When the procession faded into the distance, Ulysses exhaled slowly. The boy's grip on his sleeve loosened, though his eyes still lingered on the bloody trail left in the street.
"Kuya," he whispered, "are they hurting themselves because they're afraid?"
"Yes," Ulysses said, keeping his voice low. "Fear makes people do strange things."
The boy tilted his head. "Then what do brave people do?"
The question caught Ulysses off guard. He almost answered they keep moving, but the words stuck. Brave people, he thought, probably didn't hide in ruins watching the world burn.
He swallowed his guilt and motioned forward. "Come on. We need to find water."
They followed the broken avenue until dusk painted the sky bruised purple. The fires of Manila glowed faintly on the horizon, a jagged line of orange and black. Exhaustion slowed their steps, and Ulysses worried the boy wouldn't last the night without rest.
At last they stumbled upon a half-collapsed apartment block. A lantern flickered in one of the windows, faint but steady. Ulysses hesitated, torn between caution and desperation.
The boy whispered, "Someone's alive."
They crept closer. At the doorway, a man in his fifties stepped out, holding a metal pipe like a weapon. His eyes were wary but not cruel. "Who's there?"
"Just two survivors," Ulysses said, raising his hands. "We don't want trouble."
The man studied them, then sighed. "Come inside before night falls. It's worse out there when the dark comes."
Inside, the apartment had been stripped bare, but candles lit the corners. A few other survivors sat huddled, their faces gaunt, their eyes sunken. A pot of rice simmered weakly on a camping stove, its smell filling the air with fragile hope.
The boy's stomach growled audibly. The man chuckled softly. "You're hungry. Sit, both of you."
As they ate, the man introduced himself as Ernesto, a retired teacher. He had gathered a handful of neighbors after the flood, trying to keep them alive.
"We share what little we have," Ernesto explained. "But we also pray together. That's how we've lasted this long."
Ulysses tensed. "Pray to who?"
"To the only One left listening," Ernesto said calmly. "We've seen the moon, the seas, the signs. These are the days of judgment. The prophets aren't wrong—just divided. We believe our prayers will guide us to the truth."
The other survivors nodded, some murmuring amens. The boy looked at Ulysses nervously, as though waiting to see if he would reject them.
Ulysses forced a smile. "We're grateful for the food."
But inside, his stomach knotted. Shelter meant safety, for now. But it came tethered to faith he wasn't sure he could share. And with every new group they met, he realized the same truth: survival was no longer just about food and water. It was about which vision of the end you chose to follow.
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End of Chapter 26