CHAPTER ONE the unwinnable war

"No risks."

I SIT CROSS-LEGGED on the cracked tile floor, staring the booksack nearly empty of supplies like it personally wronged me. "Cool," I mutter,  voice flat. "Real useful."

The bag sits there,  lumpy and tired- just like me. The bag slips from between my fingertips, softly sinking to the floor. 

I climb to my tender feet, muscles screaming in protest. My body aches with exhaustion, my head pounding from dehydration and lack of rest. My stomach's been gnawing at itself for hours. I don't cry or scream, despite the boiling inside me. Something scared and angry, and so, so tired. 

This was the last room. I searched the entire west side of the middle school. Every desk, drawer, and closet. All I found was a few bandaged and a headache. The rest of the school is swarming with staggering ghouls and their limp, rotting bodies.

I know it was stupid coming here. The voice in my head- the one that sounds like Lincoln- told me to keep walking. That it wasn't worth the risk. No risks. 

But I came in anyway. Because sometimes, stupid is all you have left, and a part of me thought what if it's not a waste this time?

It always is.

I had dragged myself up the chain-link  fence, the handle  of my axe clinking against the cold metal. It stings my palms, but I don't flinch- it's only background noise now. 

The school stands before me like a haunted relic from another life. I hoped with everything in me that this school would hold something worth finding. Food. Medicine. Any reason to keep going. 

I press my face against the dirty glass window, scanning for any movement. A sign of life, or the undead. But there's no twitches or groans. Just shadows and silence. 

The west side of the building is closest to the tree line- my only cover for miles. It takes one good swing with the butt of my axe for the glass to splinter, forming a spiderweb. I grunt with effort, gripping the handle between my callused hands. it took one more blow to the corner before the glass came raining down, dancing under the heat of the late afternoon sun.

The first thing I find is a map of the school framed on the wall. You Are Here!  it screams like it's being helpful. An arrow points to a narrow hallway between two classrooms. West wing, eight rooms total.

Two science labs, where I find a half-empty first aid kit. The only things left are an elastic bandage, two packs of burn gel, and a pair of tweezers. I take it anyway, because even trash feels like treasure now.

An art room: gallons of paint, pristine canvases, and hundreds of clean brushes. I stare way too long- if I had means, I'd take each one to sit in a corner of the world and finger-paint until my hands cramped up. 

The other give rooms are basic classrooms full oof empty desks and torn posters, chalkboards of half erased formulas, and chairs scattered across the room. Discarded science textbooks and countless pieces of paper with discarded rough drafts of essays and math problems. I load up on more ink pens and bandages than I could ever need, because it feels good to leave with something. 

The bathrooms reek, stall doors lined with graffiti. I raid every toilet paper holder, only finding one roll to be usable.  Whatever- I'll take it. Teacher's lounge holds empty vending machines, a cold microwave, and a dusty fridge. I take what I can- which is nothing. 

 The lobby connects to the wings of the school. There's a large trophy case filled to the brim with photographs and awards for the science and 4-H clubs. I force my eyes to flicker past them. There's too much humanity in their faces. Too much before. 

The offices are stacked with emergency contacts and now useless information. I don't bother opening the drawers. 

The deeper I move into the school the colder it gets. The night air bite snakes down my spine- this place should be loud. Crowded. Alive. Instead it's just me and the echo of my footsteps. At the back of the lobby, double doors lead to the courtyard. I stand on my toes to peer through the little glass panels.

I freeze. 

They're everywhere. Ghouls stumbling across the stained pavement- adults dressed in day clothes and young teenagers in uniforms. A fountain stands in the middle, crumbling and moss-covered. And then I see him.

A boy, who couldn't be older than five years. His little body moves wrong, stumbling. His head is too slack and his feet drag. I swallow the bile that scrapes the back of my throat. Don't look. Don't cry. Keep moving. 

I turn away fast, eyes burning. There's no time to mourn the dead- especially the ones you never knew. The air tastes stale, like dust a grief. I push myself through the rest of the building, searching every room until there's nothing left to search. That hopeless ache crawls back into my chest and settles deep- the school is clean. There's nothing useful. Nothing safe. Only ghosts.

I pause in front of a bookcase, dragging mom finger down the spines of the books. I grab one with the title Life As We Knew It. Ironic. I toss it in my bag, crossing my fingers that I'll live long enough to read it. 

The light's faded fast as I head back through the hallway. I might have to camp here tonight. Barricade a door, stack some desks. Hope no one- or thing-  finds me before sunrise. 

I peek out the main entrance again. Across the road, there's a small storage shed. It's locked- useless. 

Nothing else, as far as I can see.

I press my hands to my head, letting out a quiet groan as I squeeze. My legs ache and my stomach screams. My soul feels worn. 

I wish Lincoln were here. 

But he's not. He's dead and he can't save you. So move.

Back to the west side and out through the shattered window.  sharp edge catches my thigh, drawing dots of blood. I hiss and keep going. No time for pain. 

I pas the shed, keeping the school on  my right. It's fully dark by the time my body screams for me to stop, muscles shaking from hunger and exhaustion. 

The only thing around me are miles of trees and a highway that seems to stretch on forever. I look up the tree closest to me. Thick branches and a hollow near the top. Probably a squirrel nest, for raccoons. Doesn't matter. It'll do.

My axe finds home wedged in my belt and I start climbing. Every inch of my body screams- my muscles strain with exhausted effort as I pull myself up, but I keep going. The bark scrapes my arms and the wind hits my face like a slap, but it's nice. it brushes my hair from my face, calling my damp skin. When I reach the nook, I use my flashlight to check it. All clear. 

I slide into it, heart thumping and arms shaking. I secure myself to the tree with a rope. It's not comfortable, but it's shelter. Kind of. I lean my head back against the bark and finally let my eyes close. 

I imagine what that school would have looked like before the world cracked in half. Kids trading afternoon snacks. Laughter and loud sneakers squeaking against the lenoliam.  Annoying morning announcements. 

If I dig deep enough, I can remember my own school days. History class was my favorite- the ozone subject that made sense. I wasn't necessarily god ay anything else- math made my head hurt and reading was a  chore. But history was real. Important. 

Lincoln loves math. He was going to MIT for architecture. And Alya? She was brilliant. Reading chapter books, solving puzzles before breakfast. Mom and dad always said she was special, different from other kids. I used to think they were just being nice. But no- they meant it. She was special.  

Me? I was just... okay. Mediocre. But that's why I loved history. It made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself. 

I remember Dad and I on the couch, watching war documentaries. Black and white footage flickering in the dark, casting long shadows across our bundled bodies as I'd fight sleep. He'd always pause the screen to explain everything. The tactics, the bravery. 

Back then, war was distant. A noble sacrifice. Something that needed.

Now I'm in one.

One that isn't for freedom or peace. No sides or heroes, or even an  ending.

Just survival.

Just me.