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Eight months.

That’s how long it’s been since the world decided to roll over and die. Since the streets emptied, since the sky stopped caring, since hope became a joke no one dared to tell. Since laughter sounded foreign, and silence became the loudest thing you could hear.

Since the counter dropped below a million and everyone stopped pretending there was a future. The news anchors gave up mid-sentence, governments dissolved into static-filled broadcasts and empty promises, and neighbors either vanished overnight or turned on each other for scraps. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even dramatic. No meteors, no nuclear flashes. Just a slow, suffocating collapse that crept into every corner of life until even denial couldn’t cover it up anymore.

Now, it’s just me, Her, and the occasional psychopath trying to speed up the inevitable. The ones who think survival is a competition, as if there's some grand prize waiting for whoever lasts the longest. Spoiler alert: there isn’t.

The road hasn’t changed much—still endless, still broken, still mocking me with every mile. Every mile marker I pass feels like a gravestone, each one daring me to keep counting. I’ve been driving for hours, following Her updated route northeast, when the fuel gauge reminds me that wishful thinking doesn’t fill gas tanks. The needle’s been flirting with empty for longer than I’d like to admit, dancing on the edge just to see if I’ll panic.

Luckily—or unluckily, depending on how this goes—I spot a gas station in the distance. Or what’s left of one.

The sign’s hanging by a single chain, swaying in the breeze like it’s just waiting to give up and fall. Letters missing, as if even the name of this place wanted to be forgotten. Windows shattered, roof partially collapsed under the weight of too many storms and no repairs. Pumps rusted and bone-dry, standing like relics to a world where people actually thought about tomorrow. The place looks like it’s been dead longer than the people who used to stop here. But there might be something inside. There’s always something inside. Whether it’s useful or just another reminder of how far things have fallen—that’s the gamble I don’t get to refuse.

I pull up, kill the engine, and grab my rifle—because optimism gets you killed faster than a bullet. Hope is just a distraction when the world’s spent the last year proving it hates you.

"Hey, keep an ear out."

"For what? The ghosts, or your poor life choices?"

"Whichever shows up first."

I step through the broken door, boots crunching on glass loud enough to announce my arrival to anyone—or anything—still lurking. The place smells like rot and dust—a nice reminder that air fresheners weren’t designed for the apocalypse. The air is thick, stale, like it hasn’t moved in months, maybe years. It clings to my skin, heavy with the scent of decay and abandonment.

Shelves are mostly bare. A few cans here and there, labels faded and peeling like they’re trying to disappear too. I grab what I can, tossing them into my bag without bothering to check the contents. It’s muscle memory at this point. You don’t think about it—you just take, because hesitation gets you killed. It’s when I head toward the back that things get... worse.

There’s a storeroom door, slightly ajar. Something feels off—more than usual. The kind of off that makes your skin crawl before you even know why. Like the air itself is warning you to turn around.

I nudge it open with the barrel of my rifle.

That’s when I see them.

Bodies.

Dozens of them.

Piled up like garbage bags someone forgot to take out. Some still wearing tattered uniforms—employees, maybe. Others dressed like travelers who thought this was a safe stop. Families, loners, people who probably thought locking themselves in here was a smart move. People who believed walls could keep death out. Some of them are missing half of their flesh, revealing their skeleton.

The walls are covered in writing. Scratched in with whatever they had—keys, knives, fingernails worn to nothing. Phrases like "Forgive us", "No way out", and "It was quick for most". There are tally marks too—hundreds of them—as if counting days made dying more bearable. As if keeping track of the end somehow gave them control over it.

I feel my stomach twist. Even after all this time, scenes like this still hit harder than bullets. You’d think I’d be numb to it by now, but no—some things don’t get easier. Some things shouldn’t. Fuck me, nobody should ever have to see this shit.

"Hey... you getting this?" I turn the camera on.

"I’m connected to your camera feed. Unpleasant, but not unexpected."

"What do you think happened?"

"Mass panic. Likely when food ran out or someone brought Seraphin-tainted supplies inside. Containment rarely works when everyone’s already doomed."

I step further in, careful not to touch anything. Every bone, every scrap of clothing feels like it’s watching me, judging me for still breathing. In the corner, I spot a radio—battery-powered, dusty but intact. I pick it up and, against my better judgment, flick it on.

Static.

Then, faintly—a looping broadcast. It sounds almost demonic because of how dead the batteries are.

"...remain calm... government assistance... symptoms of genetic destabilization... seek isolation... we are working on a solution..."

I shut it off. Same lies, different day. I wonder how many times they listened to that before they realized no one was coming. Before hope turned into resignation.

There’s nothing here but echoes of people who thought they could outwait the end. People who believed in promises long after they stopped meaning anything. People who trusted that someone, somewhere, still cared.

I turn to leave, but something catches my eye—a notebook near one of the skeletons. I pick it up and flip through shaky handwriting detailing their final days. Desperation bleeding through every word. Mentions of hunger, fear, and betrayal. Mentions of someone ‘locking the doors to keep the sickness in’.

I glance at the doorframe—scratches, dents, fingerprints smudged into the wood.

They weren’t locked in.

They were trapped.

"...remind me never to trust a locked door again."

"Noted. Though I assumed you already learned that lesson."

I stuff the notebook into my bag—not because it’ll help, but because someone should remember this. Even if it’s just me.

By the time I get back to the car, the sun’s dipping low, casting long shadows over the station. The kind of shadows that make you feel like you’re being followed by the past. Like the weight of what you saw is hitching a ride. I don’t look back. Some stories are better left behind. I manage to take a bit of gas from the abandoned cars, but some of it is brown—almost black even. Probably best not to put that stuff in the car.

As I start the engine, Her voice chimes in.

"Estimating, your fuel reserves are at 40%. We’ll need to find a more stable supply soon."

"Yeah. Add it to the list."

I drive off, leaving the skeletons and their silent warnings behind. Eight months down. Four to go.

If I’m lucky.