Vanishing Grace

Part I

The smell always gives it away, even before Tutor's eyes are able to see the first houses or what's left of them.

From a distance he can indulge in the fantasy for a moment that this world is safe and normal. Only for a second though, then the pillars of smoke and the falling of debris make themselves known. He was just a child back when cities were still cities but the memory lingers, faded like an old, well-loved snapshot of crowded streets, the smell of food and gasoline, voices and colours and life . It's simply a mosaic of impressions and yet it makes his stomach feel tight. Death clings to the streets and with it, decay.

Everything decays. The concrete, the buildings, the technicolour advertisements with their shining, smiling face; the rice fields lay unattended, the homes abandoned. It all rots, falling apart until nature reclaims it and within it death lingers and refuses to leave.

Tutor looks at Fighter beside him, his face sallow, a bruise blooming across his cheekbone. He examines the hunch of his shoulders and then glances away. They pass through the old temples of Sukhothai on their way into the city. Tutor hasn't seen them before, doesn't know what they looked like when they were still bustling with people there to make merit but to him they seem curiously unbothered. What remained of them before, remains now.

Decades pass them in the blink of an eye as they traverse the steps through them and Buddha closes his eyes, smiling ever serene. There is a certain irony to it that Tutor can't deny.

No one finds Nirvana.

No one is reborn again.

"Are you sure there's no way around?"

"No."

They've had this discussion before; they've had it all the way down from the mountain, through the forest until now, standing on the rooftop of a supermarket in hopes of getting a better view. More than anything, it allows them a moment longer of false peace before they have to walk the streets once more. From here, they can see the undead aimlessly circling, craning their heads this way and that, looking far too often in their direction for Tutor's tastes, even though he knows they can't see them.

Fighter paces nervously behind him. He's clinging to his shotgun like a lifeline but he's only left with two bullets, Tutor's handgun shares a similar fate. Four bullets. Alone from their vantage point, he counts at least two dozen undead. The outlook isn't promising.

They have no rations left, barely any clean water and there's nothing left for their guns. All of that after the luxury of only working their way through mountains and rain forest – a different kind of hell than this – and yet their supplies have disappeared like water through their fingers.

Granted, a whole bag with guns and ammo was lost at the bottom of a river.

Tutor groans, shifting his stance while he cleans off his knife with an old rag. The supermarket hadn't been entirely empty, maybe they can rescue some useful supplies.

Food, water, ammo, new guns and hopefully some painkillers and other first aid. He repeats the list of items they need in his mind and tears his eyes away to unfold and study the city map he'd gotten in the supermarket during their first scan. It's barely holding together and bleached out from the sun but still readable as he tries to plot out the route they should take. He's absorbed enough that he doesn't even notice Fighter coming closer until there's a hand at Tutor's lower back, putting some pressure with a thumb just above his tailbone. It massages where Tutor sprained his back, there's little talent in the touch but the gesture is nice.

"We need to be stealthy. We don't have the resources for anything else."

"I know."

"Do you still remember–"