The truck has been rattling over the uneven pavement for hours, and the constant vigilance required for navigating the deserted highways is starting to take its toll. August keeps his hands steady on the wheel, but he can feel the exhaustion creeping in—not his own, but Layla's.
She's been awake for more than fourteen hours, keeping him company, watching the road like a hawk even when he didn't ask her to. Now, her head lolls against the window, eyes half-lidded, blinking sluggishly as she tries—and fails—to fight off sleep.
August slows the truck as he glances at Layla, then back at the road. It's empty in both directions, nothing but cracked asphalt stretching into the night. He exhales and slows the truck, rolling it onto the shoulder. The moment he puts it in park, Layla unbuckles her seatbelt and shifts, curling up against the door like she's been waiting for this moment for hours.
"Get some sleep," August says, though he knows she's already halfway there.
She makes a vague noise in response, something between agreement and relief, before letting herself slip under completely.
August doesn't move. He just sits there, one hand on the wheel, watching the darkness beyond the windshield. He doesn't need rest, not like she does. He reaches over to one of his duffel bags, retrieving a small blanket and placing it over Layla, who snuggles into her seat.
He stays awake with a pistol in hand. Watching. Waiting. Letting her have this moment of peace.
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"Rise and shine."
Layla shifts in her seat as the morning sun beams down on her, her blanket feeling uncomfortably hot. She moves the blanket away from her upper body and groans, her voice thick with sleep. "Ugh… what time is it?"
"Morning," August replies, unhelpfully.
Layla squints at him, then at the blinding sunlight streaming through the windshield. She shifts upright, rubbing at her face, her fingers catching in her hair. It's matted against the side of her head from how she was curled up all night.
"You let me sleep too long," she mutters, stretching her arms until her joints pop.
"You were dead to the world." August leans back against the driver's seat, arms crossed. "Figured you earned it."
She doesn't argue, just sighs and leans her head back against the seat. The truck is already heating up from the morning sun, making the air thick and unpleasant. Layla pulls her blanket all the way off and cracks open the door, letting in a gust of dry wind.
"You hungry?" August asks.
Layla considers it, then nods. "Yeah. But not canned food."
"Then we better find something before you get cranky." August starts the truck, the engine rumbling back to life.
Layla smirks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Too late."
He pulls the truck back onto the road, the highway stretching endlessly ahead of them.
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After two hours on the road, the truck finally rolls into Northern Kabul as nightime approaches. The air feels a bit fresher here, with fewer of the heavy, dust-choked winds of the countryside. But the signs of chaos are still evident—burnt-out buildings, scattered debris, and the occasional distant thud of conflict remind August that things here aren't much better than where they came from.
The streets are more crowded, with a mixture of old, decaying buildings and newer, half-constructed ones. Cars and motorcycles weave between pedestrians, adding a layer of noise and movement to the once-silent landscape.August surveys the scene with practiced eyes. It's the kind of place you either blend into or get swallowed by.
He feels a slight weight on his chest as he looks around, knowing how easy it is for a man like him to disappear into this kind of mess, but that's exactly what he needs.
August pulls the truck to a stop in an alley, the engine sputtering slightly as it cuts off. Layla's already stirring in her seat, blinking sleep out of her eyes and stretching in the confined space. "So, this is Kabul…" She doesn't seem thrilled.August doesn't answer right away.
August scans the area, finding it not exactly a welcoming place. "Yeah," he finally mutters. "Northern Kabul. We're close to the city's heart, but... not exactly the safest place to stick around for too long."
She shrugs, grabbing her backpack from the back seat. "Where's our first stop?"
August nods in the direction of a dilapidated building a few blocks down. "That way. Should be some supplies there, if we're lucky." He then looks at Layla. "You ready?"
Layla gives him a look that's both tired and determined. "I have to be when it comes to you."
August lets out a low chuckle, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Fair enough," he mutters. He pops open the truck's door and slides out, the weight of the day's lingering heat already pressing down on him. The sound of distant shouting and the occasional muffled gunshot reminds him that this place is always a little on edge, even in the quieter corners.
He opens the door of the back seat, grabbing his two trusty duffel bags. He closes the door and adjusts the duffel bags on his shoulders. August then moves to the dilapidated building down the street.
Layla follows close behind, her boots thudding on the pavement as they walk toward the building he pointed out. The structure, once a promising shop or office, now looks like a skeletal shell, its windows shattered, its walls scarred by time and violence. But it's still standing, which is more than can be said for a lot of the places they've passed.
"Keep your eyes peeled," August says, his voice dropping to a whisper as they approach the entrance. "We're not the only ones hunting for scraps around here."
Layla nods, her hand hovering near the small knife given to her earlier that she keeps hidden in her jacket. She's no stranger to the danger that hangs in the air, but she's always ready. Her steps slow, but not out of hesitation—she's scanning the surroundings, instinctively picking out shadows that might hide trouble.
