Chapter 2
The night was always worse.
As the sun dipped behind the broken skyline, a deeper kind of darkness crept in. Not just the absence of light, but something heavier — like the world itself was holding its breath. Out there, in the streets swallowed by shadows, the walkers stirred.
Their moans echoed softly at first, like distant whispers carried by the wind. But as the hours passed, the sounds grew more frequent — more desperate. The dead were restless. And everyone who survived long enough learned that at night, they hunted harder.
Inside his barricaded apartment, Marcel sat near the window, a crowbar leaning against his chair. The glow from the small candle on the table barely reached the edges of the room. His eyes stayed sharp, scanning the cracks between the boards covering the windows.
Being ex-military helped. Discipline. Control. He'd trained in worse conditions, slept in worse situations. The sounds didn't rattle him. Not the groans. Not scratching. Not the occasional dull thud when one of them stumbled into the side of the building.
But that didn't mean he was sleeping any better.
Every few minutes, his eyes would flick to the bathroom door.
Sarah had been in there for nearly two hours now.
He could hear her sometimes — faint, broken sobs barely muffled by the door. There was pain in her voice, not physical, but the kind that left deeper wounds. Loss. Fear. Guilt.
Every so often, she'd whisper names. Each one like another stone tossed into the river of her tears.
"Jason... Mom... Daniel..."
Marcel closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled quietly through his nose. He'd seen it before. Everyone out here had lost someone — family, friends, maybe everyone they ever knew. Some snapped. Others carried the weight until it buried them.
He let her have her space. For now.
The wind howled outside, rattling one of the loose boards. A deep, gurgling moan floated up from the alley. Marcel shifted slightly, his hand resting near the crowbar out of habit, eyes narrowing toward the window. But after a few minutes, the noise faded.
He glanced at the clock on the wall — the battery-operated kind that kept ticking when everything else failed.
2:18 AM.
Time crawled now. Every hour was a victory.
After a while, the bathroom door creaked open. Sarah stepped out slowly, her face pale and streaked with dried tears. She clutched her arms tightly around herself, as if trying to hold her broken pieces together.
Marcel didn't say anything right away. Neither did she.
He nodded toward the couch. "You can sleep there tonight."
Sarah gave a shaky nod of thanks, her voice lost to exhaustion. She moved slowly, curling up on the old couch, pulling one of the spare blankets tightly over herself.
As she finally settled into a restless sleep, Marcel remained by the window, eyes never fully closing.
---
When morning finally came, the world outside stirred in its strange, broken rhythm.
The birds still sang, their soft chirps cutting through the stale air like faint reminders of what used to be normal. The sun pushed its way through the cracks between buildings, casting warm light across the cold streets. Even now, the sky turned blue — just like before. Just like always.
And yet, the groans continued.
Somewhere not too far away, the dead still dragged their decaying bodies along the asphalt, their hunger never satisfied, their moans low and constant — background noise to this new world.
Marcel stood by the window, hands resting on the edge of the boarded frame, eyes scanning the street like he had every morning since it started. He watched the sunlight crawl across the buildings, warming the cracked bricks and broken windows.
For a brief moment, something inside him stirred.
"Maybe it's not all over," he whispered under his breath.
His gaze shifted toward the couch.
Sarah was still asleep, her breathing soft, her face calm. In sleep, she looked untouched by it all. Peaceful, even. Whatever dreams she had seemed far removed from the nightmare outside. Maybe she dreamed of her family — of better days — of what used to be.
Marcel exhaled through his nose.
It was strange how sleep could erase everything for a few hours — the screams, the blood, the loss. In sleep, they were just people again. Normal. Safe.
But morning always brought the truth back with it.
He rubbed the back of his neck, muscles stiff from a night spent sitting upright, half-alert. The military had taught him how to rest without truly sleeping. It was a habit that kept him alive now.
The supplies on the small wooden table caught his eye — a couple cans of beans, half a loaf of bread, some bottled water. Enough for a few days if they stretched it.
He knew soon they'd have to venture out again. Staying in one place was never safe for long. The dead wandered. The living was worse.
But for now…
For this one quiet moment…
He let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still something left worth fighting for.
The sound of Sarah stirring pulled him from his thoughts. She shifted beneath the blanket, blinking groggily as her eyes adjusted to the soft light.
Marcel spoke softly, not wanting to startle her.
"Morning."
Sarah sat up slowly, her voice hoarse from crying through the night.
"Morning... Thank you. For last night."
Marcel gave a faint nod. "Don't mention it."
An awkward silence settled between them, but not an uncomfortable one. Just two strangers trying to figure out how to survive another day.
Finally, Sarah looked up, voice a little steadier.
"Do you think... Do you think anyone's still out there? Like, government... military... anyone?"
Marcel's jaw tightened slightly.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But we're still here. That counts for something."
The silence soon faded.
Outside, the groans of the dead rose and fell like a tide, their mournful sounds drifting through the cracked air like a reminder — the world hadn't healed overnight. It was still broken. Still dangerous.
Marcel glanced back at Sarah, who was sitting up on the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She looked exhausted, her eyes puffy, but the terror that once filled them seemed to have dulled slightly.
In a calm voice, he said, "The water still works in the bathroom shower. If you want to wash up, you're more than welcome."
The moment the words left his mouth, something shifted in Sarah's face — a small spark, like a piece of hope reigniting. For the first time since she'd stumbled into his apartment, there was life behind her eyes.
"You have running water?" she asked softly, almost in disbelief.
He nodded. "Cold, but it works."
With a new found energy, Sarah swung her legs off the couch and stood up, her movements quick but controlled, almost as if she was afraid this small comfort might vanish if she didn't act fast enough.
"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling again, though this time from something closer to gratitude than fear.
Marcel almost let out a smile as he watched her make her way to the bathroom door, gently closing it behind her. A moment later, he could hear the faint rush of water through the old pipes — a sound that almost felt foreign now. It was strange how something as simple as running water could seem like a luxury in this new world.
Huff... fff
Huff... ffffff
After steadying his breathing, Marcel opens his eyes with a new clarity. The sting of sweat in his eyes fades as his heartbeat slowly settles into a steady rhythm.