Footsteps rattled up the metal staircases like gunshots. As a mother, Cynthia's acute sense of hearing rarely failed her. She drew in a deep breath as her eyes traced the path of the three-story drop to the cement jungle. 

No escape through the spaces that once were windows. 

She sighed. Watching another night close in on the tornado-scarred buildings surrounding her wouldn't help her situation. If she befriended the shadows, she might live to see another day.

Danger kept hammering away, two steps at a time. Its urgency only amplified the silence of the city. No traffic, no power, no machines to fill the wavelengths. 

With fear pulsing through her veins, she pressed herself down on the vinyl floor and rolled closer to Blake's body. His proximity calmed her nerves. She only craved companionship at rare moments now, even if no words could be exchanged.

What wouldn't she give to see her family again or even a water source for her parched throat. She didn't want to drink the little that remained in her bottle quite yet. She took a moment to send up a prayer to a God she still believed in despite the chaos.

Maybe the intruders would skip this level. Her fingers brushed the surface of the floor to find the thicker texture of Blake's dried pool of blood. Hopefully, whoever climbed the steps would mistake it for hers and she could be just another corpse. No cannibalism rumors had surfaced. Yet. 

She couldn't help but glance at this shell of a man. His red and purple rotting flesh gleamed in the few rays of leftover sunlight. Her cotton nose plugs offered little relief to the rank, pungent smell that crawled inside her nostrils and clung on like a parasite.

The sharp gray suit on the body had reminded her of an old friend, Blake, from college and from that moment, the immobile stranger had an identity. 

This wasn't right. He should have been buried, burned, anything but this. Now, Blake was just another lump behind an overturned desk. Maggot food. 

But her tears had dried up long ago. Sadness only slowed her pace and left her open to attack. Vigilance would be her salvation.  The illusion of her death had to be successful. Otherwise, she would join the ranks of him and the other victims.

She could only survive with the small hope that her family was still out there: Winston, her strong little guy, and John, her other half. The hope of their survival was a weak notion, but she clung to it. A warm blanket on these unusually frigid New Mexican nights. She had to avoid the abysmal fate on the streets rampant with ruthless wanderers.

Her breath caught in her dry throat when a swirl of male and female voices bounced off the bare cement walls of the former bank. She only knew the building because she and her husband had talked to a man about their mortgage down on the main floor years ago. At least the overturned furniture and cubical walls could serve as good cover should the intruders reach this floor, her plan fail and she need an escape route.

Her dirty fingertips rapped against the floor, stopping when she remembered her company and its bloody varnish. Soon to be hers if she didn't cut it out. 

Why would others venture up here? A mix of at least three voices, given their pitches, intimidated Cynthia. The slurring of their voices led her to believe she might go unnoticed as another shadow. Thank God her dark skin and navy scrubs blended into the approaching night. Some survivors' penchant for mind-altering substances was a blessing.

Cynthia stretched her legs, knocking a nearly empty, mocking water bottle and caused her muscles to clench even tighter. There was no way to procure the next drop without abandoning her sanctuary. Even without intruders, she had drained the water cooler dry hours ago, and the necessity of movement nipped at her heels. She tucked the water bottle into a money bag she had been also using as a blanket.

A metallic crack reverberated throughout the room and she knew her luck had run out.

"Dude, have you ever thought this would be a necrophiliac's dream?" a male voice said. His voice was clear and growing closer.

"You're a sick bastard," a deeper voice responded from further away.

"Who's to say what's right and wrong anymore?  No one's around to judge us," the first speaker said.

A clang echoed only a few feet away. She bit her cracked lip so hard she nearly drew blood. One must have hurled an object across the room. Laughter followed. Small beams of light headed in her direction while her heartbeat sped up the way her husband used to on the 66. An encounter with morally corrupt scavengers was a fate she had hoped to avoid. 

She hugged her money bag, also containing a box of crackers, close to her body before her cover was blown. Her heart sank with the knowledge that there were three more boxes in the staff room that she should have grabbed. It lay past the intruders, unreachable. Their presence lingered and with the glow of sunset, she knew she wouldn't be mistaken for a corpse.

Now or never.

She stayed low and moved along the overturned tables, desks and support beams. She hoped her crouched position and the increasing obscurity, as the sun slipped below the horizon in for another brisk night, would help conceal her actions. She glanced back at Blake's body before departing and silently thanked him for his afterlife companionship, if only to salvage her threadbare sanity. A crunch resonated as her foot crushed a piece of shattered glass.

