The Days After

Prologue: The End or…the Beginning?

Warm sunlight glints off cracked glass, streaked with dried blood. Thankfully, not mine—not yet.

The glass belongs to the doorway of a supermarket—or what’s left of one. The faded letters on the flickering neon sign above the entrance read Hap y D ys, some of its bulbs long burnt out. Happy Days Mart. I almost laugh. So, the universe does have a sense of humor. Only, it’s at my expense.

There’s another sign, although it’s much smaller and posted near the doorway. It reads in bold, cursive letters: Last stop for the next 30 miles. Find what you need at Happy Days Mart. We’re here to make your days happier. ™ An illustration of a diverse group of shoppers accompanies the saying and they’re all standing together, stupidly smiling.

Find what I need, indeed. I snort.

A plastic bag flutters in the breeze behind me, snagged on the jagged handle of a broken shopping cart. A long tear splits the “Thank You” printed on its surface, the bright yellow smiley face warped into something unsettling. Haunting, even. Its cheeriness doesn’t belong here, not in this hollow husk of a world.

The glass reflects all of it—the bag, the cart, the dimming light—and me: a seventeen-year-old boy with a torn shirt tied tightly around his arm, blood soaking through it, an angry reminder of my absolute stupidity. My reflection looks as out of place as the smiley face. A hard line is pressed against my lips. A backpack weighs heavy on my shoulders, and not just because of its contents.

I glance at the bloodied bandage, swallowing hard. It won’t hold much longer, and I didn’t have time to do any better. Not when you’re running. Not when you’re already on borrowed time.

That’s the thing about the days after.

After everything fell apart. After the world became more of a shattered thing than it already was, crawling with chaos, its survivors clinging to any scraps of the lives they once knew. Endings are everywhere now—piled in ruins, rotten inside abandoned cars, and scattered like bones in the wind. But beginnings? Those are rarer than clean water, an unbroken window, or, in this case—a glass door. Not smashed to pieces with no recourse, no better outcome. This door waiting—no—looming before me. And beyond it?

What hidden horrors or possible salvation lie in wait for Ethen Gray? For me?

There’s only one way to find out. And this is the end of the line for me. My last hope, and it’s at a Happy Days Mart.

The ominous rumble of thunder pulls me out of my thoughts, and somewhere in the distance, lightning crackles, briefly illuminating the darkening sky. I feel the first, fat drop of rain hit my forehead and run down my face, wet and cold. If this isn’t a sign to get a move on, I don’t know what is.

I take a deep breath and step toward the shattered doorway.