Mirko paused at the shattered entrance of the old convenience store, the crunch of broken glass loud beneath his boots. The cold morning air carried the faint smell of rust and wet concrete. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the dim interior.
I've been here before, he realized. A sigh slipped out of him, half-frustration, half-exhaustion. Yeah. This is definitely the place I looted yesterday.
He stepped inside anyway, kicking aside a rusted tin can that rattled across the cracked tiles. The shelves sagged under the weight of rot—what little remained was useless. Packaging that crumbled at his touch, cans swollen and split open, food that looked like it had turned to dust a decade ago.
"Everything's gone bad," he muttered to the silence, voice sounding smaller than he liked. "Expired. Just like the rest of the world."
His words drifted up into the hollow ceiling and dissolved there.
Outside, the sun was just beginning to lift its face over the skeletal remains of the skyline. Light spilled through broken windows, painting long, orange shadows across the debris-strewn street. Mirko lifted a hand to shield his eyes, shifting the strap of his empty pack across his shoulder. This store was dead. Everything here was dead.
He didn't need to stay in another graveyard.
Next one, he decided, turning his back on the ruin. Maybe the next building has something left.
He had barely gone half a block when the peace of the morning cracked apart.
A deep, low, wet grunt rolled through the street—so heavy and guttural it vibrated in Mirko's ribs. Instinct punched through him faster than thought. He dove behind a collapsed slab of concrete, the surface now buried under a thick coat of moss and creeping vines. Pressing his back against the cold stone, he held his breath.
He counted two seconds. Then three. Then slowly, very slowly, he leaned just enough to peek around the jagged edge.
And there it was.
A massive brown bear lumbered through the overgrowth, its paws crushing leaves and scrap metal with equal ease. But this wasn't the kind of bear that once roamed forests. Its fur was tangled with vines, matted with dirt, as if the wilderness itself had swallowed it. Its skin twitched with unnatural tension. And worst of all were the eyes—bright, feverish red, glowing with a violent hunger.
The infection.
A cold shiver crawled up Mirko's spine. Every animal left in the city carried the disease. It twisted them into blood-raged beasts with no fear, no hesitation, and absolutely no mercy.
He recognized this one. Even from here.
He had seen it before—patrolling this neighborhood like it owned every cracked sidewalk and every overturned car. The king of this block. Mirko was nothing but a trespasser with soft bones and very breakable limbs.
Yeah, I'm not fighting that, he told himself as the creature sniffed the air, its ears twitching. I'm going to let this guy pass. Safety first. Pride later.
The bear eventually lumbered off, vanishing into the tangle of ivy and ruined concrete. Mirko didn't move until the sound of its heavy footsteps melted into the distance.
Only then did he exhale.
He slipped out from cover and made his way toward a different structure farther down the street—a reinforced concrete building whose walls had held surprisingly well against time. The faded lettering on the front suggested it had once been a supply depot or some sort of specialty pantry.
This one… this one felt promising.
He pried the rust-eaten door open, muscles straining until it gave way with a groaning metallic screech. Inside, the air was thick with dust, but noticeably free of the sweet, sick rot of long-spoiled food.
A good sign.
He moved quickly but methodically, sweeping his flashlight over shelves stacked with boxes—most empty, some crushed, some untouched for years. He rummaged through the back racks, pushing aside collapsed cardboard until his fingers struck something solid.
Plastic. Smooth. Heavy.
He grabbed it and brushed off the dust.
A five-kilogram bag of white rice.
Mirko's breath hitched.
"No way," he whispered, his voice cracking into a disbelieving laugh.
Sixteen-year-old date or not, he knew rice. Rice didn't die if it had stayed dry. This wasn't just lucky.
This was survival.
A grin stretched across his face as he stuffed the bag into his backpack, feeling the weight settle warm and hopeful against his spine. A feast. A week of actual food. Maybe more.
He kept going.
A jar of honey—crystallized but perfectly edible—gleamed at him from a dusty corner like treasure. He packed that too. Jackpot didn't even begin to describe it.
Finally, he checked the small manager's office tucked away at the back. The place looked untouched—papers scattered, drawers half-open, the stale smell of old receipts.
He searched them anyway.
Nothing. Pens. Trash. Paperclips.
But the bottom drawer was locked.
Mirko crouched, sliding his pry bar into the thin gap. With a sharp, echoing crack, the lock surrendered.
Inside, sitting neatly atop old invoices, was a handgun. Black, cold, sleek—like it had been waiting for him. Next to it sat a heavy box of ammunition.
Mirko froze.
For a long moment he just stared.
Then he reached out, fingers closing around the gun's grip. It was heavier than he expected. Real. Dangerous. He checked the magazine—empty—but that didn't matter. The box beside it was full.
His heartbeat steadied.
For the first time in almost a year, Mirko didn't feel like a scavenger picking at the bones of the world.
He felt like someone who could finally fight back.
Mirko slung the newly loaded backpack over his shoulder, feeling the satisfying pull of weight—rice, honey, bullets. Actual supplies. Actual hope.
"Alright," he murmured to himself, brushing dust off his hands. "Time to head back."
He eyed the sun through the cracked window. Still morning. Maybe… maybe an hour's walk if he stuck to the side streets and didn't get stupid.
Or… I could loot one more place?
The thought flickered, tempting.
He shut it down immediately.
"Nope," he whispered. "Not today. Not with that bear prowling around."
A shiver snaked down his spine at the memory of those red, boiling eyes.
Yeah. He wasn't interested in becoming breakfast.
He pushed open the depot door and squeezed through the gap, boots scraping on the concrete. The moment he stepped outside, the air changed—cool, damp, alive.
