Chapter 1
“What Survives When the Lights Go Out”
The city had once glowed—neon signs, packed bars, late-night laughter drifting through open windows. Now the only light came from burning cars and the occasional flare someone fired in desperation. Most didn’t last long after sending one up. Flares attracted attention.
Especially their attention.
Rowan moved through the deserted street with the practiced quiet of someone who had survived too many nights. He kept his hand on the axe strapped across his back—not because he loved using it, but because bullets were a currency now, and he was nearly bankrupt.
Behind him, Lina followed close, clutching her backpack with white knuckles. She wasn’t like Rowan, not yet hardened. But she was smart, and stubborn, and—more importantly—immune. The infection didn’t burn her brain the way it did everyone else’s. That made her valuable. Valuable meant hunted.
“Warehouse is three blocks,” Rowan whispered.
Lina nodded. “And your friend is sure the generator still works?”
“He’s not my friend.” Rowan scanned the rooftops. “But he owes me. And he’s too scared of you-know-what to lie.”
A distant scream split the air—high, then abruptly cut off.
Lina froze. “They’re close.”
Rowan tugged her forward. “Then we move.”
They slipped between two collapsed storefronts and into a narrow alley where rain dripped steadily from broken gutters. The air smelled like rust and rot, the scent that had become the world’s new perfume. Rowan could feel Lina’s fear, sharp and electric, the kind that made people sloppy.
“Don’t think about it,” he murmured.
“How? Everyone I knew—”
“I know.” He didn’t say everyone I knew is gone too. He didn’t have to.
Another sound drifted through the alley—soft, irregular tapping. Not footsteps. Footsteps had rhythm. This was the sound of something remembering how to walk.
Rowan motioned for silence. Lina held her breath.
A shadow lurched into view at the far end—thin, jerky, head cocked at the wrong angle. Rowan gripped the axe but didn’t draw it; fighting one was risky enough, but fighting one loudly was suicide.
He found an empty bottle near his feet, crouched, and tossed it down the opposite passage. The shattering glass echoed like a gunshot. The creature twitched, hissed low, and dragged itself toward the noise.
Rowan grabbed Lina’s sleeve. “Go. Now.”
They ran.
By the time they reached the warehouse district, night had swallowed the sky. The building they sought stood half-collapsed but intact enough to hold the promise of electricity—a miracle in a dead world.
Rowan knocked twice, paused, knocked once more. A slot in the metal door scraped open. A pair of wary eyes peeked out.
“You brought the girl?” a voice rasped.
“She has a name,” Rowan said. “And we need what you promised.”
The door opened with a reluctant groan. Inside, a faint humming—steady, mechanical—filtered into the dark.
Lina gasped. “The generator’s real.”
“Real,” the man said, “and barely hanging on. But with the right help...” He looked at her meaningfully. “Maybe humanity stands a chance.”
Outside, distant moans rose like a tide.
Rowan shut the door.
“What matters now,” he said, locking it tight, “is making it to morning.”
(Sorry the cover is a bit cartoony)