As they near the door, August steps ahead, checking it quickly with a practiced glance before nudging it open. It creaks, but doesn't collapse. Inside, it's dim, the only light filtering in through cracks in the walls. Shelves are overturned, and a couple of empty crates lie scattered, remnants of what was once a store.
"Let's make this quick," August mutters, already moving deeper into the building.
Layla follows, staying a step behind. The silence in the building is unnerving, but it also gives her time to reflect on how far they've come from the road. Northern Kabul. It's violent, it's unpredictable, but it's real.
"How long do you think we'll be here?" Layla asks, her voice quiet.
August pauses for a moment, checking a broken cabinet for anything useful. "As long as it takes. I'll let you know when it's time to move again."
He picks up something from the shelf—a can of beans. He tosses it toward her. "Start gathering what we can."
Layla catches the can easily, but her eyes stay on him for a moment longer than necessary. "You're always so... calm."
August grins, a little too knowingly. "One of us has to keep it together."
She rolls her eyes, though the slightest hint of a smile tugs at her lips. "Good thing you're here then."
As they step onto the second floor, the air feels heavier, thick with dust and the scent of old wood and decay. The remnants of an apartment remain mostly intact—walls still standing, furniture left behind in a state of quiet abandonment. A couch, torn at the edges, sits against one wall. A small dining table, its surface covered in a thin layer of grime, stands with only one chair beside it. A cabinet in the corner has its doors hanging open, revealing a few dishes still inside.
Layla exhales, stepping cautiously over a pile of scattered papers. "Huh. Could be worse."
August scans the room, his gaze landing on a half-broken shelf stocked with long-forgotten essentials. A few cans, a rusted tin of what might have been coffee, and a first-aid kit—its packaging yellowed with age but still sealed.
"Could also be better," he mutters, making his way over. He picks up a can, inspecting the label. "Corn. Not bad."
Layla walks toward a doorway leading to what was once a bedroom. The bed is still there, its sheets discolored but intact. A small closet stands open, revealing a few old garments hanging limply inside. She reaches out and runs a hand over the fabric, the texture stiff with dust.
"Someone lived here," she says, almost to herself.
"Yeah," August responds, glancing toward her. He gestures around. "Someone left in a hurry."
Layla doesn't ask what that means. She knows. Whoever stayed here probably ran out of time, like so many others.
August pulls open a drawer in the kitchen area, finding a small knife with a worn handle. He tucks it into his belt before glancing at Layla. "We'll rest here for a bit. You need it."
She opens her mouth to protest but stops herself. He's right. She's been awake too long, and even her practiced awareness is starting to dull at the edges. "Fine," she relents, dropping her backpack onto the couch.
"I'm going back to the car to pick up the guns," August says as he drops his duffle bags on the dusty floor. "Keep your pistol ready if need be, alright?"
Layla nods, already pulling the pistol from her jacket to check the magazine. "Got it. Just don't take forever."
August gives her a look, one brow slightly raised. "When have I ever?"
She scoffs. "August, I've known you for almost a week and I have a list. I think that says something about you."
He smirks but doesn't argue. Instead, he turns toward the door, stepping over a fallen beam as he makes his way back downstairs. The building creaks around him, the weight of its years pressing down like a held breath.
Outside, the sun hangs heavy in the sky, as August makes his way to the truck. He stops mid-step, noticing a man fumbling with the door's handle. The man looks like a typical, desperate scavenger—thin, dirty clothes, and a demeanor that indicates more nerves than sense.
"Hey," August calls out, voice flat. "You lost?"
The man jumps, spinning around with a startled look. His eyes flick up and down August's androgynous frame before settling into a weirdly dismissive glare.
"Mind your business, lady," he mutters in Pashto, reaching for a rusty knife at his belt.
August stops, blinks once, then exhales sharply through his nose. He rolls his shoulders, already feeling the annoyance settle in. Nowhere near the worst thing he's been called, but still.
The guy scowls, gripping his knife like it's gonna make a difference. "I said—" He doesn't get to finish. August's hand clamps over his face, lifting him off the ground like a particularly annoying stray cat. The man thrashes, muffled yells vibrating against August's palm.
August throws him a good three feet from the truck, the man stumbling and falling onto his back. August plants a foot on his chest and shoves him flat onto the pavement. "Try that again," he says, tone utterly unimpressed.
The scavenger wheezes, trying to wriggle free. "Shit—alright, alright! I get it!" His hands go up in surrender.
August sighs through his nose, debating if he even wants to deal with this. Instead of an immediate murder, for a split-second, he applies more pressure to the man's sternum, then takes his foot off while shaking his head. "Pick a different truck next time."
The scavenger scrambles up and bolts without another word.
August watches him go before unlocking the truck. His grip tightens briefly around the back door's handle. "Lady," he mutters to himself, shaking his head as he opens the back seat. "Some people have no damn awareness."
August slings the duffel bag of guns over his shoulder, giving one last glance toward the direction the scavenger ran off. "No sign of him. Good."