The outskirts of Jackson Township had a way of swallowing you whole if you weren't careful. I'd been riding my motorcycle out here every morning for the past month, slipping away from the house before the first hints of dawn painted the sky.

Today was no different. The engine's low rumble cut through the pre-dawn silence as I navigated the cracked asphalt roads, weaving between abandoned cars that sat like rusted skeletons along the shoulder. Weeds pushed up already through the pavement in defiant clusters, and the occasional fallen tree branch forced me to swerve, reminding me that nature was reclaiming this world one inch at a time.

Nearly two months and nature was quick to conquer back its world…

The air was crisp, carrying the faint, metallic tang of dew on rusted metal mixed with the earthy scent of overgrown fields. It was still dark enough that my headlight carved a narrow beam through the gloom, illuminating faded billboards advertising products no one needed anymore—luxury cars, fast food chains, vacation spots that might as well be on another planet. Every now and then, I'd spot the shambling silhouette of an infected in the distance, drawn by the noise of my bike but too slow to catch up. I didn't stop for them; they weren't the reason I was out here.

This particular stretch of suburbia had caught my eye a few days ago during one of my perimeter checks. It was a cul-de-sac of modest family homes, the kind that screamed "middle-class dream" before the world ended. Now, they were ghosts—windows shattered, doors hanging off hinges, yards overgrown with wild grass that reached knee-high. I'd marked this spot on my mental map, knowing it was ripe for scavenging. In a post-apocalyptic world, you learned to spot the gold mines: places that looked abandoned but hadn't been fully looted yet. The infected tended to cluster in denser areas, leaving these outer pockets relatively untouched, at least until someone like me came along.

I killed the engine about a block away, not wanting the noise to attract any unwanted attention. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the distant chirp of crickets and the rustle of leaves in the early morning breeze. I dismounted, slinging my backpack over one shoulder and grabbing my hand axe from the saddlebag.

As I approached the cul-de-sac, my thoughts drifted to my mother. It always happened out here, in these quiet moments between the house and the dangers ahead. The homes reminded me of our old apartment in the city—small, cluttered, filled with the echoes of a life that had been simple but ours. Mom had always tried to make it feel like home, even when depression weighed her down like an anchor.

I'd find her sometimes, sitting in the living room with a cup of tea gone cold, staring at nothing. "Just thinking about better days, Ryan," she'd say with that sad smile. Better days. What a joke. Now, every day was a fight, and "better" was just surviving until tomorrow.

I shook off the memory, focusing on the house I'd chosen as my target. It was a two-story colonial, painted a faded blue that might have been vibrant once. The front yard was a jungle of tall grass and wildflowers, and the mailbox still bore the name "Reynolds" in peeling letters. No signs of recent activity—no fresh tracks, no broken windows suggesting looters had beaten me here. Perfect.

The front door was unlocked, creaking open on rusty hinges as I pushed it with my axe ready. The interior was dark, but my enhanced vision—courtesy of the Dullahan virus—picked out details in the gloom: dust motes dancing in the faint light from the windows, furniture shrouded in white sheets like ghosts, and the musty smell of abandonment mixed with something sweeter, like old potpourri. I stepped inside, closing the door behind me softly.

I started in the living room, moving methodically, just like I'd learned over the past month. Scavenging wasn't about grabbing everything in sight; it was about priorities. First, check for dangers. The room was clear—no infected hiding in corners, no traps set by paranoid survivors. The space was cozy once, I could tell—a big sectional couch covered in a dusty sheet, a coffee table with a half-finished puzzle scattered across it, family photos on the mantel. I picked one up, wiping away the grime. A smiling couple with a little girl, maybe five or six, all dressed in holiday sweaters. The kid had pigtails and a gap-toothed grin. My chest tightened. Mom had photos like that too, from before Dad left. Happier times, frozen in frames while the world moved on without them.

Shaking off the melancholy, I rummaged through the drawers of a side table. Score: a pack of matches, half-full, and a small flashlight with batteries that still worked when I tested it. Useful for dark raids. Nearby, on a bookshelf, I found a few candles—scented ones, vanilla and lavender, probably from some pre-apocalypse aromatherapy phase. Candles were gold these days; our solar lanterns were reliable, but nothing beat a steady flame for those long nights when power was scarce. I tucked them into my backpack, along with a book of poetry that caught my eye. It was worn, pages dog-eared—Liu Mei would like this, I thought. She was always buried in her novels. Maybe this would bring a rare smile to her face and make her less irritating especially...

