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Cory Chase, Nikki Brooks Pic(s)
The last embers of daylight bled a deep crimson across the shattered skyline, casting long, grasping shadows that mirrored the slow, relentless shuffle in the streets below. My heart hammered agat my ribs, a frantic drumbeat agat the oppressive silence broken only by the wet, guttural sounds of their hunger. I pressed my back agat the cold, rough brick of the abandoned warehouse, the scent of rust and decay clinging to the air like a shroud. A bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path down my spine, a shocking, intimate warmth agat the chilling dread that held me captive. The memory of a lover’s touch, of soft skin and whispered promises, felt like a dream from another lifetime, a stark contrast to the harsh reality of survival. Every sense was heightened, the coarse texture of my worn clothing, the metallic taste of fear on my tongue, the distant, sickly-sweet odor of rot carried on the wind. I watched a lone figure stumble through the debris, its movements a grotesque parody of life, a reminder of all that had been lost. My fingers tightened around the cool, hard metal of my last remaining weapon, a final, desperate promise of resistance. In that suspended moment, the line between terror and a strange, aching awareness of my own fragile, pulsing vitality became impossibly thin.
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