Blackness enveloped Arman like a thick coat.
His entire body felt trapped in a thick mud, his breath heaving as he struggled for air.
There was none for him.
He forced himself up. His body moved shakily, joints creaking and cracking as he forced his bones to form a shape again.
It hurt. Explosions lit his entire body, as if he were turning himself inside out.
The pain was not unfamiliar–-but still tormenting.
Disgusting black liquid crawled out of his mouth as he wretched, burning him on the way out, coating his tongue in a bitter, metallic taste. Dulling his senses.
Finally, with some control, he looked down. His body was no longer his. Black flesh with shards of yellowed bone jutted outward, trying to escape from him.
The rest of him lurched upright, standing in his own vomit. It burned his feet, but he stayed there, rigid in pain, as it clawed deeper.
His own fingers dug into his flesh as he tried to scream. Pointless. He knew it.
The stillness suffocated him. Quiet weighed on him as he felt himself being torn apart.
He ripped at his own body, blobs of flesh scattering until he became no longer recognizable as a living thing.
Then—black again.
The world was gone.
No feelings.
Nothing left.
Until a single drop of light, gold and beautiful, illuminated the dreary world built for him.
A figure stood there bathed in the light.
Someone unfamiliar. They looked like a child, though their features were scrambled, smoothed over—inhuman.
They wore just a white dress down to their legs, frilled with spirals looping into each other in intricate patterns.
Arman felt his insides scream and pull towards them. His body called to them, desperate to connect to them.
To become one.
This feeling was like that monster's—only stronger.
Every fiber of his being strained to move closer, to be whole. Body twitching forward on its own, as though strings had been seamed into his tendons and kept pulling.
The childlike figure moved their steps not quite matching the sound, coming out a second too late.
Darkness dispersed as they crept forward. Footsteps unhurried and light.
Walking unbothered by the writhing fragments of Arman's body until they stood directly before him.
They whispered in a voice he knew but could not place. Plain, expressionless:
"Find me."
It pressed against his skin as much as his ears, vibrating through his insides as though it came from inside him.
And just like that, everything flooded with light—ripping him away.
Arman jolted awake.
Early morning light flooded his eyes, the yellow sun finally in view.
His lungs burned as air rushed in, filling his insides with cold space.
He was in a familiar spot—the back of Hannah's truck. She sat in the front, unmoving, eyes closed.
Was she actually asleep?
Memories flooded back. He glanced down. His body was wrapped in bandages, but there was no pain.
His clothes were torn. The aviator jacket—the last gift from his father—hung in tatters.
It wasn't all a dream.
"Find me."
The words clung to him even after the lingering moments of sleep were gone, crawling under his skin like veins.
The seat creaked in front of him. Hannah's dark brown eyes caught his gaze in the rearview mirror. For a moment, her gaze pierced into him violently like she knew what he was.
The thoughts disappeared when she spoke, "I looked back around the house," she said, voice flat. "The old man was gone."
Arman nodded quietly. The news brought him no comfort.
"I'm surprised you made it. The stuff I gave you must still be in your system." She shifted, gaze lifting off him. "That means I saved your life three times in one night." Her tone softened.
"Must be a new record," the corners of his mouth twitched upward, but the laugh never came. His throat was still too raw.
"Ha. Yeah, most likely. Count yourself lucky." She barked a laugh.
"Now we need to focus on finding food. I'm out of bullets, thanks to that freakish thing. We'll have to be extra careful in the buildings."
Arman blinked. "You still want to look around after all that?"
"Yeah. We need to eat. I checked the place last night—nothing edible." She paused. "I tried."
He sighed. She was right. They had no choice, especially with the truck dead.
"Then let's start pushing it. Move as far as we can while the sun's out. What if there's more than one of those things?" He shivered at the thought.
For once, Hannah didn't argue. She just shrugged. "Not a bad idea."
He looked back at the ruined building. A small feeling pricked at the back of his neck as his hairs stood on end.
Even when he looked away, the ruined house seemed to lean toward him, watching.
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Hannah braced her hands against the truck and pushed. Again.
Such a fun activity—it had to be done twice.
As thrilling as chewing glass.
Hours passed. Houses bowed and crumbled as nature reclaimed them as her own.
Occasional animals darted by. Hannah found herself wishing for bullets. Once, whole teams were sent to scour areas for ammunition. Now it was impossible to find unless you were in the two major cities.
She'd checked Herd's house. Nothing there was useful. Not even enough to sustain anyone. Odd how he survived, since there was a monster like that roaming around. Hopefully it was the last they had to deal with.
Crazies like him were the worst. Their words gave you nothing. All you had was trust—or the lack of it.
And Hannah didn't trust him. Not then. Not now.
He'd left his thoughts unfinished, though. She wondered what else he might have told her—then dismissed it. It wouldn't have mattered.
Her shoulders burned with every shove, and the skin of her palms split against the rusted metal, leaving smears of red on the truck's back.
Her stomach growled. Sweat ran down her neck, sticking her shirt to her skin. Every shove of the truck raised clouds of dust that clung to her tongue.
Arman's shout cut through her thoughts:
"Hey, Hannah! I see a vehicle coming in the distance!"
She froze. Past the truck, a small car approached.
"Shit. Arman, get out and grab the gun!"
The truck lurched to a stop, metal groaning. Hannah sprinted to the back, pulling out her bat.
It was scarred with carvings, black tape holding it together. Red letters marked it: 'Deadbeat'. A gift to her father.
"What do I do? There's no ammo!" Arman's hands fumbled desperately, as if a bullet might magically appear.
"There aren't any. It's just for show." She reached for something else, handing him a machete. "Here."
He strapped it on reluctantly. She felt his fear radiating.
This could end badly. If the strangers had guns, it was over. Still, guns were rare in the Outskirts—mostly locked away in Lumenport.
Their best chance was bluffing. Heads high. Scare them. Crack skulls if needed.
The dot on the horizon grew fast. A silver boxy car screeched to a halt before them, rubber burning.
The screech of the car sent birds scattering, their cries layering over the tearing rubber in a cacophony of sound.
The paint was peeling, graffiti smeared across its sides.
'New Safe Haven Police Dept.' scrawled in sloppy white. The word New barely fit.
Safe Haven.
The name alone dragged up memories Hannah hated. Anyone pretending to be them wasn't the kind of trouble she wanted.
Arman raised the empty gun anyway, voice breaking. "C-come out with your hands up!" His arms trembled, the barrel of the gun wobbling in tiny circles, betraying the lie of his words.
"It's like you're not even trying," Hannah muttered, bat raised.
The driver's window creaked down. A deep voice rumbled out:
"Well, look who we've got. Hannah Bushell—and a blonde wannabe."
Laughter erupted from inside the car—sharp, grating, too many voices at once that it sounded more like howling.
"Shit…"