Nostalgia tugged at me again as I lingered by the photos.

We'd had a wall of them in our apartment—me as a kid, mom with friends from before the depression hit hard because of my shitty father. I wondered if those photos were still there, gathering dust in the ruins of New York. I suppose yes since I had close the door behind unless the apartment had collapsed.

Moving on, I headed to the kitchen. The room was a time capsule of domestic normalcy—cabinets half-open, a calendar on the wall still marked for events that never happened: "Dentist appt - 3 PM," "Soccer practice for Lily." Lily. That must have been the little girl in the photo. The counters were bare, but I checked the drawers anyway. Silverware, mostly useless except for a sturdy kitchen knife that I pocketed as a backup. Under the sink, jackpot: a box of trash bags, unopened. Those were versatile—waterproofing, carrying supplies, even improvised rain gear. I took the whole box.

The pantry was disappointing—mostly empty shelves, a few cans of expired soup that I left behind. But in the back, behind some cleaning supplies, I found a small stash: a jar of honey, still sealed, and a package of dried pasta. Honey never went bad, and pasta could stretch a meal. Good finds.

I twisted the jar open, dipped a finger in, and tasted it. Sweet, floral—real.

Mom really loved honey didn't she…

I shook it off and moved to the fridge. Empty, of course, but the freezer compartment had a surprise: a forgotten bag of frozen berries, freezer-burned but salvageable if thawed. Berries were rare these days; Daisy might use them for something, maybe a treat to lift spirits. Into the bag they went.

Next, the downstairs bathroom. These were often overlooked by looters, but they could be treasure troves. The medicine cabinet didn't disappoint: a half-full bottle of painkillers, some bandages, and—miracle of miracles—a tube of antibiotic ointment that hadn't expired yet. Infections were killers in this world; this stuff was worth its weight in gold. I also grabbed a few rolls of toilet paper—another luxury we never took for granted anymore. The sink cabinet yielded more: soap bars, a razor with extra blades, and a small mirror that could double as a signaling device.

Bathrooms always made me think of Mom's routines. She'd spend ages in ours, doing her makeup even on bad days, saying it made her feel human. "A little lipstick goes a long way, kiddo."

I smiled a little.

I found a lipstick tube in the drawer, half-used, cherry red. It wasn't practical, but... Sydney might like it. She was always trying to keep some normalcy, painting her nails with whatever she could scrounge. I pocketed it.

Upstairs now. The staircase creaked under my weight, each step stirring dust that danced in the faint light filtering through a hallway window. The air up here was stuffier, like the house was holding its breath. I started with the master bedroom. It was spacious, with a king-sized bed unmade, sheets tangled as if the occupants had left in a hurry. The nightstand held reading glasses and a novel—some romance paperback. Not my thing, but Liu Mei might enjoy it; she devoured books like they were lifelines. I flipped through it quickly—clean, no damage—and added it to my pack.

The dresser drawers were a goldmine: clean socks (always in short supply), underwear, and—jackpot—a khaki military-style jacket hanging in the closet. It was rugged, with multiple pockets, perfect for scavenging runs. I tried it on; it fit like it was made for me, the material thick but breathable. The color blended well with the overgrown landscapes outside. "This'll do," I muttered.

It felt good, like armor. Mom had always nagged me about dressing warmly; "You'll catch your death out there," she'd say.

I felt upset back then but now I missed so much her scoldings.

Under the bed, I found a small safe—locked, but I pried it open with my axe. Inside: some cash, documents, and a beautiful necklace—a silver chain with a sapphire pendant that caught the light like frozen water. It reminded me of Cindy. I remembered a conversation from before everything went to hell with Christopher—back when he was still with us. He'd been rambling about finding the perfect gift for her, something blue to match her eyes. "She's got this thing for sapphires," he'd said, grinning like an idiot in love. The memory stung, but I took the necklace anyway. Maybe it would bring her a moment of happiness; she deserved that after everything. Even if it belonged to the former woman of this house, in this world, finders keepers. She deserved something nice after... everything. The former owner wouldn't mind; in this world, the living took precedence.

The attached master bathroom was next. Toiletries galore: shampoo (half-full bottle, unscented—practical), toothpaste, and more candles! A whole pack of them, emergency ones, unscented and long-burning. Candles were lifesavers for blackouts; we'd been running low back home. I grabbed a hairbrush too—Elena and Alisha might appreciate it; her hair was always a mess in the humidity.

