Part 1: Echoes of Yesterday
Chapter 1: The Weight of Silence
The sun bled weakly through the perpetual shroud of dust and smog that clung to the carcass of Eldridge. It offered little warmth, painting the skeletal remains of skyscrapers and the fractured streets below in hues of bruised orange and grey. Rain hadn’t fallen in months, but the air was thick, heavy with the metallic tang of decay, the cloying sweetness of rot, and the faint, ever-present undercurrent of something else – the scent of the unliving.
Krishna pressed his forehead against the cool, grimy glass of the third-floor window in the abandoned textile factory they called ‘Haven’. Below, the street was a graveyard of rusted metal and shattered dreams. A yellow taxi lay on its side, its door perpetually open like a gaping mouth. Further down, a city bus slumped against the derelict façade of what was once a bakery, its windows dark voids. Weeds, tenacious and indifferent, pushed through cracks in the pavement, nature slowly reclaiming the concrete kingdom man had lost.
Silence was the new currency, but it was never absolute. It was a tapestry woven with distant, guttural moans, the skittering of unseen things in the walls, the mournful sigh of wind whistling through broken panes, and the frantic thumping of his own heart. Each sound was a potential harbinger of doom.
He shifted his weight, the floorboards groaning beneath his worn boots. Haven wasn’t much – a collection of rooms on the upper floors, defensible thanks to a collapsed external staircase and a reinforced internal one – but it was theirs. For now. He ran a hand through his dark, matted hair, the gesture betraying an exhaustion that went bone-deep. It wasn’t just physical fatigue; it was the relentless erosion of the spirit, the constant chipping away of hope by the harsh reality of their existence.
Six months. Six months since the ‘Fever’, as the initial whispers had called it, had swept through Eldridge, then the state, then the world. It began like a virulent flu, but the victims didn’t stay dead. They rose, driven by a singular, primal hunger. Civilization crumbled not with a bang, but with a million whimpering surrenders, street by street, house by house.
Krishna hadn’t asked to be the leader. He’d been a mid-level software engineer, more comfortable with code than combat, more adept at debugging programs than directing people through a landscape of death. But he was the oldest, the one who’d managed to keep his head when chaos first erupted, pulling the others together from the wreckage of their former lives. He’d found Suman first, defending a small grocery store with a fire axe and a look of terrifying calm. Then Sanat, holed up in his apartment, cynical but surprisingly resourceful. And finally Bappa, alone and hiding in a school basement, miraculously untouched but traumatized. They were a fractured family forged in the crucible of the apocalypse, and the burden of their survival felt like a physical weight on his chest.
A floorboard creaked behind him. He didn’t flinch, recognizing the lighter tread.
“Anything?” Suman’s voice was low, calm as always.
He turned. Suman stood framed in the doorway, her short, practical haircut framing a face that rarely showed emotion, but whose eyes missed nothing. She held the makeshift bat – a sturdy table leg wrapped in barbed wire – loosely at her side, but her knuckles were white. Her vigilance was a constant, comforting presence.
“The usual,” Krishna sighed, gesturing vaguely towards the street. “Quiet. Too quiet.” He paused, listening intently. Faintly, carried on the breeze, came the sound they all dreaded – a low, collective groaning from the east. “They seem… agitated today. More movement than usual.”
Suman nodded, her gaze sweeping the panorama below. “The pantry is looking thin. We used the last of the canned beans yesterday. The rice won’t last more than a few days.”
Krishna knew. The gnawing emptiness in his own stomach was a constant reminder. Every supply run was a roll of the dice, a gamble against impossible odds. But starvation was a slower, equally certain death.
“Maple Street,” he said, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. “The old supermarket. It’s bigger than the corner stores we’ve hit. More potential, but…”
“More risk,” Suman finished for him. “It’s deep in the commercial district. Higher density before… everything. Likely means higher density now.” She tapped the bat against her thigh, a thoughtful rhythm. “But we’re out of options.”
Her pragmatic acceptance didn’t make it easier. He thought of the others. Sanat would fight the idea, his sarcasm a shield against his own fear. Bappa… Bappa would probably be eager, his youthful optimism a fragile shield against the horrors they faced daily.
