Chapter 10 - Alone

Hunger stops being dramatic after a while.

It doesn't roar. It doesn't claw. It just sits there. Patient. Reasonable. Like a colleague waiting for you to finish talking so it can continue ruining your day.

Maya eats half a tin of beans for breakfast.

"Gourmet," she tells the room.

Her voice sounds wrong out loud. Too loud. Too present. Like she's interrupting something that wasn't expecting her to speak.

She swallows. Tries again, quieter. "Five stars. Would die again."

Better. That lands closer to where she lives now.

She eats slowly. Counts bites without meaning to. Measures the distance between now and later in mouthfuls and swallows and the small precise way she scrapes the inside of the tin like she's negotiating with it. Half now. Half later. Later is doing a lot of work.

She rinses the tin with a capful of water. Drinks that too. Waste is a moral failing now. Possibly a capital one.

***

Day eleven. Or twelve. Time has gone soft around the edges again. Maya marks it by inventory instead.

Three tins became two and a half. One bar became none. Peanut butter is a memory with texture. Fuel: one canister. Medicine: decorative. Water: still holding.

She says it out loud sometimes. Like a report. "Water's good," she tells the wall. "We're killing it on hydration. Everything else is less of a success story."

The wall does not respond. Rude.

She moves through the warehouse in loops. Check doors. Check windows. Check roof. Check the street. Back down. Repeat. Movement keeps the edges from closing in. Sitting still makes the silence louder, and the silence has opinions now.

***

On the second day alone, she sees the first horde.

Not a swarm. Not a wave. A gathering. They come down the street in that slow inevitable way, drawn by something: sound, movement, the vague memory of life that still clings to places like this. Maya is on the roof when she spots them. Ten. Fifteen. More behind.

She crouches low. Watches. Counts. Always counts.

They're not heading for her. Not directly. Just passing. Except passing doesn't mean leaving. Passing means maybe noticing.

One of them turns. Head lifting. Nose working.

Maya freezes.

Emotional truth: if they come here, she cannot fight them.

No deflection. Just math.

She moves slowly back to the roof access. Down the ladder. Inside. Reinforces the barricade even though she knows it won't hold if they really want in. "Good plan," she mutters. "Very solid. Ten out of ten, would barricade again."

The humour lands slightly off. Too sharp. Too thin.

She waits. The sound outside shifts: shuffling, dragging, a low collective noise like something breathing badly. It gets closer. Stops.

Maya stands with her back against the wall, knife in hand, crowbar within reach. Counts her breaths.

One. Two. Three.

A hand hits the loading bay door. Not hard. Just testing. Another. A third. The metal hums under the impact.

Maya closes her eyes. Not fear. Not panic. Just calculation.

If they break through, she goes up. If they get up, she goes out. If she goes out—

"Not helpful," she tells herself. "We're sticking to actionable items."

The sounds linger. Then shift. Move. Gradually drift past.

Maya doesn't move for a long time after they're gone. When she finally does it's with that same careful precision, like the world might notice if she's too sudden.

"Great," she says softly. "Love a near-death experience before lunch. Really keeps things fresh."

Her voice cracks on the last word. Just a little. She ignores it. Of course she does.

***

The second time is worse.

She's outside. Had to be. Food is gone to the point where the word feels aspirational. She moves fast. Quiet. Efficient. A house two streets over, cleared once, risk recalculated as acceptable.

Inside: nothing useful. Of course.

She turns to leave and hears it. Behind her. Too close.

Maya doesn't freeze. She runs. Left through the kitchen, over the fallen chair, through the back door that sticks unless you lift it just right. She lifts it, it opens, she's through—

Hands grab at her shirt. Cold. Wrong.

She twists. Knife up. Down. Once. Twice. She doesn't look at faces anymore. Faces slow you down. She pulls free. Runs.

Back to the warehouse. Every step a calculation. Distance. Speed. Noise.

She slams the door behind her. Reinforces it. Breath tearing through her chest like it's trying to escape first.

Then—the sound. They followed. Of course they did.

"Good," she gasps. "Fantastic. We've made friends."

The horde builds outside. Not huge. Not endless. Enough. Always enough.

Maya slides down to the floor. Laughs once. It sounds tired.

"Turns out," she tells the empty warehouse, "competence does not equal immortality. Bit of a design flaw, honestly."

***

The days blur after that. Less movement. More waiting. Water sips measured like currency. Sleep comes in pieces.

By the time the horde outside thickens again, drawn by her movements, by the noise, by the simple fact that she is still here and therefore still a problem. Maya doesn't react right away. She listens. Counts. More this time. Too many.

She sits at the desk. Pulls the crate toward her.

Inventory. Because that's what she does.

One tin. A quarter canister. Almost no medicine. Water, enough for a few days. Maybe.

She says it out loud. "Not enough."

No joke after. Just the words.

She already knew. She nods. Leans back in the chair. Looks at the ceiling.

Tomorrow she tries again. Another house. Another route. Quieter. Faster.

Maybe.

Maya closes her eyes. The horde breathes outside. Patient. Closer each time.

She tries to sleep.

Water. Exit. Timing. Breath.

The list runs even now. Even here.

Always counting.