Another day, another street full of dead bodies. True jimmied the lock on the front door of the first house on a pathetic little cul-de-sac. It was faster to smash a window, but it was also louder, and they'd been carting around a bad gut feeling all day. With the creak and shudder of hinges that had forgotten their purpose, the door yielded.

Inside, the house told a story True had read a thousand times. A broken coatrack laying on the floor, papers strewn across the office, and the empty shells of eviscerated electronics left to gather thick layers of dust wherever they had been tossed by first of second wave raiders. True ran a finger over a dent in the drywall, a landline phone lay on the hardwood beneath it.

Everyone once in a while it hit them that this had all happened in their lifetime. That the most horrifying part of the black lung had been how fast it razed the planet and obliterated everyone's way of life. If they cared to, they could picture their old life almost perfectly. Their severance from it had been so abrupt that it felt like an alternate reality, sealed off from the dry-rot of time.

But they didn't care to. That door could stay shut.

They moved through the kitchen, where cabinets had been flung open. The fridge had been left wide open, a carpet of green and black coated the insides and the floor around it and speckled the wall. A bit of pink plastic from the milk jug that had detonated and given the mold splatter life poked out of the slime. They left the kitchen untouched. First wave scavengers would have cleaned out anything useable, no point disturbing that brand new ecosystem.

They cut through a living room with a couch that looked like mouse central, and into a hallway that had lonely nails jutting out where pictures had once hung. All the doors branching from the hall stood wide open, except one.

Bingo. Families always left the door closed. Maybe out of respect, but probably out of guilt. Nobody wanted to watch, or be watched by, a dying loved one while hurrying to abandon them. True hesitated at the mouth of the hall, their skin prickling with apprehension. Nothing in the infested living room except the rodents. No flickers of motion in the windows or the kitchen doorway. They were alone. They pressed their tongue to their canine. Just them and the corpse, and the sprouting civilization in the kitchen. They turned their attention back to the closed door.

A guest of warm wind hustled out of the room in the wake of the door opening. Lime green walls glowed out of the gloom. Stickers had been stuck at random on the wall, the game console stashed in the corner, the lamp on the bedside table. True had the decency to pause when they saw the shelf of children's toys. But not for long. Kids died. True had to eat. They couldn't make it better, they could only make the best of the aftermath.

This one was tidy, at least. Surprisingly so. As if someone had come in after the passing to clean up the usual mess. An unopened bottle of water and two neatly stacked granola bars had been set beside the door. Loved ones left final gifts like that often. Tokens of hope that the person in the room might somehow regain the strength to flee. They never did.

True ignored the instinct to grab those precious commodities. They had made the mistake of drinking from a sealed death room water bottle, once. They'd spent the next week on the brink of death, shitting their brains out. So, it was safe to say they weren't keen on trying again anytime soon. Those tokens were cursed.

They opened the blinds to let the light in and check for any nosy problems outside. The coast remained clear. So far.

Alright, well, time for the corpse then.

Someone—a parent probably—had tucked it in with blankets up to its nose. None of the usual blood splatter from coughing out liquidated lung tissue stained the wall. Signs of the end stages of the disease that had decimated the planet were not subtle. It wasn't like the shadow dweller sicknesses that slowly hollowed people out until only a thin husk persisted. The black lung had snapped victims up and shaken the life out of them, quick and violent.

So, what, had the family tucked in a dead body?

True's gaze fell on the bottles stacked on the bedside table. They picked up the orange prescription bottle first, please to hear it rattle. Its label read azithromycin. Jackpot. They'd make a fortune off this, everyone and their cat wanted antibiotics these days. They shoved it deep in their loot bag, then, on second thought, they took it out and tucked it into a secret inner pocket of their well worn coat. Best to keep those close. Other scavengers would murder to have these drugs.

They checked the other bottle too. Cough syrup, adult strength. Empty. The label looked as new as anything did these days. Suddenly the mystery of the über tidy death room became clearer.

Setting the cough syrup down, True pinched a corner of the sheets and lifted. The blanket crackled as it peeled from mouth of the corpse, its grey decaying skin sloughing with it in chunks. There was the last piece of that puzzle.

Dried vomit of a strange purple hue stuck to everything from the nose to the collarbones. The kid hadn't even turned its head, it had probably been knocked out by the cold medicine. It was kind of a peaceful way to die, at least for a kid. Mommy gives you an icky drink and tucks you in and then you just fall asleep. Wouldn't even hurt. Not how True would pick to go out, but they weren't a child.

They checked the corpse's ears for jewelry and found nothing in the dried-up remnants of the lobes. No pockets on the pajamas. They unstuck the mouth and pulled the jaw open. Decay had released the body from rigor mortis long since, rendering it pliable and fragile. They had to be careful with how they moved things, or parts were liable to break. Gently, they rubbed the purple stain from the molars. No evidence of fillings. Too bad, there was nothing else to harvest from the body. They gave the rest of the room a once-over but came up empty-handed. Children's rooms rarely had many tradeable goods. Oh well, the azithro more than made up for this empty room, and the next few to come.