“Gather them,” Krishna said, turning back to the window, the desolate view reflecting the conflict in his soul. “We need to talk. And then we need to move. Soon.”
Chapter 2: Fractured Council
The common room of Haven was a large, open space that might once have been a foreman’s office. Now, its peeling paint and cracked linoleum floor bore witness to their makeshift lives. A threadbare couch salvaged from a nearby apartment building slumped against one wall, facing a couple of mismatched chairs and upturned crates that served as seating. Empty cans and discarded wrappers littered a corner, a testament to dwindling resources.
Sanat was already there, idly sharpening a hunting knife on a whetstone, the rhythmic shink-shink-shink grating on Krishna’s nerves. He looked up as Krishna and Suman entered, his expression carefully neutral, but Krishna saw the familiar glint of challenge in his eyes. Sanat had been a freelance journalist before the fall, sharp-witted and inherently distrustful of authority, traits that had only intensified. He pushed a stray lock of greasy blond hair from his forehead.
“Morning,” Sanat drawled, not pausing his work. “Decided which flavour of doom we’re sampling today?”
Before Krishna could reply, Bappa bounced into the room, his energy a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere. Despite the dirt smudged on his face and the oversized, ragged sweater he wore, his eyes were bright. He was clutching a small, crudely carved wooden bird.
“Krishna! Suman! Look what I finished!” he announced, holding up the carving. “It’s a sparrow! Remember sparrows?”
A faint smile touched Krishna’s lips. Bappa’s unwavering ability to find small moments of normalcy, of creation, was a balm. “It’s good, Bappa. Really good.”
Suman nodded her approval. “You have talent.”
Bappa beamed, then his expression turned expectant. “So? What’s happening? Are we going out?”
Krishna took a deep breath, bracing himself. “We have to. Supplies are critical. I think our best bet is the old Grand Union supermarket on Maple Street.”
The shink of Sanat’s knife stopped abruptly. He lowered the blade slowly, his gaze sharp. “Maple Street? Are you insane, Krishna? That’s practically ground zero. We scouted near there two months ago, remember? Crawling with them. It’s suicide.”
“We didn’t go in the store,” Krishna countered, trying to keep his voice level. “We stayed on the periphery. It’s a large store. Maybe less picked over than the smaller places. There could be untouched stockrooms, loading bays…”
“Or a hundred shamblers waiting behind aisle three,” Sanat retorted, standing up. He tossed the knife onto a crate with a clatter. “Look, I get it, we need food. But rushing into the biggest zombie hotspot in this quadrant because we hope there might be something? That’s not leadership, that’s desperation.” He crossed his arms, leaning against the grimy wall. “Every time you lead us into the lion’s den, it’s either your sheer dumb luck or our collective stupidity that gets us through. My money’s on the luck running out.”
“We can’t just sit here and starve, Sanat!” Bappa piped up, his optimism flaring. “Krishna’s right! We have to try! What if there are crates of canned peaches? Or chocolate? Imagine finding chocolate again!” The very idea made his eyes light up.
Sanat scoffed, running a hand over his face. “Kid, the only thing waiting for us there is teeth and rot. Peaches and chocolate? Grow up. This isn’t a scavenger hunt; it’s a waiting game. We’re just waiting to become their next meal.” He kicked moodily at a loose piece of flooring. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not ready to join the ranks of the undead choir. Maybe we should just barricade ourselves in tighter, conserve what we have, and wait. Maybe someone will come. Maybe this all just… stops.”
Even as he spoke, the lack of conviction in his voice was palpable. Waiting was a fantasy. They all knew it. Waiting meant slow starvation, vulnerability, the inevitable discovery by a wandering horde or, perhaps worse, other desperate survivors.
Suman, who had been listening silently, finally spoke, her voice cutting through the tension. “Waiting isn’t a strategy. Conserving rations only delays the inevitable by days, maybe a week. Maple Street is dangerous, yes. Extremely. But inaction guarantees failure.” She looked at Krishna. “If we go, we need a solid plan. Entry, search pattern, exit strategy. Strict discipline. No deviations.”
Krishna nodded, grateful for her grounded perspective. “Agreed. My thought is a fast in-and-out. We focus on the stockroom and pharmacy areas first – canned goods, medical supplies. Forget the main aisles unless absolutely necessary. Suman, you know defence. How would you approach entry?”
