The sun was beginning its slow descent behind the jagged ruins of Olongapo, painting the sky in hues of orange and blood-red. Ric Ramirez rode through the hollowed-out streets on his Honda ADV, the growl of the engine the only sound in a city that had long since died. The once-bustling roads were now graveyards of rusting cars and skeletal buildings, remnants of lives that had been erased overnight.

Ric had been alone for months.

He told himself he was surviving. Thriving, even. He had fortified his family's compound in Gordon Heights. He had power, water, food—everything he needed to stay alive. But there were nights when silence pressed down on him so hard, he swore he could hear ghosts whispering in the wind. Cat. Sam. Teo. Martha.

He refused to believe they were gone. They were still out there. Waiting for him.

That thought alone drove him forward, kept him hunting, scavenging, fighting. If they were alive, they'd need him. And if they were dead...

No. He wouldn't accept that.

Ric eased the throttle, slowing down as he approached what used to be SM Olongapo Central Mall. The massive shopping complex stood in eerie silence, its towering facade cracked and weather-worn. A city within a city, a labyrinth of empty shops and food courts frozen in time.

Suddenly, a wave of unease washed over him.

The streets were quiet—too quiet.

Ric turned off the ignition and scanned the area. Empty streets stretched in all directions.

But there was no movement. No bodies. No signs of struggle.

Only that silence.

He parked his bike just outside, near an overturned delivery truck, and took a deep breath. He had his AR-15 slung across his back, his Glock 19 holstered on his hip, a tactical knife strapped to his thigh. He checked his magazine. Full. He adjusted the strap of his backpack. Light enough to move fast, heavy enough to hold essentials.

He pushed open one of the side doors and carefully stepped into the abyss.

* * *

Stepping inside, the air changed.

It was heavy, thick with decay and dust, clinging to the back of his throat like mold. The skylight above had caved in, letting in jagged beams of dying sunlight that barely touched the black gorge of the lower floors.

He tightened his grip on his rifle. Shadows stretched unnaturally long. Shapes lurked at the edges of his vision—mannequins standing in their frozen, twisted poses.

He hated mannequins.

Ric moved carefully, weaving through the ruins of a civilization frozen in time. Broken glass crunched under his boots, echoing too loud in the vast emptiness.

He passed an abandoned food stall, its trays of rotten meat covered in a thick layer of mold. A half-eaten meal still sat on a plastic plate—someone's last supper before the world ended.

Something dripped.

Ric stopped.

His pulse quickened.

Plip. Plip.

He looked up.

Above him, black stains marred the ceiling. Blood. Fresh.

His stomach twisted. Someone—or something—was still here.

He turned a corner near the central atrium, entering the main corridor that stretched toward the grocery store on the ground floor.

Then, he saw it.

At first, it looked like a pile of rags slumped against a wall near Watson's pharmacy. A homeless man?

No.

Not a man.

The thing stirred.

A slow, unnatural twitch.

Ric froze. He didn't even breathe.

The figure let out a deep, wet rattle, shifting slightly in the dim light.

Then, it stopped.

Waiting.

Ric swallowed hard. His fingers tightened on his rifle.

He took one careful step back—

The thing's head snapped toward him.

Its milky-white eyes locked onto his.

Then it screamed.

A sound like tearing flesh and shattered lungs, inhuman, hungry.

From the darkness behind it, movement.

Ric's blood turned to ice.

They weren't alone.

The first infected launched itself at him, bare feet slapping against the tile.

Ric fired.

The AR-15's muzzle flash illuminated the dark corridor, the round punching through its skull in a spray of black ichor. It collapsed mid-sprint, its momentum skidding it across the floor.

But more were coming.

Dozens. Crawling from the ruins, stepping out from the pitch-black corridors, spilling from the upper floors like cockroaches.

Too many.

Ric turned and ran.

He vaulted over a toppled display stand, knocking over mannequins as he sprinted toward the escalator.

The groans and shrieks behind him grew louder.

A hand clawed at his vest—he twisted, bringing his rifle up just as another infected lunged at him. A single shot to the temple.

