Infected Souls

~Chapter One~

Fog seeped from the darkness of distant alleys, dancing in flickering streetlights. A metallic clatter echoed somewhere down the dimly lit street, sharp and sudden. Like a pipe falling or a shutter blowing loose. I flinched instinctively, back stiffening, heart surging into my throat. It was the kind of sound that didn’t matter, until it did.

Loneliness crawled up my spine like a shadow, unsettling in its quiet persistence, as if it were stalking me. My heart thudded against my ribs, the sound too loud in the stillness, and I forced myself to keep walking, slow and steady. My scuffed Doc Martens scraped against the double yellow lines on the pavement beneath me. The cold bit at my skin, and I tugged the sleeves of his crewneck over my hands, trying to shield them from the vicious bite of the night air. 

The skirt I wore barely reached the middle of my thighs, and the fishnet tights underneath offered little warmth. My long black socks fell just below my knees. My clothes—worn and mismatched—felt like the last remnants of something long lost. I caught a glimpse of myself in a cracked windowpane, messy brown hair curling near my chin, dirt smudged across my jaw. I barely recognized the girl staring back at me. The green in my eyes looked sharper now, like it had learned to stay alert. 

The lines of houses around me were old, two-and three-story homes with sagging windowsills that still held wilting flowers. Their demise was not the result of a drought, but the absence of anyone who might have watered them. It was quiet here, the world hidden behind walls, leaving this place behind. A ghost town on the outskirts, caught between Territories.

I’d been alone out here for a while. The last face I’d seen before crossing the firewall felt like a lifetime ago. I didn’t let myself think about him. Not now. Not when staying sharp was the only thing keeping me alive. I’d been out here long enough to lose count of how many nights I’d gone without speaking out loud. Long enough that the silence stopped feeling empty, and started feeling like a companion. I’d figured out which houses still had canned food, how to track clean rainwater by the slope of cracked gutters, and which sounds indicated danger versus weather. 

I kept my pace as I continued forwards, my footsteps muffled by the thick fog, until the distant sound of motorcycle engines grew louder, like a storm rolling in.

 I froze. 

The gang was closer now. Closer than I’d ever allowed them to get. Their bikes roared through the streets, engines howling, tires squealing. 

I didn’t think.

I just ran.

I darted into the nearest alley, my boots skidding on damp stone, and scrambled up a stack of rotting crates. One of them groaned under my weight but didn’t give. I pulled myself up, heart hammering, and climbed through a shattered second-story window, knees brushing against jagged glass, avoiding the dangerously sharp edges. 

Once inside, I dropped to the floor, landing hard but silent. My back pressed against the cold, dusty wall, and I sucked in a shallow breath, listening. The rumble of engines tore past the house, echoing through the empty street below. 

I clenched my teeth.

I could feel the vibrations in my chest.

 The engines echoed off the concrete like a war drum. My ears strained for clues: how many riders, how close they were. One voice shouted something over the roar, low and angry. Tires screeched as someone took a turn too fast. 

I swore I heard one of them slow down. 

They didn’t stop outside the house, but they were close enough that it felt like they might. 

I stayed frozen.

Eventually, the noise began to fade. One bike peeled off. Another followed. A third let out a long, sputtering growl before disappearing into the distance.

I waited, then let my breath out slowly, blinking in the darkness of the abandoned house. I stood, brushing the dirt off of my knees. My chest rose and fell rapidly, heart still racing. I leaned against the wall, letting my head rest back with a soft thud. It was always like this, the adrenaline came first, then the questions. Who are they? Why were they here? Were they looking for someone? Would they come back? The panic never fully left. It just settled lower in my gut, waiting.

The house was just like the others, hollowed out by time. Torn curtains. Sagging floors. Wallpaper peeling like a sunburn. I moved carefully down the hallway, sidestepping the broken edge of a picture frame that had long since lost its photo.

In the kitchen, I found an open pantry, mostly empty. A single can of peaches sat on the back shelf. I grabbed it, cradling it in both hands.

“Thank God,” I muttered under my breath.

It had been a few days since I’d found anything decent to eat. I slipped the can into my black backpack and slung it over one shoulder.

My fingers itched toward my waistband, instinctively searching for the lighter I’d lost weeks ago. In it’s absence, the cold crawled under my skirt like it had claws. I pulled the crewneck down, wishing it was long enough to shield my legs from the icy breeze.

I crossed the room and reached for a window infested with cobwebs. Using the edge of my sleeve I wiped away some of the grime. I lingered for a few seconds longer, hands braced against the peeling windowsill, eyes darting from one empty porch to the next. That’s when something shifted across the street.

A boy—close to my age—emerged from the shadows. His hair was sun-kissed and messy, strands falling over his eyes. He wore a black corduroy jacket lined with white fleece and a white shirt which had clearly seen better days. His jeans were baggy, streaked with dirt, and frayed at the hems where they hung over his brown work boots. 

He moved with a sort of quiet confidence. It was obvious that he wasn’t used to being watched. 

I stayed low.

He walked up to an old, faded blue Volkswagen Bug parked crookedly on the curb. The car looked as forgotten as everything else in the outskirts. He pulled something, maybe a metal pin, from his jacket pocket and slid it into the lock. It clicked open.

I didn’t move.

He climbed inside, shutting the door behind him with such ease it made me wonder how many nights he had spent in the Bug without me noticing. The windows were clouded with dirt, making it impossible to see inside. But I waited, just in case.

Nothing happened.

I let out a slow breath.

Then I saw it, a flicker of light from inside the car, quick and sharp, like a flame from a lighter. 

For a moment, I wondered if he smoked. The thought crept in uninvited. A reminder that I wasn’t always hyper-aware of the habit. But I caught myself. Why was I jumping to conclusions? He was probably just trying to stay warm. 

I wished I had a lighter. Without one, I had no fire, and without fire, I had no warmth, no light. Just the cold creeping into my bones.

It didn’t seem like he’d seen me. If he had, he didn’t care.

Part of me was grateful. I’d been out here long enough to know that accidentally running into someone could be worse than not seeing anyone at all.

I stood and stepped back from the window, slipped my bag onto both shoulders, and crept toward the back of the house. I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t know if I’d see him again. But something about the way he’d moved, quiet, intentional, unsettled me. 

Not because he seemed dangerous, because he looked like he was surviving too.