Night fell faster than Phileo expected.
One moment the sky was dark gray, heavy with smoke. The next, it had turned black, swallowing what little light remained. The streetlights never came on. The town sank into darkness like it had been drowned.
Phileo kept walking.
His legs hurt, his shoulders ached from the weight of the backpack, but he didn't stop. Every time he slowed down, his mind went back to the house. To the back room. To her eyes.
He clenched his jaw and pushed forward.
The streets near the edge of Moss were quieter, but that made them worse. No shouting. No running. Just distant fires and the soft crackle of burning wood. Somewhere far away, something crashed, followed by a scream that ended too quickly.
Phileo ducked behind a car when movement crossed the road ahead.
Two figures wandered into view.
They moved slowly, dragging their feet, heads hanging low. Their clothes were torn, stained dark. One of them suddenly snapped its head toward a sound that didn't exist, jaw opening wide as it let out a low, broken moan.
Phileo held his breath.
The figures passed without noticing him.
Only when they were gone did he realize his hands were shaking again.
"I can't do this forever," he whispered.
He needed a place to hide. Somewhere with walls. Somewhere with only one way in.
That was when he saw the hardware store.
The sign hung crooked above the entrance. The windows were broken, but the building itself looked solid. Phileo circled it once, checking for movement, his heart racing with every step.
Nothing.
He slipped through the back door and locked it behind him. Then he pushed shelves, boxes, and old paint cans against it until the door was completely blocked. It wasn't perfect, but it would slow anything down.
Inside, the store was dark. He used the small flashlight from his bag, keeping the beam low. Tools lined the walls. Nails, ropes, crowbars. Things meant for building, not surviving.
He slid down the wall and sat on the cold floor.
That's when his body gave up.
His hands went to his face, and he broke.
"I didn't even say goodbye," he whispered. "I didn't say it right."
His chest shook as silent sobs took over. He pressed his forehead to his knees, trying not to make a sound.
After a while, the tears stopped. Not because he felt better—but because there was nothing left to cry out.
A noise scraped outside.
Phileo stiffened.
Footsteps dragged past the broken windows. Shadows moved across the floor, stretched and twisted by the flashlight beam he quickly turned off. A low moan drifted through the glass.
One of them stopped.
Phileo's heart slammed against his ribs.
The shadow leaned closer to the window. He could hear wet breathing, slow and wrong. Something tapped against the glass once.
Then again.
Phileo tightened his grip on the metal rod. His arms trembled as he raised it, ready to swing if the glass shattered.
Seconds passed.
The shadow moved away.
Phileo didn't breathe until it was gone.
Hours crawled by. Every small sound made him jump. His muscles ached from staying tense for so long. He forced himself to eat a little, to drink a few careful sips of water.
Near dawn, exhaustion finally won.
Before his eyes closed, Phileo whispered into the dark, "I'll survive. I promise."
Outside, the town of Moss lay silent and broken.
And somewhere far away, the nightmare was only spreading.