They retrieved a sheet from the unmade bed in the master bedroom, shook out the evidence of critter life, and laid it on the corpse's bedroom floor. Again, while they crouched over the sheet, that bad gut feeling bubbled to the surface. Stronger than before. They reached for their shovel. Steady, steady.

No one at the window.

They unclipped the shovel. A floorboard creaked. True sprang like a startled cat, whirling to face the sound, swinging their shovel about with them.

The intruder stumbled back, missing the knife edge of the shovel by a hair. True glared down the shovel handle at the unflapped mass of blackened rags and sad eyes. Sighing, they lowered the shovel.

"Damn it, Radio, I told you to quit creeping around."

The pile of rags grinned.

"Told you to quit following me, too."

It shrugged, earning itself an irritated eye roll.

Radio, short for Radio Silent—which wasn't its name, but it was so damn quiet all the time they were convinced they'd missed some signal for a telepathic tune-in. It was a dogged little shit, too. True had slipped off in increasingly precarious ways, the last time even slinking away in the most dangerous hour of the day, right before the sun rose, in hopes of giving it the slip.

Scavengers sometimes spawned schools of other vultures. Remoras that followed them around and fed off the algae under the scavenger's fins. Some scavengers ignored them, some chummed the water for them, but True preferred to stomp on their little fish heads and scare them off.

This is my loot, don't you try and take it." True lifted the shovel again in warning. Not that Radio ever touched their stuff, and its eyes didn't dance, and it didn't wear a medic patch, which meant True refrained from whacking it over the head. But man, they were over the stalking. They returned to finish their task. Talk about a mood killer. How many more times were they gonna have to dodge that fucker before it got the hint? They worked alone, and for good reason: Everyone left on the planet sucked fat donkey balls. The end.

By mid-evening True had nine bodies in sheets stacked neatly in the middle of the cul-de-sac and their loot bag weighted with a half-decent haul. They'd managed to clear out all the houses while Radio shuffled around in the background doing whatever Radio did. The decision to build a pyre instead of digging graves meant they had time to scavenge more and make up for yesterday's denture rip-off.

They finished opening the last of the death room tokens they had found and set it with the others on a square of tinfoil that they had pinched into the shape of a plate. Laying the plate on the pyre, they plucked their trusty lighter from their right coat pocket.

They'd traded a hefty amount for it, much to their chagrin at the time. It even lit when it was windy! Or so the hawker who had sold it to them had claimed. True never lit fires on windy days because they weren't a moron.

Sparking a mellow flame, they appreciated it for a moment before touching it to a corner of a bedsheet. It took slowly. They had no fuel to encourage it, but it would burn fine once it caught. They stood while the flames stretched their tongues over the sheets, letting the heat drag its claws over their skin, letting the light pinch their pupils, letting gusts of heat whistle up their bandana and dry their tongue. Radio Silent appeared to their left, just outside of shovel reach. Were death meals familiar to it, too? True vaguely recognized the square Kainai beadwork on Radio's black poncho. But True was Métis, not Blackfoot.

The two of them watched the flames eat the corpses, burn and burn and burn.

The sky was taking on its first wisps of midnight blue by the time the fire chewed everything into a pile of brittle ash. Chalky white bone dust glowed in places where the embers clung to life. True smoothed their bandana and turned from the remains. Something—or rather, someone—snagged their sleeve. They jerked away.

"Hands off, ya little creep."

Radio jabbed its finger across the ash pile, where moving shadows bobbed towards the cul-de-sac. True frowned, reaching for their shovel. It was early for shadow dwellers.

"Alright, come on," they whispered, reluctantly beckoning for Radio to follow them as they snuck to the nearest house. "Try to be quiet, if you can."

Ha, such a funny joke.

At the sunken corner of a dilapidated porch the hunkered down. Radio shrank into the shadows behind them. The shadow dwellers made good time, strolling past the mouth of the cul-de-sac while the grass settled around True's coat. True pressed their hand to the remnants of their nose and rolled their eyes skyward, willing a sneeze to evaporate. If they just held their breath, the dwellers would pass, and they could sneak off in the opposite direction.

"Told you I saw a fire," a woman's voice said, followed by the scrape and skitter of something light being kicked across the road. True blinked back tears in time to see the charred clump of tinfoil skid to a halt at the curb, ash puffed into the air. Disrespectful assholes.

Four in total lingered in the midst of the ashes. A curly-haired man, a blond giant, a weasel in yellow shoes, and the woman who had spoken, who was now skimming the cul-de-sac in a slow circle.