"Do you hear that?" 

That voice was close, too close. Cynthia stopped dead in her tracks and prayed her shaking wouldn't give her away. Slow breaths, calm breaths. They were just people. People who could be reasoned with, should they find her.

"Yeah, it came from over here."

The footsteps approached and Cynthia's body stilled completely. She opened up the eyes she had squeezed shut without even noticing. Another pair glistened back at her.

"Don't see many people of your kind around these parts."

Fire burned in her chest as she stood up. She had always taught her son to do the same. She wasn't about to turn into a hypocrite and let them walk all over her, despite the circumstances. The young woman in the group beat her to it.

"Jake, you insensitive prick-"

"I meant she's old, guys. I'm not being racist or nothing." 

Cynthia wanted to laugh, if only her life didn't hang in the balance. She hardly considered thirty five old. But it was true that less people her age took to the streets around this time, since they'd already found shelter and safety.

"I don't want any trouble," Cynthia said and took a few steps toward the staircase.

"We're not done here," the larger man spoke. He stepped sideways to block her path. His size and muscle could take her on easily should this get ugly.

"She's too old for ya, bro," Jake chimed in.

The larger man whirled around to face his accomplice. "Jake, shut your damn mouth before I do it for you!" The man turned back to Cynthia. "What do you know about this building?"

Cynthia let out a breath of relief. Information she could provide. If she made this place sound desirable enough, they might let her leave unscathed.

"It seems structurally sound up to this point. This floor has a kitchen with some food and a water cooler. I can only imagine that the rest of floors are similar."

"How long have you been here?"

"Just a day." She had needed it to recuperate energy and supplies, not that she had wanted to give up her search. 

"You know about any rescue missions? Any government help coming?"

Cynthia shook her head. The first few days she had waited with others, assuming someone would bring medical supplies to the area or at least water. But the great American government was a ghost. By now, she knew that no one was coming. The tornadoes and floods must have rocked the whole country.

"I'm just trying to stay alive long enough to find my son."

The dim glow of a mobile device illuminated Jake's face. Cynthia's heart ached for her own phone, crushed in the hurried escape weeks ago. She hadn't realized how many of her memories were locked in the lost digital world. She didn't even have a photo to remind her of the people that used to be so precious to her.

"What are you doing, Jake. You're going to waste your battery life," the young woman said.

"I'm going to show her..." His fingers swiped a couple more times before he flipped the phone toward her. "Landon and Trent, 'cuz maybe she knows where they're at."

Cynthia recognized the two young men on the screen. One had sat in her backseat with a projectile through his chest, but he hadn't lasted long. Their account of the initial tornadoes and storms had saved her own life; although, the news would provide no consolation to this young man.

"I knew them. I was driving them to the hospital that day," she said softly. 

"They alright?" The larger man asked, the edge absent from his voice.

"No, they didn't make it. We tried to help them but..."

The group nodded and the room grew silent. Their malice vanished and she saw the true state of these teens and young adults. Vulnerable, lost, and in need of reassurance.

"It was quick. They wouldn't have suffered for long. Trent was injured when I picked them up but still conscious enough to keep speaking. I wish things had worked out differently."

"They were good people," Jake said and turned off the screen. 

"Thank you. It's hard not knowing." The young woman wrapped her arms around her torso.

Cynthia nodded and choked down the unpleasant sensation growing in her chest. She knew that feeling all too well. "You should take this floor. It's good shelter if you avoid the glass and it has some snacks. I need to keep looking for my husband and my son. I don't have a phone, but you haven't seen a man in his thirties, six foot tall, dark complexion and a little boy about eight years old, have you?"

Most of them looked away and shook their heads. The leader provided a firm "No,"

It pained her to give up shelter at this hour, but staying here got her no closer to her family. Cynthia waited for the nod from the leader before she began to leave.

Just as her hand reached the handle, he asked, "Do you really believe your family is still living out there?"

She drew in a breath. The same question haunted her every waking hour. "I have to." It was the only motivation she had left.

Come evening, the streets caused Cynthia to be even more on edge. Too much glass, cement, and biological debris made the roads impassable by vehicle. As much as she wanted to find Winston, she knew she had to find shelter to survive the night and a new, clean water source. Her instincts directed her toward taller structures, but their support beams boasted gaping cracks. She didn't want the same fate as those who had survived the winds, but fallen victim to the collapsing aftermath. The crackers in her bag and the water left in her system gave her approximately three days before she'd die of dehydration. 

