Survival

Chapter 1 Bait

Footsteps rattled up the metal staircases like gunshots. As a mother, Cynthia's acute sense of hearing rarely failed her. She drew in a deep breath as her eyes traced the path of the three-story drop to the cement jungle. 

No escape through the spaces that once were windows. 

She sighed. Watching another night close in on the tornado-scarred buildings surrounding her wouldn't help her situation. If she befriended the shadows, she might live to see another day.

Danger kept hammering away, two steps at a time. Its urgency only amplified the silence of the city. No traffic, no power, no machines to fill the wavelengths. 

With fear pulsing through her veins, she pressed herself down on the vinyl floor and rolled closer to Blake's body. His proximity calmed her nerves. She only craved companionship at rare moments now, even if no words could be exchanged.

What wouldn't she give to see her family again or even a water source for her parched throat. She didn't want to drink the little that remained in her bottle quite yet. She took a moment to send up a prayer to a God she still believed in despite the chaos.

Maybe the intruders would skip this level. Her fingers brushed the surface of the floor to find the thicker texture of Blake's dried pool of blood. Hopefully, whoever climbed the steps would mistake it for hers and she could be just another corpse. No cannibalism rumors had surfaced. Yet. 

She couldn't help but glance at this shell of a man. His red and purple rotting flesh gleamed in the few rays of leftover sunlight. Her cotton nose plugs offered little relief to the rank, pungent smell that crawled inside her nostrils and clung on like a parasite.

The sharp gray suit on the body had reminded her of an old friend, Blake, from college and from that moment, the immobile stranger had an identity. 

This wasn't right. He should have been buried, burned, anything but this. Now, Blake was just another lump behind an overturned desk. Maggot food. 

But her tears had dried up long ago. Sadness only slowed her pace and left her open to attack. Vigilance would be her salvation.  The illusion of her death had to be successful. Otherwise, she would join the ranks of him and the other victims.

She could only survive with the small hope that her family was still out there: Winston, her strong little guy, and John, her other half. The hope of their survival was a weak notion, but she clung to it. A warm blanket on these unusually frigid New Mexican nights. She had to avoid the abysmal fate on the streets rampant with ruthless wanderers.

Her breath caught in her dry throat when a swirl of male and female voices bounced off the bare cement walls of the former bank. She only knew the building because she and her husband had talked to a man about their mortgage down on the main floor years ago. At least the overturned furniture and cubical walls could serve as good cover should the intruders reach this floor, her plan fail and she need an escape route.

Her dirty fingertips rapped against the floor, stopping when she remembered her company and its bloody varnish. Soon to be hers if she didn't cut it out. 

Why would others venture up here? A mix of at least three voices, given their pitches, intimidated Cynthia. The slurring of their voices led her to believe she might go unnoticed as another shadow. Thank God her dark skin and navy scrubs blended into the approaching night. Some survivors' penchant for mind-altering substances was a blessing.

Cynthia stretched her legs, knocking a nearly empty, mocking water bottle and caused her muscles to clench even tighter. There was no way to procure the next drop without abandoning her sanctuary. Even without intruders, she had drained the water cooler dry hours ago, and the necessity of movement nipped at her heels. She tucked the water bottle into a money bag she had been also using as a blanket.