"All this work we put into building a new world and they're out here determined to feed off the scraps of the old one. Like maggots." She faked a gag. Just for a second, the dying sunlight hit the streak of white sprouting from her crown and recognition pinched True's gut. She'd been at the After Market last night, and blondie, too.

True's blood simmered as they forced a slow, controlled breath out. They should have known those two were snakes, they'd been too clean. Only factioneers were that antiseptic.

"Someone's morbid today," the curly-haired guy said.

"Shut up, Heath," the woman snapped.

"And touchy, Otsana."

"I said shut up."

"Make—" his sentence ended in an abrupt squawk when the giant hoisted him by the back of his neck.

"Apologize," the giant rumbled. Curly thrashed, face reddening.

"I'm not apologizing 'cause your girlfriend's scared she's gonna screw up and cost us a market," he snarled, doing his best to sound intimidating and indignant in spite of the spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth and the way the blow he threw bopped uselessly off the giant. The giant lowered him until his feet stood flat on the ground, just in time for the woman to nail him in the beans. He folded with a guttural groan and the giant let him land with his full weight.

"It's wife," the woman corrected, "and I'm never scared. Get up, we're going to be late."

Lacing her fingers through the giant's, she led them out of the ash pile. Curly staggered to his knees, the sweat on his brow forming a grey paste with the ash. Huffing and puffing, he hobbled after the rest of his group.

"You dickheads can't be married, there's no damn priests left," he grumbled.

The weasel chimed in then, his voice fading with the distance. "I thought Miranda..."

At last, the factioneers were out of earshot. True sprang from the grass, smothering a sneezing fit that felt like the gates of hell had opened in their nasal passage and unleashed the unholiest of brimstone.

When they recovered, they were alone.

Yeah, right. Wishful thinking. Radio had just turned itself into a poltergeist again, or however it managed to always be there but never in their eyeline. They were tired of getting spooked by it.

Grumbling silently to themself as they unhooked their shovel and trudged away. The night sank into their warm skin, creeping into their heart and lungs. Pollen itched their sinuses. Debris crunched under their mismatched shoes, they avoided what they could but for the most part they had to focus on not tripping and impaling themself on a rusty deck nail. Priorities, priorities.

A pack of feral dogs sang their commitments to the rising moon, announcing the death of the last vestige of sunlight. It was a while yet before the derelict townhouse came into sight, and with it, a tooth-grinding view. Luck was not on their side. Around the back of the house, signs of life had sprung up, they were not the only person who had scouted this place.

A twig snapped. True flinched. It was stupid to be out at night like this. They skimmed the other houses; broken windows, a front door hanging off its hinges, a roof caved in by a dead fallen tree. All things they had noticed the first time they'd strolled through, all things that made those houses shitty places to hole up. What was the point of hiding inside if all the outside could come in?

They gambled another handful of seconds out in the open, then followed a fresh-stomped path through the overgrown grass to a basement window, propped open by a brick. Even in an already occupied house, they had better chances inside than out. At least inside didn't have roving packs of feral cats.

The window could fit a person, but not a person and a pack. They'd have to drag it in after them, and risk leaving themself open to attack. Or they could push it in first, alert the stranger to the presence, and let them snag all True's earthly possessions in one go. Yeah, no. Potential stab in the back it was.

They hesitated with their hand on their strap. There were other paths in the grass, fresh, the flattened stalks groaning back upright. They didn't like the way the paths came from all different directions to converge on the window. A civilian group would have come all in one.

Abandoning their invasion plan, they eased themself down by the window and peered in. The glass, clouded with dust and dirt, revealed little more than moving blobs. Two, six... at least eight. Low voices filtered through the gap. They leaned closer to eavesdrop.

Muttering. They caught a few nonsensical snippets as the mutterers' volume rose and ebbed or one of them passed under the window. Stuff about hunting blue foxes, being hunted by malicious supercomputers.

There was a pause coloured by rustling, inside and out. True's attention snapped to the outside world. Specifically, to the ragamuffin in black settling into the grass on the opposite side of the window. Radio pressed its finger to its mouth. True made a note to yell at it later and send it packing for good. Later. They put their ear to the gap again.

Definitely shadow dwellers.

Shit. True mouthed the word, then, like the punchline of the world's worst prank show, they sneezed. Conversation inside the basement cut off abruptly. Fuck allergies.

Double shit. They punted the brick propping the window open. The brick had barely kissed the ground by the time they had taken off. A second set of footsteps pattered after them. Radio, lighter and fleeter by far, caught up with ease. Roaring sprang out of the house, chasing after them.

True put their head down and threw themself into a run toward the heart of the city. Toward the After Market. It was too late to hide, they needed the safety of other armed people and the only chance they had of that was the After Market.

Hot breath chased chills down their spine.