Ric didn't stop.

Get to high ground.

He took the escalator two steps at a time, his boots slipping on blood-slick metal. The infected swarmed the ground floor, their twisted bodies slamming into railings, tripping over themselves in their rabid hunger.

Ric reached the second floor just as another infected lunged from the side.

Too close.

It tackled him.

They crashed through a storefront window, glass shattering around them as they tumbled into the ruins of a clothing boutique.

Ric hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.

The infected landed on top of him, snapping its rotting teeth inches from his face.

Ric jammed his forearm against its throat, using his body weight to keep its jaws at bay.

The thing shrieked, thrashing wildly, its fingers digging into his vest.

Ric twisted, reaching for his knife.

The infected lunged—

He drove the blade into its skull.

It stiffened, body spasming, then went limp.

Ric shoved the corpse off him, panting.

More were coming.

Ric grabbed his rifle and ran.

The upper level of the mall was collapsing into chaos. The infected were everywhere, some falling over the railings in their frenzy, others crawling over one another to get to him.

He needed a plan.

His eyes darted around, scanning for options.

The food court.

He bolted toward it, dodging overturned tables and shattered chairs. He ran past empty restaurants, past the stench of rotting meals left untouched for months.

There—a maintenance door.

Ric threw his weight against it.

Locked.

"Shit!"

He spun around—a dozen of them surged forward.

Then, an idea.

Ric fired into the ceiling.

The sound echoed like thunder, reverberating through the vast space.

The infected flinched, confused.

That was all he needed.

Ric sprinted toward the railing overlooking the ground floor.

Below, a massive chandelier still hung, its rusted chains creaking.

He didn't think.

He jumped.

His hands latched onto the chandelier. The metal screamed in protest, the cables snapping one by one.

Then it fell.

Ric rode the chandelier down, glass exploding as it crashed into the horde below. Shards impaled infected, their shrieks mixing with the sound of breaking bones.

Ric hit the ground, rolling to break his fall.

His ribs flared in agony. He forced himself up—bloodied, battered, barely breathing.

But he was still alive.

And his bike was waiting.

Ric burst out of the mall entrance, sprinting for his Honda ADV.

The horde erupted from behind him, pouring out of the shattered doors like a living flood.

He leaped onto his bike, twisting the key—the engine roared to life.

The infected reached for him—

He gunned the throttle.

The bike tore forward, dirt and debris kicking up behind him as he sped into the early evening, the city flashing past in a blur of shadow and flame.

His hands shook. His heart pounded. His body ached.

But he had survived.

Barely.

As the distant howls of the infected faded into the wind, Ric knew one thing.

They weren't dying off.

They were waiting.

And next time, he might not be so lucky.

* * *

Back at Gordon Heights, Ric stumbled through his gate, slamming it shut behind him. His body ached, bruised and bleeding, his breathing ragged.

He had pushed his luck.

Too many of them. More than he had ever seen before.

He stripped off his gear, checked his wounds. Scratches. Bruises. But nothing serious.

Ric slumped onto his battered old couch, his arms heavy, his pulse still racing.

The memory of the mall still clung to him—the shrieks of the infected, the crunch of broken glass under his boots, the suffocating darkness. The way he had fought, clawed, and bled just to make it out alive.

He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to breathe.

One thing at a time.

* * *

Painfully, Ric pushed himself to his feet and unbuckled his plate carrier vest, letting it drop onto the tiled floor with a dull thud. His AR-15 followed, resting against the wall. His Glock 19 went onto the small table beside the couch—always within reach.

His fingers ran over the deep bruises along his ribs, the dried blood on his forearm.

Scratches. Bruises.

He had survived worse.

Making his way to the kitchen, Ric filled a steel bowl with water and grabbed an old rag. He wiped the grime from his face, the dried sweat and blood clinging stubbornly to his skin. The cool water stung against a fresh cut on his cheek, but he ignored it.