Her feet sloshed through puddles, sticky and thick. They pulled at the soles of her dirty running shoes. Her foot snagged on something soft and her gaze confirmed it was the arm of a young boy, twisted at an unusual angle from its socket. Chills crawled across her skin. Each passing day left victims less and less recognizable, but this boy was too pale to be her son. Insects leached from the poor boy's corpse and gnawed at his flesh until they reached the bone. She covered her mouth and tried to cover up the body with the surrounding debris.

The occasional fresh corpse dropped, but the number of survivors dwindled and could not light a candle to those lost in the disaster, day zero. On day sixteen, only the strong, resourceful or wicked remained.

Cynthia squeezed through a barrage of vehicles strewn across the street at unnatural angles as if a toddler had thrown them in a rage. The victims' piercing screams from night zero still plagued her while the present world refused to speak. Their terrified eyes had been glued to the swirling, howling funnels. By day five, the rustling of rummaging and patter of footsteps had prevailed, two noises that put her on edge.

Suddenly, she heard both. A small form crawled out of an old SUV without a side door. Her vigilance faltered. This was no time to get sloppy. His slow, casual wander brought her instincts down a touch. He could just be looking for someone to take care of him.

"Do you got any food, lady?" the young, blond boy asked. His face was darkened on one side with dried blood from a scalp wound. She tried not to think about the condition of her own precious son.

Winston... these two could have gone to school together before this madness.

Denying this poor boy food would be a crime. Cynthia reached into her money bag and gave him a handful of crackers. His bright eyes triggered a small flame of hope in her heart.

If one boy could survive...

Her ears picked up a light swishing sound.  Her eyes flickered from the boy inhaling the crackers with both frantic hands pressed to his mouth to the surrounding vehicles and broken shop windows. No others yet. The boys' eyes darted to a far corner behind the SUV. She took it as her cue to leave.

Before she could get too far, another hoarse voice called out, "Care to share with the rest of us?"

Faced with the possibility of escape or standing her ground, Cynthia chose the latter. How hard could it be the second time around? Plus, people had enough smarts to procure weapons by this time while she hadn't found the motivation, yet. A woman with a slightly cracked smile stepped out of the shadows, her tattered clothes swaying with each step.

"Are you baiting people with your child?" Cynthia asked, unafraid to make eye contact.

"The child's not mine, but he's provin' to be quite useful."

The woman didn't move, resting her hand and weight on the mud caked vehicle. Cynthia's eyes were drawn to the woman's unbalanced feet. There wouldn't be a chase with that injury.

The boy remained still while his eyes sought out new targets on the street. The unfortunate soul, to do the bidding of a woman who only kept him around for his innocent face. His eyes flickered back to the injured woman, almost as if asking for permission. She shook her head. Cynthia didn't want to know how she controlled the boy.

"Ya could join us. All we ask izza donation. Y'know they say there's safety in numbas," the mother of convenience coaxed.

Cynthia stood still as the boy grew closer. Her hand jerked as the microfiber bag was torn from her grip. Her harsh glare fell on the child who fixated on the contents of the bag like a wolf, sniffing them out. He tipped the bag upside down. The bottle cracked upon impact with the ground; the small amount of drinkable water leached out. Cynthia's throat tightened. Rationing for nothing. The woman was quick to limp over. She picked up the bottle up and used it to smack the child upside the head.

"Look what ya've gone and done now."

The boy began to cry.

"He's a child!" Cynthia's harsh tone caused the woman to freeze. Cynthia's anger compelled her to step forward and she reached into the pocket of her scrubs to feign having a weapon. The weaker woman's eyes widened and she took a few steps back until she back into a beige sedan. 

"Sorry lady, ya looked like y'knew a thing er two 'bout survivin' out here," the child kidnapper said, hands trembling like a caged animal. Cynthia tried to bury the pride she felt in instilling fear in this monster. It was the first step to heading down this sinful road. "We didn't mean no disrespect; I just wanted to feed the child." She passed the bag back to Cynthia. Her watering eyes begged for forgiveness, a forced act.

"I'm no more ready than you are," Cynthia said.

She picked up the box of crackers, soiled by street muck, and prayed it hadn't been tainted with bodily fluids. She slung the money bag over her shoulder and strode away with the pride of knowing she would never become that.

The continued sobbing of the little boy tore at Cynthia's heart. She knew she should have helped that child. If that was her son, she would have been mortified that a stranger was using him. But he wasn't her child, and she could hardly even support herself at this point.

She would find her family, for better or for worse.

Even if it killed her.