advantage should the unknown decide to confront him.
As John hurried away from empty school, the flaming machete held aloft like a grim torch, a sudden, piercing sound tore through the quiet night. Female screams, raw and terrified, echoed from a nearby residential building. His steps faltered, a primal instinct to rush forward battling with the cold, hard logic he'd forced himself to adopt. The screams were urgent, desperate, painting vivid, horrifying pictures in his mind. A lesser man, or perhaps a hero in a different story, would have charged in, fuelled by adrenaline and a sense of duty. But John wasn't that man, not anymore. The memory of his first kill wasn't just guilt; it was a stark lesson in the brutal cost of intervention. He had his own mission, a sacred vow to find his family, to ensure their safety. Every ounce of his energy and every risk he took had to be for them. He couldn't afford to be a saviour, not when his own survival hung by a thread and not when his loved ones remained unaccounted for. The risks were too great, the potential for being overwhelmed, for dying a futile death were too high. He swallowed hard. He wouldn't look back. He couldn't look back. He accelerated his pace, the screams fading behind him, a haunting testament to the choices he now had to make in this unforgiving world. His heart hammered, not from fear of the unseen threat, but from the crushing weight of his deliberate inaction.
"Oh, how quaint," a singsong voice purred, startling John so violently he almost dropped his fiery weapon. The voice had come from directly beside him, unnervingly close, despite his heightened senses. "You hear a maiden in distress, her plaintive cries echoing through the night and what does the big, strapping hero do? He quickens his pace to run away with such admirable speed." The sarcasm dripped, sweet and venomous. "And here I thought the grand adventure always had the brave knight rushing to rescue the damsel, perhaps winning her affections before travelling the land together, falling madly in love over post-apocalyptic bonfires."
John spun around, muscles coiling instantly, the flaming machete raised defensively. His eyes, now adjusting to the dim light, widened in disbelief. Standing casually next to him, as if they were merely out for a nightly stroll, was a girl. He couldn't exactly place her age but felt it was in her early twenties or so, her presence though felt so much older with and unsettling aura. Her blonde hair, perfectly coiffed, framed a delicate face, but it was her attire that truly defied belief: a voluminous, cerulean and white and blue ballgown, its frilly sleeve puffs and layered skirt utterly impractical and pristine in this ruined landscape. Her bright blue eyes, wide and unnervingly perceptive, sparkled with an almost painful intensity, holding a disturbing blend of impish mischief and a deeper, unsettling madness that sent a chill down John's spine as they seemed to look not at but through him.
She seemed to relish his stunned silence as a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips. She swayed gently from side to side, a subtle rock to her step as her head tilted in a manner that was both inquisitive and predatorily aware. The flame of his machete cast dancing shadows across her unblemished face, highlighting the unnerving glint in her eyes as his grip on the hilt tightened. This wasn't just a survivor; this was something else entirely. Her appearance, her unnatural silence and her eerily insightful commentary on his internal struggle all carried this sense of wrongness.
"Who... or what... the hell are you?" John demanded, his voice rough, betraying the controlled fear that now coiled in his gut. His uncertainty wasn't just about her identity, but about her very nature, her intentions and the impossible impossibility of her being there. The night, already fraught with danger, had just taken a turn for the truly bizarre.