Next, he pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt, exposing the scars that mapped his body—marks of war, survival, and loss. He dipped the rag again and scrubbed at the dried blood near his elbow, the rhythmic motion grounding him.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves beyond his barricaded walls. The city beyond was dead. But here, in his home, there was still life.

And for tonight, that was enough.

His stomach ached—not from hunger, but from exhaustion.

Still, he knew he needed to eat.

Ric stepped over to his modest kitchen, a small space that had once been filled with warmth—laughter, the smell of home-cooked meals, the clatter of dishes as Cat playfully scolded him for sneaking a bite before dinner was ready.

That felt like a lifetime ago.

Now, the shelves were lined with canned goods, dried rice, and bottled water—a survivalist's diet. Gone were the days of beef caldereta simmering on the stove, garlic fried rice crisping in a pan, the rich aroma of Cat's sinigang filling the house.

He pushed the thought aside and grabbed a can of Libby's corned beef. Twisting the key, he peeled back the metal lid and dumped the contents into a battered frying pan over his small butane stove. The meat sizzled as it hit the pan, a faint aroma of salt and fat filling the air. He tossed in some sliced onions—a small luxury from his rooftop garden—and stirred them with a fork.

As the food cooked, he scooped a cup of rice from his stash, adding water to the small electric rice cooker—one of the last working appliances in the house. The soft click of the button felt almost comforting.

His movements were methodical, automatic.

Routine.

The same steps he had taken every night since he was left alone.

But tonight, it felt different.

Maybe it was the near-death experience. Maybe it was the ghosts lingering in his head.

But as he stood there, watching the steam rise from the pan, he felt the emptiness of the house press down on him.

Too quiet. Too hollow.

* * *

He sat at the small dining table, setting down his plate—corned beef and rice, the meal of a soldier, of a survivor.

But not a family man.

Not a husband. Not a father.

Not anymore.

His fingers idly traced the edge of the table, pausing over a faint scratch in the wood—a mark left by Cat, back when she had been helping Sam with her school project, laughing as they argued over how to use a glue gun.

He could still hear it. The laughter.

Sam giggling as Cat teased her.

Teo running around in circles, pretending to be a superhero.

His father, Cesar, outside at the garage, cleaning his M4 carbine rifles.

His mother, Martha, humming a tune in the background, her voice soft and steady, like it always had been. Lola Suelo beside her.

And then there was Cat.

His Cat.

The love of his life.

Ric exhaled sharply, gripping his spoon as if that would stop the memories from flooding in.

No matter how many months had passed.

She was still out there.

Somewhere.

He closed his eyes, letting the memory of her fill the space around him.

Her smile, warm and mischievous, teasing him even on his worst days.

Her voice, soft and strong, reminding him that no matter what happened, they were in this together.

Her touch, the only thing that had ever made him feel truly alive.

Where was she now?

Was she safe?

Was she fighting to survive, just like he was?

Or... was she already gone, buried under the weight of the apocalypse?

His throat tightened.

He couldn't afford to think like that.

Not now.

Not ever.

He forced himself to eat, though every bite tasted like ash in his mouth.

His body needed the food, but his heart rejected it.

Still, he chewed. Swallowed.

Survival didn't care about emotions.

When the plate was empty, he leaned back in his chair, staring at the dim glow of the emergency lantern in the corner of the room.

The night outside was deep, heavy, and full of unseen dangers.

But inside, it was just him. And the past.

He knew he needed sleep. His body screamed for rest. But his mind was restless.

Dragging himself to his bedroom, he set his Glock 19 on the nightstand, always within reach. He pulled off his boots, his bloodstained shirt, his belt.

The bed creaked as he lay down.

The ceiling above was the same as it had always been. But the bed...

It was empty.

Too empty.

For so many years, Cat had been beside him. And now, all that remained was a cold, hollow space where she should be.

Ric turned onto his side, closing his eyes.

He didn't know if he would dream tonight.

Didn't know if the nightmares would come again—the screams, the blood, the memories of what he had lost.

But if he did dream, he hoped—just for a moment—that he would see her.

That he would see her smile.

That he would remember what it felt like to be whole.

And not just a man waiting for the morning, alone.