**Chapter 1**

The ache in Lorere's left shoulder had settled into a familiar throb, each pulse a reminder that the warehouse wasn't home anymore. Nothing was home anymore. She pressed her back against the corrugated metal wall of what used to be a delivery truck, now a rust-eaten skeleton blocking her view of the street beyond. Three days since the fire had taken her shelter. Three days of sleeping in doorways and behind dumpsters, rationing the last of her canned peaches.

"Stupid," she whispered, testing the weight of the sickle in her right hand. The wooden handle was worn smooth where her fingers had gripped it through months of use. The blade still held its edge, but rust spots bloomed near the joint like old blood stains. "Should have seen the smoke sooner."

A cat yowled somewhere in the distance—or something that wanted her to think it was a cat. Lorere's muscles tensed. Real cats didn't make sounds that wet, that hungry. She counted to thirty, listening for the scrape of claws on concrete or the telltale rustle of something large moving through debris. Nothing. Just wind threading through broken windows and the distant groan of metal settling in the heat.

She checked her backpack's straps again, though she'd done it five times in the last hour. The bag held everything she owned: a half-empty water bottle, two more cans of fruit, a roll of medical tape coming apart at the edges, and three antibiotic pills she'd been saving for when the infection in her shoulder got worse instead of better. Which it would. It always did.

"Thirty blocks," she said to herself, the words barely audible. "Thirty blocks to Meijer's. In and out. No heroes."

The supermarket had been picked clean months ago—everyone knew that. But 'clean' was relative. There might be something left in the pharmacy, maybe overlooked cans in the damaged sections where the ceiling had caved in. People avoided those areas. Too much noise, too much risk of the whole structure coming down. But Lorere had gotten good at being quiet, at moving through spaces other people considered death traps.

She peered around the truck's corroded bumper. The street stretched before her like an open wound, asphalt cracked and sprouting weeds, storefronts gaping dark where their windows used to be. A red sedan sat sideways across two lanes, its doors hanging open like broken wings. She'd passed it before, weeks ago. The bloodstains on the driver's seat had been dark brown then. Now they were black.

"Count the exits. Check the shadows. Stay moving."

The mantra had kept her alive this long. That and the understanding that everything—absolutely everything—could kill her. The monsters were obvious threats, sure, but broken glass could cause infection, infected wounds could cause fever, fever could cause mistakes, and mistakes could cause death or transform in monster. The chain was that simple, that unforgiving.

Lorere stepped into the street, keeping low, the sickle held close to her body. Her left shoulder protested the movement with a sharp spike of pain that made her teeth clench. The wound was five days old, courtesy of a piece of rebar that had caught her as she'd scrambled over a fence. She'd cleaned it as best she could, used half her medical tape to close it, but the edges were staying pink and tender instead of scabbing over properly.

"First sign of red streaks, you find antibiotics or you die," she muttered, skirting a puddle that might have been rainwater or something much worse. "Simple math."

The next block brought her past the remnants of a coffee shop, its cheerful green awning now bleached gray and hanging in strips. Through the shattered storefront, she could see tables still set for customers who would never come. A newspaper lay spread across one table, its headline still partially visible: "EMERGENCY SHELTERS REACH CAPACITY—" The rest was too water-damaged to read.

Lorere paused, listening. The wind had shifted, carrying with it the smell of decay and something else—something metallic and wrong that made the hair on her arms stand up. She crouched behind an overturned shopping cart, forcing her breathing to slow while she scanned the street ahead.

Movement. A flicker of shadow sliding between two buildings about fifty yards away. Too big to be a rat, too fluid to be human. Her grip tightened on the sickle's handle until her knuckles went white.

"Come on," she breathed. "Keep moving. Nothing here for you."

The shadow paused at the mouth of the alley, and for a moment she thought she glimpsed something pale and wrong-angled before it melted back into the darkness between buildings. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat loud enough that she was sure anything within a hundred yards could hear it.

She waited. Counted to sixty. Waited some more.

When she finally moved, it was in quick, controlled bursts—sprint to the next piece of cover, pause, listen, assess. A delivery van with three flat tires. A cluster of newspaper stands knocked over like dominos. The skeletal remains of a city bus, its windows blown out and seats scattered across the asphalt like broken teeth.

"Seventeen blocks left," she whispered, checking her shoulder. A dark spot had appeared on her shirt where the wound was seeping through her makeshift bandage. "Bleeding again. Great."

The bus offered good cover and a view of the next two blocks, so she climbed through the emergency exit and settled behind the driver's seat. The city spread out before her like a mouth full of broken teeth, buildings gutted by fire or simply abandoned, nature already beginning the slow work of reclaiming concrete and steel. Vines crawled up the sides of apartment buildings. Saplings pushed through sidewalk cracks. In another ten years, if anyone was still alive to see it, this might all be forest again.

But ten years was a fantasy. Tomorrow was the horizon now. The next hour. The next heartbeat.

She pulled out her water bottle and allowed herself three small sips, swirling each one around her mouth before swallowing. The water was warm and tasted like plastic, but it was wet and it was hers. Fifteen blocks to go, and then the real work would begin. Getting into the supermarket. Finding something—anything—useful. Getting out alive.

And then doing it all over again the next day, and the day after that, until the day she was too slow or too hurt or too tired to do it anymore.

"Story of your life, Lorere," she said, shouldering her pack and climbing back down to street level. "Same story as everyone else's. Just trying to make it last a little longer."

The sickle caught the afternoon light as she moved, its blade throwing brief, sharp reflections against the ruins around her. Behind her, something howled—definitely not a cat this time. She didn't look back. Looking back was how you died.

She kept walking toward the supermarket, toward whatever supplies might be left, toward another day of survival in a world that wanted her dead.

scars of the apocalypse — Chapter 6: Traces

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