Suman considered, her gaze distant as she visualized the approach. “The main entrance is a death trap – glass frontage, wide open. The loading bay at the back is better. Metal doors, potentially securable once inside. Higher ground access from the roof of the adjacent building might give us an overview first. We check for immediate threats, plan the breach.”
“See? Planning,” Sanat muttered, though with less venom. “Still think it’s a terrible idea.”
“But it’s an idea,” Bappa insisted. “And we’ll do it together! Like always! We’re stronger together, right? Let’s be brave!” His conviction, however naive, seemed to momentarily silence Sanat’s cynicism.
Krishna looked at the three faces before him: Sanat’s grudging fear masked by sarcasm, Bappa’s hopeful determination, Suman’s quiet readiness. They were all scared. He was terrified. The responsibility felt crushing, a physical ache. If he led them into disaster on Maple Street, their deaths would be on his hands. But if they stayed, they withered.
He straightened his shoulders, forcing a confidence he didn’t feel. “Suman’s right. Inaction is a death sentence. We go to Maple Street. We plan carefully, we move fast, and we watch each other’s backs. We need to leave within the hour, make the most of the daylight.” He met Sanat’s gaze directly. “Are you in, Sanat? We need you. We need your eyes, your knack for finding things others miss, even your complaining – it keeps us sharp.”
Sanat held his gaze for a long moment, the internal struggle visible on his face. Finally, he gave a short, sharp sigh. “Fine. But if I get eaten because we were looking for Bappa’s mythical chocolate bars, I’m blaming you two.” He picked up his knife again, his movements brisk now. “Let’s gear up. And let’s try not to die today.”
A fragile consensus settled over the room. The fear remained, a cold knot in each of their stomachs, but it was now overlaid with purpose. They began the familiar ritual of preparation – checking weapons, securing meagre supplies, reinforcing worn clothing, the silent actions a testament to their shared understanding of the stakes.
Chapter 3: The Concrete Jungle
The descent from Haven was always tense. They used a rope ladder lowered from a reinforced window onto the roof of an adjacent, lower building, then navigated a series of rickety fire escapes to reach street level a block away from their base, minimizing direct tracks. Each creak of metal, each dislodged pebble, echoed unnaturally loud in the quiet streets.
Once on the ground, the city enveloped them. Eldridge wasn’t just empty; it felt watchful. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the canyons between buildings, leaving pools of deep shadow where anything could lurk. The air hung thick and still, carrying the omnipresent odours of decay. Flies buzzed lazily over unidentifiable heaps of refuse.
Krishna took the lead, his senses on high alert. He carried a battered firefighter’s axe, its weight familiar and grimly comforting. Suman walked slightly behind and to his left, her barbed-wire bat held ready, her eyes constantly scanning rooftops, alleyways, and darkened windows. Her movements were fluid, economical, born of countless hours of vigilance.
Behind them, Bappa walked with a surprising lightness, his initial enthusiasm tempered now by the reality of the street. He clutched a length of sharpened rebar, his knuckles white, but his eyes darted around with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. Sanat brought up the rear, his refurbished .22 rifle held loosely but ready, his cynicism manifesting as a hyper-awareness of potential threats, his gaze lingering on shadows longer than the others. He muttered complaints about the heat, the smell, the general hopelessness of their situation, but his eyes never stopped scanning.
Their route snaked through a labyrinth of side streets and alleys, avoiding the wider avenues where hordes were more likely to congregate. They moved in a tight diamond formation, pausing frequently at intersections to listen, to peer around corners, before proceeding. Twice, they froze as distant groans crescendoed nearby, flattening themselves into doorways or behind overturned dumpsters until the sounds receded. The tension was a physical thing, tightening Krishna’s chest, making the sweat on his palms feel cold.
He kept glancing back, checking on the others. Suman met his gaze with a small, almost imperceptible nod of reassurance. Bappa offered a shaky, determined smile. Sanat just scowled, but his rifle remained pointed outwards, covering their backs. They were a unit, bound by necessity and a fragile trust.
