Jagger wasn't sure how long he had been walking. Hours, probably.
He had lost count after the first ten minutes, each dragging moment bleeding into the next. His pace was sluggish, a stumbling gait, his limp growing heavier with every step. Every muscle screamed in protest, every bone felt splintered, and every breath came sharp and ragged, as though his chest had been lined with knives.
More than once, he had to throw himself to the ground, heart hammering, as monsters prowled the streets. Their shapes twisted through the smoke-filled air—some tall and skeletal, others crawling on all fours, their movements jerky and unnatural. They hissed, screeched, and clicked their teeth, the guttural sounds echoing against the broken walls. The stench of rot followed them, burning his nostrils. Jagger pressed himself flat against the cold pavement, body trembling so violently that he feared they would hear the frantic rhythm of his heart. He shut his eyes, holding his breath until his lungs screamed. By some miracle, none of the creatures noticed. They passed, their claws scraping stone, and the street fell silent once more.
When he limped past the hollow remains of a grocery store, he froze. His head spun, his vision tunneling, and he thought grimly, 'I'm either going to die of blood loss or by a monster. Might as well try and prevent the first.' His priority was survival. If that meant searching the ruins with who-knew-what lurking inside, so be it.
Jagger approached the door, its frame splintered and glass hanging in jagged shards. He pushed it open slowly, the hinges whining like a wounded animal. The air inside was stale, thick with the musk of mold and rot. He stepped across the threshold, his shoes crunching faintly against broken glass and crumbling plaster. Every sound felt deafening in the silence.
He moved deeper, dragging his feet through the dust and grime. The aisles were wrecked, shelves toppled and twisted, cans scattered across the floor. Looters had stripped the place bare long ago, leaving only ruin and silence. His throat tightened with thirst, his stomach knotting.
Then he spotted it, a torn bag of chips lying on the ground, crumbs scattered across the dirty tiles. His hand shook as he picked it up. The hole in the side barely mattered. Food was food. He shoved a handful into his mouth, the stale crunch and burst of salt overwhelming his senses. Hunger roared through him. He chewed greedily, shoving in another handful, the grease coating his tongue.
He staggered onward, grabbing whatever scraps he could find and stuffing them into his pockets, half-crushed crackers, a chocolate bar split open, anything at all.
That was when something rolled against his boot.
He nearly jumped out of his skin, looking down to see a soft drink can wobble against his foot. His gaze snapped up.
A girl was standing at the end of the aisle. She was still as a statue, blue eyes wide and wet with terror.
For a long, suffocating moment, neither of them moved. The silence pressed on his ears, louder than any scream.
Jagger bent, picked up the can, and popped it open. The fizz exploded, spraying his face and shirt, sticky liquid soaking into the fabric. He didn't care. He tilted it back and drank deeply, the sharp sting of carbonation burning his throat, relief flooding through him. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and kept walking.
The girl didn't move, didn't speak. She just watched him. Her tangled brown hair clung to her dirt-smeared face, matted against her dark skin. Her clothes were shredded, stained with dried blood and grime. She couldn't have been more than eleven.
She looked terrified.
Jagger didn't stop. He didn't even meet her gaze for long.
'I can't even help myself, much less her. What am I supposed to do?'
He forced himself forward. His shoes dragged against the tiles until he found them.
A family.
A man, a woman, and a boy. All three slumped together in the shadows, their bodies twisted, eyes staring at nothing.
Jagger's throat tightened, a dull ache blooming in his chest. He turned his head away, but his gaze was pulled back, unwilling. The man wore a backpack, straps cutting into his shoulders where rigor mortis had set in.
Jagger swallowed hard. He hated himself for it, but he was desperate.
He staggered closer, lowering himself to his knees beside the bodies. His voice rasped out, low and broken.
"I'm sorry."
His fingers trembled as he unbuckled the straps and eased the backpack off the man's stiff shoulders. The zipper rasped loudly in the dead silence, and he winced. Inside, he found a few bottles of water, blessedly sealed, a zip-lock bag of snacks, and a phone with a shattered screen. The power was long gone.
Still, it was more than he could have hoped for.
"Thank you," he whispered.
He stood, the pack slung over his shoulder, and walked away, leaving the family behind in the suffocating dark.