Across the hall, a smaller bedroom—probably a guest room. It was sparse: a twin bed, a desk, and not much else. The desk drawers held office supplies—pens, notebooks, and a flashlight with extra batteries. Useful. On the nightstand, a Bible—worn, pages marked. Not my thing, but maybe someone back home would find comfort in it. I left it; faith wasn't a supply I could pack.

The nostalgia hit harder in the next room: a child's bedroom. Pink walls, stuffed animals on the bed, posters of cartoons faded on the walls. It reminded me of my own childhood room, cluttered with comics and toys Mom had scrimped to buy.

This room felt like a punch to the gut—abandoned, frozen in time. The closet held kids' clothes, too small for anyone in our group, but I found a small backpack—perfect for extra storage. In the toy chest, batteries—lots of them, from old toys. Score for our lanterns.

As I rummaged through the dresser for anything useful, a faint sound stopped me cold. A soft, muffled thump, like something shifting inside. My heart rate spiked. Infected? I gripped my axe tighter, approaching slowly. The dresser was old wood, drawers slightly ajar. Another thump—definite movement.

I yanked open the bottom drawer, axe raised—and froze.

A little girl, no more than six or seven, lunged out with a feral snarl. Her skin was pallid, veins dark and spiderwebbing across her face, eyes milky white with infection. She was small, dressed in a stained nightgown, her hair matted and wild. But she was fast—too fast for a child. Her tiny hands clawed at me, nails sharp as she snapped her teeth.

I caught her mid-air by the scruff of her gown, holding her at arm's length as she thrashed and growled, little legs kicking futilely. She couldn't have weighed more than forty pounds, but the virus made her vicious, unrelenting. Her infected eyes locked on mine, no recognition, just hunger.

I stared at her, a complicated storm brewing in my chest. This poor kid... left here, trapped in a dresser like some discarded toy. Her parents must have known she was bitten, must have realized there was no saving her. So they'd locked her away and run, abandoning their own child to a fate worse than death. Cowards. The thought made my blood boil. How could anyone do that? Leave a little girl to turn alone in the dark, starving and feral until someone like me came along.

But underneath the anger was pity—deep, aching pity. She didn't deserve this. No child did. In her eyes, I saw echoes of innocence lost, a life cut short by a world gone mad.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. She snarled in response, still fighting. With a heavy heart, I raised my axe and ended it quickly, cleanly. One strike to sever the suffering. Her small body went limp, and I lowered her gently to the floor, closing those milky eyes with my fingers.

Guessing from the state of the house, her parents had fled early in the outbreak, probably hoping she'd just... fade away. Knowing they could do nothing for her, they'd chosen to save themselves. Bastards. But as I looked at her peaceful face now, I prayed she'd find peace in whatever came after. No more hunger, no more pain. Just rest.

I sat there beside her for several minutes, letting the weight of what had just happened settle over me like a heavy blanket. The silence in the room was complete except for the sound of my own breathing and the distant creaking of the old house settling around us. I found myself praying—something I hadn't done since childhood—asking whatever higher power might be listening to grant this child the peace that had been denied to her in life.

When I finally stood up, I noticed that my hands were shaking. Even after all these months of violence and survival, some things still affected me more than others. The death of children was one of those things that cut through all the protective emotional armor I'd built up around myself. It reminded me that despite everything that had happened, despite all the ways this world had changed me, I was still human somewhere deep inside.

Then I continued my search. The child's dresser had some useful items: a small flashlight, crayons, and a few batteries. Practical stuff. In the closet, I found winter gloves—too small for adults, but I could modify them for hand warmers or something.

Down the hall, another bedroom—probably the parents'. I'd skimmed it earlier, but now I dug deeper. Under the mattress, a hidden stash: a revolver, six bullets loaded. Dangerous find, but valuable. I checked the safety and pocketed it. In the nightstand, more candles—scented this time, lavender. Good for morale back home; the group could use some calm scents during nights.

The upstairs bathroom was a mirror of the downstairs one: more toiletries, a first-aid kit with bandages and antiseptic, and a bottle of pain relievers. Jackpot. Showers were a luxury now, but these would help with headaches from long days.

Last room: a home office. Desk cluttered with papers—bills, letters, nothing useful. But the filing cabinet held treasures: a multi-tool (knife, pliers, screwdriver—all in one), duct tape rolls, and a portable radio (batteries dead, but fixable). On the shelf, books—mostly thrillers, but one caught my eye: a collection of classic poetry.