They passed remnants of the old world that felt like relics from another millennium: a child’s bicycle lying rusted on its side, shop windows displaying faded mannequins in long-outdated fashions, posters peeling off walls advertising concerts and movies that never happened. Each artifact was a poignant stab, a reminder of the life that had been violently ripped away.
As they neared the commercial district, the signs of devastation became more pronounced. More burned-out cars, larger piles of debris, the skeletal remains of barricades hastily erected and inevitably overrun. And the sounds changed. The isolated moans began to merge into a more constant, low-level thrumming – the sound of the undead, unseen but undeniably closer.
“Maple Street, two blocks ahead,” Krishna whispered, pausing behind the relative cover of a wrecked delivery van. He pulled out a crumpled, hand-drawn map, confirming their position. “The supermarket is on the corner. We need to get onto the roof of the hardware store opposite for recon, like Suman suggested.”
“Hardware store’s got barred windows,” Sanat observed, peering through the van’s shattered windshield. “Might be clear. Or might be where someone made their last stand.”
“Only one way to find out,” Suman said, her voice tight. “Move quickly. Stay low.”
They broke cover, sprinting across the exposed intersection one by one, covering each other. The sixty seconds it took felt like an eternity. They reached the alley beside the hardware store, pressing themselves against the cool brick wall, hearts pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps. The air here felt heavier, the smell of rot stronger.
Suddenly, from the mouth of the alley further down, came a sound that wasn’t a moan. It was a low, wet growl, followed by a distinct, shuffling gait.
Every muscle in Krishna’s body tensed. He raised his axe. Suman shifted her grip on the bat. Bappa swallowed hard, gripping his rebar tightly. Sanat smoothly raised his rifle, sighting down the alley.
A figure lurched into the hazy light filtering down between the buildings. Its clothes were torn and stained, its skin grey and taut over bone. One arm hung uselessly, swinging loosely from the shoulder, and its jaw worked slackly, emitting the guttural growl. Its eyes, milky and vacant, fixed on them.
Then another appeared behind it. And another.
“Multiple contacts,” Sanat hissed, his voice dangerously calm. “At least five, maybe more behind them.”
They were caught between the approaching ‘shamblers’ and the relative unknown of the hardware store’s back entrance. There was no time for the roof recon now.
“The loading bay!” Krishna decided instantly, pointing towards the supermarket across the street. “We make a break for it! Suman, Bappa, with me! Sanat, cover us, then follow! Go!”
Adrenaline surged, obliterating thought, leaving only instinct. Krishna burst from the alley, sprinting across the debris-strewn street towards the rear of the Grand Union. Suman was right beside him, her bat held high. Bappa, fueled by terror, scrambled after them, his shorter legs pumping furiously.
Behind them, the sharp crack of Sanat’s .22 echoed twice. Shouts – human shouts – erupted from further down the alley, followed by more growls. It wasn’t just the shamblers; something else was happening.
“Don’t look back!” Krishna yelled, reaching the graffitied metal loading dock door. He fumbled with the handle – locked. “Suman, help me!”
They threw their shoulders against the heavy door as Bappa frantically scanned their surroundings. The growls from the alley were closer now. Sanat fired again.
“Krishna, hurry!” Bappa shrieked, pointing. A shambler, faster than the others, had peeled off from the alley group and was lurching directly towards them across the street.
With a final, desperate heave, the loading door’s lock gave way with a screech of tortured metal. Krishna stumbled inside, pulling Bappa after him. Suman held her ground for a precious second, swinging her bat in a wide arc as the first zombie reached the dock, connecting with a sickening crunch.
“Sanat!” Krishna roared back towards the street.
Sanat appeared at the alley mouth, rifle firing, backing towards them as more figures – shamblers and perhaps panicked humans – spilled into the street behind him. “Go! Get inside!” he yelled, sprinting the last few yards, firing one last shot before diving through the doorway Suman held open.
Suman slammed the heavy metal door shut, the boom echoing in the sudden darkness of the loading bay. They fumbled for the internal bolts, sliding them home just as heavy, mindless fists began pounding against the metal from the outside.
They stood in the pitch black, chests heaving, the sound of their ragged breathing mixing with the frantic drumming on the door and the distant, terrifying symphony of the undead city beyond. They were inside. But safety was still a long way off.
(Novel continues…)