Jagger kept moving deeper into the store, weaving past the collapsed aisles. His new pack pressed heavily against his sore back, every step jarring the bruises along his ribs. But it was a burden he welcomed. It meant he could keep going. Maybe even live another day.
Near the back, he found what used to be the pharmacy section. The shelves had been gutted, their contents scattered in chaos. Pill bottles lay smashed underfoot, plastic crunching with every shift of his boots, the acrid smell of medicine hanging faintly in the dusty air.
As he sifted through the wreckage, his hand brushed something solid. He froze, then reached down and pulled out a small white box wedged beneath a fallen display stand.
A first aid kit.
A shaky breath escaped his lips. His grip tightened on it, knuckles white. It felt like striking gold.
Beside it, half-buried in rubble, was a pile of clothes—maybe abandoned by a looter in a rush. A faded hoodie, a pair of sweatpants, even socks. All of them dusty, stiff with grime, but still intact. He snatched them up, tucking the bundle under his arm before limping toward the corner of the pharmacy where two broken counters had collapsed together, forming a crude shelter from the front windows.
There, hidden from prying eyes, he dropped down heavily. His body protested violently, legs buckling, ribs flaring in white-hot agony. For a moment, he just sat slumped against the counter, his ears ringing in the silence. Dust floated lazily in the shafts of dim light that cut through shattered windows, the air tasting stale and metallic.
With trembling fingers, he pried open the kit. Inside were the bare essentials—gauze pads, disinfectant wipes, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, two rolls of bandages, a handful of adhesive strips, and a pair of rusted scissors. Nothing fancy. But enough. Enough to keep him alive.
Grunting, he pulled his blood-soaked shirt over his head. The fabric peeled away with a wet stickiness where blood had dried, tearing scabs open. Cold air hit his skin, sharp as needles against fever-hot flesh. His ribs were a ruin of mottled purples and deep bruising, each breath pulling pain like broken glass into his lungs.
His right forearm was worse. Four deep gouges carved into him, caked with dried blood. His stomach turned at the sight, but he managed a bitter thought, 'Thank god that goblin didn't cut my inner forearm, or I'd have bled out when I passed out.'
He folded his ruined shirt, stuffed it into his mouth, and bit down.
Then, with a trembling inhale, he ripped the cap off the alcohol and poured it over the wound.
It was agony.
Fire tore through his arm, searing up into his shoulder. His eyes flooded with tears as his back arched, a muffled scream ripping into the fabric clenched between his teeth. His whole body spasmed, muscles jerking uncontrollably. Black dots swam at the edge of his vision.
'Don't pass out. Don't you fucking pass out.'
He forced himself to grab a gauze pad and scrub at the wound, the sting intensifying as he wiped away grime and congealed blood. The pain was so blinding he thought he might vomit. When the gashes finally looked clean, he spit the cloth from his mouth and gasped raggedly, chest heaving.
"Fuck… that was awful." His voice was raw, frayed around the edges.
He pressed a clean pad over the gouges and began winding the bandage tightly, layer after layer, until the cloth held firm. With a final tug, he tied the knot with trembling fingers.
"There. Done." The words came out half-delirious.
Next was his calf. He peeled his ruined pants down, the fabric peeling away from the wound with a sickening, wet squelch. His jaw clenched as if someone had ripped skin straight from his bone.
"Hhhngh…"
He splashed alcohol across the gash. The fire was instant, roaring up his leg like molten iron.
"Fuuckk…"
He ground his teeth, fighting through the waves of torment, cleaning as best as he could before wrapping it tight. His hands shook violently, blood smearing across the bandages as he secured them.
Finally, he pulled the antiseptic wipes free and started with his head. Each swipe across the gash made him hiss, a low growl clawing from his throat.
"Shit…"
By the time he finished, the world had narrowed to a blur. His arms shook violently, sweat stinging his eyes. His heart pounded as if trying to burst free from his ribcage.
The kit slipped from his grasp and clattered softly to the tile.
Jagger lay back on the icy floor, his skin clammy against the cold tiles, his body stripped bare and shivering. He curled into a fetal position, balling up tight, his breath hitching shallow and uneven. He pulled himself under the counter as much as possible and tucked his head beneath his arms, his whole frame trembling uncontrollably. His thoughts drifted in and out of darkness, his eyes drifting closed, consciousness slipping away like sand.
He had done all he could. The rest was up to fate.
And then,
Darkness took him.