HEY GUYS! So this is my first story, and the one I'm most proud of. I hope everyone likes it :3
Peace, Steffi
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The apartment complex is empty, or at least appears to be. I'm not taking any chances though, so I creep quietly over the plaster and nails. I only breathe when I absolutely have to. Six months has dulled the shock, but it's still terrifying.
Sometimes I'll meet someone, another living person struggling through what was once our nation. Without fail, they always ask me who I am. I could be honest, but instead I grit my teeth and lie. Lying is easy and painless, I've found. It doesn't even take effort anymore. A long time ago, I was Carrie. Carebear, if you asked my little sister. Young, average and occasionally in love. Carrie died with the rest of her old life. I wonder if she rests in peace, or wanders in search of flesh like everyone else I used to know.
I call myself Luna now, after the moon that rises every night. I identify with it, as I walk alone for hours. It illuminates the most dangerous part of every survivor's life, the dark. It can't always be there, but even at its weakest, it offers the weary souls hope. I'd like to think I do the same, but there's no way of knowing now. I haven't seen a stranger for weeks. Not a living one, anyway.
I carefully approach the main staircase. The banister has been smashed, scattering metal supports and splintered wood everywhere. It's soaking wet and rotten. Useless. My old boot catches on something and I almost cry out. It was nothing. I'm silently thankful.
"L", my sister says, her voice as flat as always. She doesn't use full names for anyone, only letters. I'm not sure why, but I think it has to do with the trauma. I've learned to ignore it because I love her and it's better than saying nothing.
"Shh, Ella."
I motion for her to be quiet and squeeze her dirt-streaked hand. Together we make our way down the hall, scouting for anything that might be useful. It smells of mildew, so the roof must be leaking here too. That makes going upstairs risky, but we don't have a choice at this point. Rachel needs the supplies just as much as we do, and she can't get them herself. Having a broken leg sucks, especially when it makes you a gourmet snack for the flesh-eaters.
The service stairs are more or less fine, so I grab the rusted, cold rails and take a step. Ella watches, her blue eyes seemingly emotionless. After I'm halfway up, she follows without a word. The metal shifts and creaks, but so far it's holding strong.
It feels spongy on the second floor, it's definitely been flooding recently. Paint peels off the walls, revealing damp wood and the occasional spider. Water stains decorate the ceiling, so I figure it must be worse on the higher levels.
Some of the heavy red doors are locked, though I find one that's slightly ajar and push it open. It squeaks loudly and I'm ready to jump back. Closed doors are risky. You never know what might be hiding behind one. This time, nothing.
Wrinkled and faded magazines are strewn across the floor, the celebrities faces ruined and decrepit. They look just a little too familiar that way. The pages stick to our shoes, tearing as we walk. A houseplant covers the coffee table, still green and healthy-looking. The leaks must be keeping it alive.
Most of the useful things have been picked over, but I reach out and grab an unopened pack of batteries. They're the right type for Ella's flashlight, and I breath a sigh of relief. At least we'll have light.
The kitchen is bare except a few cans of soup, which are surprisingly still good. I drop them in my old backpack, and they somehow manage to add a pound of weight. It doesn't matter, though. Eating is far more important than comfort these days. I've seen people who starved to death, gaunt faces and dead, ashy skin. Early on I promised neither of us would die that way, and so far I've kept it.
We make our way to the bathroom, and I hold my breath as I check the tub. It makes no sense, but I always expect to see something awful hiding there. So far, there never has been. I find a half-used bottle of painkillers, and Ella hands me soap. Since there's nothing else worth salvaging amongst the mildew and broken glass, we leave.
Outside the air is clear and cool, goosebumps prickling my exposed arms. It has been a good night. Dinner, batteries and pills were more than I dared hope for. Something scurries past Ella's feet, but it's only a rabbit. I wish I was carrying a trap, but at least it's not as urgent as it was last night.
Taking Ella's hand once again, we follow the shivering plume of smoke back to Rachel and the camp. She's sitting up, her underweight form crouching over the orange flames. I wave, and she nods excitedly. Yes, tonight has been good. I won't get used to it, though.
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Thats the first part for you! Hopefully you liked it, and thanks!