Tariq snapped back to reality the moment his foot crossed the threshold.
Crunch.
He froze. The sound was sickening, soft and brittle beneath his sole.
"Wh… where am I?" he whispered aloud.
He looked down—and his stomach twisted.
He'd stepped on someone. Or… something.
Their arms had been outstretched, as if begging for mercy. The instant he moved, their entire form crumbled into ash and dust, disappearing on the wind.
His breath caught.
He looked up—and froze.
They were everywhere.
Hundreds. No… thousands.
Figures frozen in their final moments. Some lying face down, unmoving. Others curled up, cowering. A few mid-run, turned away in silent desperation.
Tariq stumbled backward, his heart pounding in his ears.
"No," he breathed, clutching his head. "No."
He fell to his knees.
The shift hit him—again. His emotions cracked open. The panic, the confidence, the love for the sight before him.
Why is this happening to me?
His hand brushed his side.
The wound — the one she left — it was gone.
So was the hole in his calf.
His breathing turned ragged, each inhale shaking.
Why do I feel like this? Why can't I stop it?
A dry cough echoed to his left.
His head snapped toward the sound.
Someone was still alive.
Tariq stood, slowly. Muscles tense. Every step cautious as he moved toward the noise.
"YOU!"
The scream pierced the silence — raw, furious.
Tariq froze.
A pile of ash nearby shifted.
From it, a woman's head rose — barely.
Her face was a horror.
One half was charred to the bone. The other barely clung to ruined flesh, cracked and blistered. Her eyes were wild with pain, her body unmoving — blackened and brittle.
"You…" she choked again, blood and soot spilling from her mouth. "You killed us all!"
Tariq staggered back a step.
I… I killed all of them?
The thought hit like a blade to the gut. His breath caught in his throat.
"You don't even know… do you?" she rasped, her head wobbling as if it was too heavy to hold up. Her voice cracked with hate. "You damn… monster."
Then her head dropped.
Her body went still.
The ash settled.
Silence returned.
Tariq's world spun.
I did this? No… there has to be an explanation. I didn't—
Then the thought twisted.
Good fucking riddance. That woman was annoying. So was everyone else.
He clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp.
"STOP!"
His knees hit the ground.
The voice in his head, the burning mood swings, the chaos — it was too much.
He thought of his dream. His mother.
Her warmth. Her calm. Her voice when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
"Mom…" he whispered. "Mom will know what to do."
Tears welled in his eyes.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, swaying. His eyes scanned the ruined world around him — but nothing was familiar.
Everything was blackened, scorched. Street signs warped and melted. Trees reduced to skeletal husks.
Still, he walked.
One foot in front of the other.
Every few steps, a new emotion washed over him. Rage. Sorrow. Confidence. Dread. Each one loud, jarring, like strangers yelling inside his chest.
After what felt like forever, he found it.
A street that wasn't burned.
His pace quickened. He searched desperately for a sign, any clue.
There — a rusted pole with a faded green plaque. He squinted through tear-blurred eyes and wiped them with the back of his hand.
Ingleton.
He stared at it, chest heaving.
Three blocks away. *I'm three blocks from home.*
Something sparked inside him.
Hope.
All he wanted was to reach the door. To see his parents. To collapse into their arms.
To hear his mother's voice again, telling him it was going to be okay.
That he was going to be okay.
Tariq was exhausted.
Not physically — he'd never felt stronger.
But mentally? Emotionally?
He was wrecked.
Still, he pressed on. One foot. Then the next.
He passed a body.
Its skin mottled, twisted. Two extra arms. Its throat torn open.
Good...
He flinched at his own thought. Shook his head. No. No, not good.
He kept walking.
More bodies lined the path. Each one wrong. Warped. Unnatural.
But Tariq didn't stop. Didn't scream. Didn't cry.
He couldn't afford to anymore.
He was past that point.
He wiped his face clean of tears — more out of instinct than feeling — and rounded the next corner.
Two blocks left.
A house stood nearby with a gaping hole torn through its side.
Another had a car embedded in its living room, the wheels still spinning faintly.
Tariq kept moving.
The voices inside him clawed at his mind — rage, despair, hatred, grief — all fighting to take control. And he fought back with everything he had just to stay himself.
He reached the next main road.
One block left.
He crossed without looking.
Turned right.
There it was.
Zora's house.
Untouched.
He slowed.
Is she gone? Is she alive?
For just a breath — a terrible, shameful breath — he smiled at the thought of her being dead. No more fights. No more memories. Just quiet.
Then the shame turned bitter.
No. No... she's alive. She has to be.
He looked away.
Focused ahead.
And finally — he saw it.
His home.
Standing strong.
Unaffected. As if nothing had ever happened.
He stared through blurry eyes, vision swimming.
Then he walked.
One step. Then another.
Toward the only thing that he so desperately wanted.
Tears streamed down his face freely now.
He didn't wipe them away. He just continued marching.