Back inside his apartment, Liam tossed the pole aside. He couldn't shake the image of the woman—bloated, shredded, raw. His brain was a chaotic mess. It took a solid ten minutes just to stop shaking.


Okay, Liam. Think. Do I bunker down and wait for the cavalry? Or do I build a raft and get the heck out of Dodge? Are there even other people left in the city?


He peeled off his wet socks—gross—and pulled on a dry pair of sneakers. He paced over to the balcony window.


Outside, the city was an ocean. Only the skyscrapers, floor thirty and up, poked out of the water like concrete islands.


He stared at them. There have to be survivors over there, right? Finding people sounded a lot better than rotting in here alone.


But then he remembered the body. The bite marks.


Going out there meant risking whatever was swimming in that water. That thought cast a pretty big shadow over the "leave now" plan.


Maybe I just wait, he thought. Rescue teams have to be coming. Right?


Point for Team Stay: He was a bachelor, which meant his survival prep was accidentally decent. He had a stash of instant noodles, crackers, and bread crammed in the fridge. Enough to keep him alive for four or five days, easy.


He decided to play both sides.


Plan A: Bunker down. Hope for a miracle or a helicopter.


Plan B: Build a raft. If nobody showed up in a few days, he'd have to brave the water and find his own way out.


Decision made. Liam felt the knot in his chest loosen slightly. He ripped open a pack of crackers and started munching while he worked. Another stroke of luck: the tap water was still running. For now.


He filled his kettle and fired up the portable gas stove. It was an old-school canister model he barely ever used—the last time was that dinner party with Lana. Now, that dusty canister was the only reason he could have hot water.


Better boil extra, he told himself. Power's gone. Water pressure could die any second.


While the water boiled, Liam went into loot-mode. He scoured his apartment for tools: nails, screwdrivers, pliers, scissors, a lighter, a hammer. He grabbed the kitchen knife and the fruit knife, piling everything onto the coffee table. The zombie-apocalypse starter pack.


Belly full of crackers and water, Liam got to work.


Step one: Signal fire.


He needed to get to the roof and make some serious smoke. If anyone was out there looking, they'd see it.


He bundled up some old clothes, a cotton quilt, plastic slippers, and trash bags—anything that would burn dirty and black. He grabbed his lighter and headed for the door.


Operation: Smoke Signal is a go.


Liam opened his front door, ready to march up to the roof.


He froze.


He stared at the hallway floor.


Wet footprints.


Fresh ones.


They trailed from the dark end of the corridor, slick and glistening, leading right up to the young couple's door.


Liam's heart didn't just skip a beat; it tried to punch its way out of his chest.


Liam stared at the soggy footprints.


He knew they weren't his. The wet tracks he'd made earlier had dried up ages ago. These were fresh—someone had walked down this hallway just moments ago. If it had been any longer, the water would have evaporated.


Is there someone else here? Liam thought, his heart skipping a beat. Did someone just come up the stairs and go into the couple's apartment? But the stairwell is flooded... how did they even get across?


Liam eyed the neighbor's door. It was slightly ajar.


He wanted to rush in and check, but a cold dread settled in his gut. Something about this felt wrong. Indescribably wrong.


Fighting the urge to be reckless, Liam bolted back into his own apartment. He dropped the bundle of quilts and clothes he'd been carrying and snatched up the gear he'd left on the coffee table: a heavy meat cleaver and a hammer.


Armed. Good.


With weapons in hand, he felt a little less like prey. He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to force his heart rate down, and stepped back out into the hallway. He had to know.


Please let it be another survivor, he prayed silently.


Facing the apocalypse alone was crushing him. It wasn't just the loneliness; it was the constant, suffocating fear of the unknown. He felt like he was inches away from a total mental breakdown. He was desperate for a human face, a companion... heck, at this point, he'd settle for a dog.


Liam crept back to the neighbor's door. He stared at the dark gap between the door and the frame, and then down at the wet trail.


Up close, he noticed puddles pooling on either side of the footprints. Whoever—or whatever—made these hadn't just stepped in a puddle; they were soaked to the bone. They had been dripping wet, leaving a trail of water that was already starting to evaporate. He'd only noticed the details because he was standing right on top of them.


Liam white-knuckled the hammer and cleaver. He didn't push the door open yet. His throat bobbed as he swallowed dryly.


"Is... is anyone there?"


Silence. The hallway and the room beyond were dead quiet.


Liam waited a few seconds, listening so hard his ears rang, and asked again.


Suddenly, a sound came from inside.


Scrape.


It sounded like a chair being dragged across the floor, or maybe bumped into. In the heavy silence, the noise sounded like a gunshot.


Someone is definitely in there. Why aren't they answering?


Liam couldn't take the suspense anymore. He raised the hammer in his right hand and shoved the door.