The city looked greener than it had yesterday. Maybe it was the sunlight cutting through the vines, or maybe the plants had simply decided to grow another foot overnight. They did that sometimes, like the world was hurrying to erase every trace of the old one.
Mirko inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of wet leaves and distant flowers. This was the only good part of scavenging—stepping back into air that didn't taste like dust.
"Home," he said under his breath. "Just make it home."
He started walking, boots sinking slightly into patches of moss that had overtaken the cracked pavement. His pace was steady but alert, eyes flicking to every alley, every overturned car, every window where shadows shouldn't move. The weight of the backpack thumped against his spine, strangely comforting—like a hand pushing him forward.
His mind drifted to the only place that truly felt safe.
His little house.
Nestled high in the branches of an old oak tree that had somehow survived the apocalypse and then thrived in it. He'd built the place himself over years—patches of wood scavenged from ruins, metal sheets wired into walls, blankets stuffed into gaps to keep the wind out. It wasn't big, or pretty, or professional.
But it was his.
A place no infected animal could climb.
A place where he could breathe.
A place where the world felt… almost gentle.
Mirko tightened his grip on his backpack straps, a small smile tugging at his lips.
As long as he made it back before dark…
As long as nothing followed him…
As long as the bear didn't decide to check the trash cans again…
He'd be okay.
He just had to keep walking.
Mirko followed the overgrown path, humming under his breath as he stepped over a fallen streetlight that had been swallowed by vines. The city was quiet—too quiet—but after years alone, silence was practically an old friend.
Still, he needed noise. Even dumb noise.
"Alright, nature," he said, gesturing dramatically at the greenery choking the street. "I get it. You won. Congrats. You beat buildings, roads, and every construction worker who ever lived."
He nudged a leafy vine with his boot.
"And now you're trying to trip me every five steps. Real mature."
A bird—probably infected, but too small to care—flapped out of a broken window and startled him. Mirko jumped, then cleared his throat like someone had witnessed it.
"Uh-huh. Totally expected that. Didn't scare me at all. Nope."
He continued walking, swatting at hanging branches like they were annoying siblings.
At one point, he stopped beside a cracked mirror someone had tossed out long before the world ended. It leaned against a wall, covered in grime. Mirko crouched, wiped a clean streak with his sleeve, and stared at his own face.
Hair sticking out everywhere. Dirt smudged across his cheek. Sunburn threatening to become a permanent personality trait.
"Damn. I look like a raccoon who lost custody of its kids," he sighed.
He pointed at his reflection.
"You know what would fix that? A shower. You know what I don't have? A shower."
With a groan, he pushed himself back to his feet and resumed walking.
A few minutes later, he spotted a faded advertisement on a collapsed bus stop—a perfect, smiling woman holding a soda bottle. The colors were sun-bleached, but the grin was still unnervingly bright.
Mirko stopped and stared at it.
"Ma'am," he told the poster, "nothing is that refreshing. Stop lying."
He kept going, leaves brushing his shoulders, the sunlight dancing between broken buildings. Despite the danger and the emptiness, moments like this—where he could joke, talk nonsense, or laugh at his own stupidity—made the world feel a little less heavy.
He kicked a pebble ahead of him, watching it bounce off an old car bumper.
"Home stretch," he said to himself, adjusting his pack. "If I don't trip over another vine or get jumped by a squirrel with rabies, today might actually be a win."
"Yes!" Mirko grinned as the familiar outline of his treehouse came into view, high above the ruined street. "Home sweet home."
The walk had felt longer than an hour—his feet ached, his throat was dry, and his stomach had been complaining loud enough to scare wildlife. But seeing the sturdy branches holding his handmade shelter made something warm settle in his chest.
He climbed the rope ladder with practiced ease, each rung creaking softly under his weight. When he finally stepped into the little wooden platform he called home, he let his backpack drop to the floor with a heavy thud.
"Time to cook," he muttered, rubbing his stomach. "Man, I'm starving."
His "kitchen" was a small metal pot, a fire pit made with stones, and a few scavenged utensils that had survived the apocalypse better than most humans. He poured some of the precious rice into the pot, added water from his filtered canister, and set it over the small flame he sparked to life.
The moment the fire caught, smoke curled lazily upward through the gaps in the roof. Mirko sat cross-legged, poking the fire with a stick like he knew what he was doing.
"Look at you," he told the pot. "Real chef material. Gordon Ramsay would faint."
As the rice softened, the smell filled the small space—warm, comforting, almost too nostalgic. Mirko hadn't eaten a real meal in… weeks, maybe months. Everything had been wild berries, mushrooms, and whatever he could dry over a fire.
When the rice was finally done, he scooped a steaming handful into his dented metal bowl. No seasoning. No salt. No spices.
Just plain white rice.
And it tasted like heaven.
He closed his eyes on the first bite, shoulders sagging with relief.
"Oh my god," he whispered. "Food that doesn't taste like sadness."
He ate every grain, scraping the sides clean because wasting even a single piece felt like a crime. When he was done, he leaned back against the wall and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Then, his gaze drifted to the handgun lying on the wooden floor beside his pack.
"Maybe I should learn how to shoot this thing," he said out loud. "I've seen it in movies before… how hard can it be?"
The back of his mind immediately answered:
Very hard, Mirko. Also loud. Also stupid.
He imagined firing a shot and ten infected animals sprinting toward the sound like he had personally insulted their mothers.
"Yeah… bad idea," he muttered. "Unless I want a pack of god-knows-what showing up here."
He picked up the gun anyway, feeling the weight of it in his hands. The cool metal. The power. The danger.
"I'll figure it out," he said softly, turning it over and examining the barrel like it might whisper instructions to him. "When danger comes… I'mma know what to do."
He set it down gently, stretching his legs out.
Outside, the wind rustled the leaves.
Inside, Mirko felt full for the first time in ages.