The morning sun bled through the persistent, low-hanging haze of smog and industrial smoke that had colonized Los Angeles. It was a jaundiced, sickly light, but to Brice, it was the first time in ninety days he wasn’t running for his life.
He was limping.
Every shift of his weight sent a jagged spike of protest from his ankle, a constant, dull throb that he’d learned to compartmentalize. Brian wasn’t in much better shape; he walked with a stiff-legged gait, rolling his shoulder rhythmically to work out the deep-tissue bruising that stained his skin the color of a storm cloud.
They were beyond exhaustion. They were hollowed out, their bodies running on the kind of desperate, marrow-deep hunger that made the edges of their vision blur.
Brice adjusted the straps of the empty backpack he’d scavenged from the Genesis facility. It was a cruel piece of luggage—durable, tactical, and utterly devoid of anything edible.
A faint blue shimmer flickered at the edge of his vision.
Warning: Physical condition deteriorating.
Hydration: Critical
Caloric Deficit: Severe
Recovery Efficiency Reduced
Brice blinked the notification away with a humorless grunt. “Yeah. No kidding.”
Brian glanced at him. “System?”
“Apparently it has decided to become my mother.”
“What’d it say?”
“That I need food, water, and rest.”
Brian looked down the deserted, dust-choked street. “Great. Tell it to manifest a burrito.”
“I’ll put in a request.”
“Well,” Brian said, staring at the empty road, “at least we’re traveling light. We’re basically aerodynamic at this point.”
Brice offered a thin, tired smile. “Give it an hour. We’ll either find a stockpile or become something else’s brunch.”
“I have a strong preference for the former,” Brian noted dryly.
“So would I.”
Los Angeles was a corpse of a city. Entire intersections were dammed with the rusted, hulking skeletons of abandoned vehicles, forming accidental barricades that forced them to detour through shattered storefronts. Some buildings had buckled under the weight of neglect, while others had been stripped to the studs, picked clean by desperate hands like scavengers working a carcass.
Spray-painted warnings scrawled in faded red and black served as the city’s only remaining laws:
DON’T GO OUT AFTER DARK.
NO SHELTER HERE.
KEEP MOVING.
Brice studied the messages, his eyes narrowing. “People have been trying to help others. Or maybe they were just terrified.”
Brian paused to read one that had been partially scrubbed away. “I think it’s both. Fear is a hell of a motivator.”
They pressed on until the skeletal remains of a grocery store came into view. The glass had long since been pulverized, the automatic doors hanging crookedly on their tracks like a broken jaw. They stepped inside, their boots crunching on a carpet of glass and rot.
Nothing.
Not a can of beans. Not a drop of water. Just the ghost-smell of spoiled produce and the hollow feeling of being three months too late to the feast.
Brice kicked a crushed, empty tin across the floor. “Late to the party, as usual.”
“Story of our lives,” Brian agreed, though his eyes drifted to a sporting goods store across the street. “Think that’s empty, too?”
“Empty, picked clean, and likely haunted,” Brice said.
They checked it anyway, finding the same story: shattered displays, empty weapon racks, torn packaging, and bare pegboards. Every firearm, pack, blade, and useful piece of gear had been stripped out long ago. Even the plastic mannequins had been dragged off.
Brian stared at the empty display platform, genuinely baffled. “Who steals mannequins?”
“Someone who needed a roommate who wouldn’t talk back,” Brice shrugged, though his gaze remained sharp, scanning the shadows.
A mile later, the streets changed.
The ambient noise of the city—the wind whistling through broken glass—was replaced by a distant, rhythmic clink-clink-clink.
Brice stopped dead.
Brian bumped into his shoulder. “What?”
Brice held up a finger. “Listen.”
At first, there was only the wind.
Then the sound resolved.
Voices.
The sharp, clean thwack of an axe biting into firewood.
The faint, metallic clang of a hammer.
Brian’s face softened. “People.”
Brice didn’t share the relief. His hand drifted to the steel pipe tucked into his belt. “People are rarely an accident, Brian. This is either the best thing that’s happened to us, or the start of a very bad ending.”
They crept around the corner, keeping to the shadows of a crumbling brick facade. Below them, a small group moved with purpose.
Twenty people.
Small handcarts piled with salvaged supplies.
Children huddled near the center of the formation, walking close to the adults.
At the front, a man in a black shirt with a white clerical collar walked with the calm, terrifyingly steady stride of a man who believed he was untouchable. He had kind eyes, a graying beard, and a smile that seemed to project light into the grim street.
He stopped, spotting them immediately.
He didn’t reach for a weapon.
He simply raised a hand, palm open.
“Peace be with you,” the man said. His voice was melodic, carrying well in the thin air. “My name is Father Elias. We’ve built a small sanctuary a few miles from here.”
He looked them over—the torn hospital clothes, the blood, the raw exhaustion.
“You two look like you’ve been through the wringer.”
Brian let out a dry, hacking laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
Father Elias didn’t flinch.
A woman stepped forward, cradling a bottle of clear, cool water. She extended it, keeping a respectful distance.
“No strings,” she said softly.
Brian looked at Brice, his brows raised.
Brice felt the familiar itch of suspicion. They were vulnerable, desperate, and this felt too clean. But then he looked at the children, their faces not smeared with the desperate grime he’d seen on everyone else.
They looked fed.
Brice took the bottle.
The plastic was cool, condensation beading on the sides. He took a drink, and the water hit his parched throat like a revelation. For one dangerous second, every survival instinct he had went quiet.
He passed the bottle to Brian.
“You have a safe place?” Brice asked, his voice rough.
“We do,” Elias said. “And hot food waiting. No obligations, no payments. Just help where you can.”
Brian leaned toward Brice, his voice a whisper. “This feels too good.”
“I know,” Brice agreed.
As Father Elias turned, beckoning them to follow, Brian’s stomach gave a loud, traitorous growl.
One of the children giggled.
Brian rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Apparently, my stomach is in charge of the negotiations.”
Even Brice laughed, the tension finally cracking.
They followed the group.
As they walked, Brice felt the small hairs on his neck prickle. Something about the formation bothered him. Not enough to name. Not enough to act on. Just enough to keep his hand near the pipe at his belt.
They passed a warehouse with its side door chained from the outside. A heavy industrial padlock hung from the latch, dull and scarred from use.
Brice noticed it.
Filed it away.
Then the smell of cooking food drifted through the street—real food, something salted and warm—and the thought slipped beneath the roaring need in his stomach.
Brice’s survival instinct was still warning him, a low, persistent hum in the back of his mind. But the smell of food was wafting through the air, and the promise of a roof was a siren song he was too tired to resist.
Just for tonight, he told himself. Just until we’re back on our feet.