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the city square's empty, as always, save for a few staggering zombies. they pay you no mind. red drips from their eyes, slips down rotting flesh and bone. sculk blooms wherever they walk.
above you, the statue of the secret keeper looms, casting the square into darkness. sculk creeps up the stone, bleeding into the cracks. you brush your fingers against the cool sludge and sigh when it recoils from your touch.
no matter. you have places to be.
take a walk | head back home | park | subway
you pass by hordes of limping zombies and piles of rubble before you come across cleo’s old car. through the smudged windows, you can see one of their hoodies, bundled up in the passenger seat. you shiver. your last one had been ripped to shreds when you'd tried to climb over a fence lined with barbed wire.
…she's gone, anyway; piled up in scott’s van with him and grian, bodies pressed together for warmth. she won’t miss it.
you pry the door open with some metal beam you find on the ground. it parts easily; the veins surrounding the car's loosened it a little. you clamber in, grab the hoodie, pop right back out. if you focus enough, you can still smell her deodrant.
you pick your way through the piles of bottles and boxes strewn around the room. it's been a mess for a couple months now; you just haven't found the time to clean it up yet.
jimmy's shirt slung over the couch, cleo's hairbrush on the table, your own cup half-full of coffee sitting on the counter. it's cold in your hands. you chug it down anyway, grimacing at the sour taste.
across the living room, the balcony door is open. the curtains sway slightly in the wind.
everything’s wilted here. you step over a rotten, hollow tree that’s fallen on the path. sculk spills out the tree, smothers the plants around. shame; that was your favourite. you run your fingers over the bark; watch, impassive, as sculk skitters away. you write your name in the thickest clump.
in the distance: a cluster of rectangular slabs, sticking out the ground.
the gates've been shut tight since the first wave, but you climb over them anyway. there's a couple zombies walking into the gates, over and over. none of them pay you any mind. the clanging echoes behind you as you decend the steps.
platform's coated with dust. the utility room is locked, as always, but it opens with a creak when you jimmy the lock a little.
you flick the switch. nothing happens. oh well! worth a shot.
your feet ache by the time you reach the north entrance. sculk spills into weeds, concrete into towering trees. you lean against the nearest one, basking in the shade.
across from you, ren's hometown is just visible over the crest of the hill. behind, the sun dips below the horizon. the world is bathed in soft purple. you yearn for bark under your fingers, someone by your side.
ren's out there somewhere. jimmy's gone. cleo's left for good. you should leave, too; venture into ren's hometown looking for him, or perhaps meet up with cleo and start a new life somewhere far, far away from the sculk.
…
ren might come back, though.
you turn your back on the setting sun, and walk back inside.
it's cold out here. you're four floors up and already the wind is howling through the concrete, sculked-up walls. you walk to the railing; glass crunches underfoot. below you: the city, crumbling. above you: a sky full of smog.
to your left: a rickety ladder.
flies buzzing around the half-eaten sandwiches. you wrinkle your nose, turn away. the wind is gentler up here, somehow; it caresses your face, ruffles up your hair.
the world looks so small. zombies ambling about; not a single living thing in sight. even the sculk doesn't seem so bad. sun’s shining bright, but there’s still stars in the sky.
ren’s hometown in the distance. nothing but smouldering ruins now. the sculk’s thickest there. site zero, after all.
you wonder how ren's doing up there.
jimmy’d replaced the jam in the pb&j sandwiches he’d made for you with ketchup. a really stupid prank, in hindsight, except you’d eaten half of it before realising. you’d finished it all, though, rancid as it was, if only to hear jimmy’s laugh.
there used to be a time, months and months ago, when you’d come here every week. you’d climb up the tree, ren close behind you, and you’d settle on the third lowest branch, head on ren’s shoulder, sharing ice cream. the sun would set, and for ten beautiful minutes he would be painted in pink and red, and nothing in the world could touch him.
you linger at the edge of the crooked rows of freshly-turned dirt. already, sculk creeps up the gravestones. you’ll have to clean that up soon; it's spread over the names, so all that's left is a singular gravestone reading J. a singular flower, cut at the stem, sits atop weeds wilting under sculk.
…you’ll come back later. you have all the time in the world, after all.
you'd taught cleo how to do this, way back when, and the both of you would come down here to talk, graffitti the walls. before that, it was ren, and before ren it was jimmy.
the stash of spray paint is still under the desk. you grab it, impulsively, and spray a dick on the nearest wall.
the first and last time cleo'd stayed over in your new apartment, she'd spend a solid five seconds spraying deodrant all over herself. the scent would snake its way around the house, under your door, up your nose, until you'd cough and splutter.
jimmy never minded, funnily enough.