True peaked the summit of a hill overlooking the walking bridge between two hollowed skyscrapers that marked the main entrance of the After Market. Sweat ran into their eyes, and a force like a locomotive slammed them to the pavement. They lost skin skidding downhill. Elbows locked, holding the lunatic shadow dweller away from their face. They landed on their back, the shadow rat thunking its full weight onto them. It sank its teeth into True's arm.

Cursing, True tried and failed to flip it. Their own blood waterfalled into their mouth.

As suddenly as the shadow dweller had hit them, a black figure slammed into it. True rolled to their knees too fast, the weight of their pack penduluming them hard.

"Hold it!" they bellowed. Hands met shovel met skull. The shadow dweller squelched. No more shadow dweller. True rocked back on their haunches, wiped the blood from their mouth. Five seconds, they could have five seconds to catch their breath.

Five.

Their blood made their mouth taste of rusted copper.

Four.

It was probably only their blood, they hadn't hit the shadow dweller that hard for blood to splatter all the way up to their mouth.

Three.

Their scalp burned where it had scraped on the pavement. That would smart for a while.

Two.

Remember to breathe now.

One.

Exhale. They got to their feet. Popped Radio on the shoulder. "Get up. The Market."

Radio clambered off the dead shadow dweller's knees and sauntered after True.

"I didn't need your help." True said.

Radio said nothing.

"Are you deaf or just—"

An inconveniently timed explosion tore the end of their sentence to dust. Which was nothing compared to the eyeball-searing flash and a second wave that wiped out everything in it path, True included.

Skin, seared. Ears, ringing like church bells. Head, felt like a dumbass had packed it with jelly instead of brains. True peeled themself off the concrete, blinking away blurriness. They patted their pack straps to make sure it was there, smoothed their bandana in place. Wiggled all ten fingers, all nine toes. They'd ended up a good car length farther up the hill from where they'd started. And there, below, were the burning remnants of the After Market.

What in unholy hell.

Movement among the flames caught their eye. A shape made its way out of the blast zone, limping. There were people alive down there. True pushed themself upright and staggered downhill.

The heat of the fires rushed up to meet them, kissing all the same places the pyre had mere hours earlier. They reached the bottom of the hill just in time to watch a towering shape leap from a hidden corner and take the limping shape to the ground. Firelight reflected off the giant's pale skin. True ducked behind the shell of a car. Hiding. Deliberating.

That hadn't been a shadow dweller. And that sure as hell didn't look like healing.

The ringing in their ears began to give way to crackles from the flames, screams, and the occasional whoop. The shadow dwellers they led here taking advantage of an opportunity to pick off lightly barbequed stragglers. They uncurled from their hiding spot, shovel gripped in hand, and jogged into the fire.

Their feet carried them through the familiar streets, now lit up by destruction in place of kerosene lamps. Bodies littered the streets between decimated tables and ashy remnant of trades. Deeper in, the bodies looked more like hamburger than people. Roaring fire and the sounds of strangers begging for mercy replaces the church bells in their ears. Not much of an upgrade. They found the mangled street they were looking for. It was too close to the blast for hope, and yet they couldn't convince themself to walk away.

"Galya!" they called. Her counter was a wreck, half of it crushed under the collapsed wall of the building it had nestled beside. Plaster dust and black smoke choked the air. They coughed, ducking under the smoldering lumber. "Galya!"

A horrid moan drew their attention to a debris-crowded corner. She was mangled like her street. One leg visibly broken, the exposed skin on her arms yellow with bloated blisters. True kneeled beside her. Warm blood soaked their pants. There was a lot of it, they couldn't see where it came from. In fact, they were having a hard time looking at anything except the canyon stretching from ear to gored eye socket. Splinters of wood and bone mingle in the torn flesh.

"You're stupider than I thought." She reached up to rap their head. They could only watch in helpless horror as her intestines, no longer held in by her arm, spilled. Oh, that's where the blood was from.

"You're the one who got herself killed," they said. Galya rasped out a death-rattle-esque laugh and True tried not to stare at the way it made her intestines dance and writhe.

"Let me save you the trouble of harvesting me."

"Don't—"

But she was already lifting her other deformed arm to press something heavy and too warm to their chest. A handgun. True's eyes widened. Who the hell had guns these days? True knew how to shoot. A BB gun. The real thing was different. Loud, heavy, hard to manage, not worth the practice.

"Kill the bastards that did this, eh, True?" Galya said, an unreadable gleam in her remaining eye. Her hand fell from the gun. A swollen blister burst on impact, spraying them both with sticky plasma. She yelped, and just like that, went dim. Slack-faced, blank-stared, chest stilled.

Tucking the gun into their waistband, they reached up with bare hands to wrench a burning chunk of lumber free from the debris and touched the flames to Galya. Smoke stung their eyes as they walked away.