More for Liu Mei it seems.

The house had given all it could. Nostalgia washed over me one last time as I stood in the hallway, looking at the family photos on the wall. I touched one photo—the little girl, smiling innocently. "I'm sorry," I whispered again.

Now, the hard part. I carried her small body to the garden, shovel in hand. The backyard was overgrown, flowers wild and untamed, but I found a soft spot under an old oak tree. Digging was therapeutic, each shovelful of earth a release. The hole was small—child-sized—but deep enough. I placed her gently inside, crossing her arms. Then, the family photos—I'd gathered them from the living room, the happy faces mocking the tragedy. Her parents had abandoned her, run away knowing they could do nothing. Were they really worthy to be buried with this innocent girl? Cowards who left their child to turn alone in the dark? But... maybe she'd want them there. Kids forgive easily. For her sake, I tucked the photos beside her.

I filled the grave, patting the earth smooth. No marker—just a small mound. "Rest now," I murmured. "No more pain." Praying she was at peace, wherever she was.

When I was finished, I stood there for several minutes, looking down at the small mound of earth. I thought about my mother again, about how she would have wept for this child she'd never met. Mom had always believed that everyone deserved to be mourned, that every life had value regardless of how it ended. She would have insisted on saying a prayer, on marking the grave with flowers or stones or some other token of remembrance. I picked a handful of the wildflowers that grew nearby and scattered them over the fresh earth. It wasn't much, but it was something.

My backpack was heavy now, filled with the day's discoveries, but I wasn't quite ready to head home yet. The neighboring houses beckoned, each one a potential treasure trove of supplies and useful items. I had learned to be thorough in my scavenging, to squeeze every possible advantage from each expedition. In a world where resources were finite and unpredictable, waste was a luxury no one could afford.

The house next door was a ranch-style home with a red brick exterior that had weathered the months better than some of its neighbors. The front door was standing open, which usually meant that either the residents had left in a hurry or someone else had already been through the place. But it was worth checking anyway; other scavengers often missed things or focused only on obvious valuables while ignoring items that were actually more useful for survival.

The living room had been ransacked, with furniture overturned and drawers pulled out, but I found a wind-up radio wedged behind a bookshelf that previous searchers had overlooked. Wind-up radios were incredibly valuable because they didn't depend on batteries or electrical power, making them reliable sources of information and communication when everything else failed. This one was still in working condition, and I tested it briefly before adding it to my growing collection.

The kitchen had been similarly searched, but I found spices in a rack that others had ignored—salt, pepper, cinnamon, and garlic powder. These might seem like luxuries, but they were actually crucial for making our often-bland survival meals palatable. Good food improved morale, and morale was often the difference between a group that thrived and one that fell apart under pressure.

Upstairs, the bedrooms yielded warm blankets, more candles, and a sewing machine that was too heavy to carry but suggested that somewhere in the house there might be thread, needles, and fabric scraps that would be useful for repairs. I found these items in a craft room that had apparently been the previous owner's hobby space. There were also buttons, zippers, and patches that could be used to extend the life of our increasingly worn clothing.

The third house I searched was larger and more upscale than the others, with a circular driveway and landscaping that had once been professionally maintained. The front door was locked, but the garage had a window that was easily broken, allowing me to enter through the interior door. Wealthy homes often contained items that their owners had considered essential but which were actually quite useful in a survival situation.

This house didn't disappoint. The kitchen contained a well-stocked spice rack, several bottles of cooking oil, and a collection of cast iron cookware that would last forever and could be used over an open fire if necessary. The pantry held jarred goods—pickles, jam, and preserved vegetables—that were still good and would add variety to our meals.

The basement of this house was the real treasure trove. It had been set up as a workshop, with tools and supplies that any survival group would find invaluable. Hand tools, nails, screws, wire, electrical components, batteries, and even a small generator that might be repairable. I couldn't carry most of it, but I made mental notes about what was here for potential future trips with a larger group or a vehicle.

By the time I'd finished searching the third house, the sun was beginning its descent toward the western horizon, and my backpack was so full that the straps were cutting into my shoulders despite the padding of my new military jacket. I'd found enough supplies to justify the trip several times over, but more importantly…

I'd accomplished something that felt meaningful by laying that poor child to rest properly.

Now I have to get ready for Rachel's scoldings...

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