"Stay close, girl," he said, checking the street ahead. Cheshire gave a quiet bark in reply, tail low but steady.
They moved through the outskirts on foot, weaving between cracked alleys and narrow side streets. The air was heavy, thick with dust and the faint metallic sting of burnt fuel. Every sound felt amplified, the distant flap of a loose street sign, the soft click of Cheshire's paws on broken concrete, the distant moan of something not quite human.
Atlanta was a ghost city. Cars were abandoned mid-turn, doors flung open. Storefronts shattered. Windows gaped like open wounds. Mason kept his steps measured, body low, scanning corners before moving.
The main roads were worse too open; too many shapes slumped in the distance that might not stay still for long. So, they stuck to the edges, cutting through parking lots and narrow lanes where weeds broke through the asphalt.
Every now and then, Cheshire would freeze ears pricking, nose twitching and Mason would pause, listening. Sometimes it was nothing. Sometimes it wasn't.
They were crossing a small service road when he heard it he uneven drag of footsteps behind a dumpster. Mason lifted a hand, signaling Cheshire to stay.
He crept forward, spotting a metal rod on the ground. Knowing that his gun was too loud, he snatched it up before moving on to inspect behind the dumpster. A shadow lurched out what had once been a man in a business suit, its chest soaked dark, jaw hanging loose. The Roamer, as Mason decided to call them, staggered toward him with that slow, awful hunger.
He didn't give it a chance. One clean swing of the steel pipe cracked against its temple with a wet crunch. The body dropped hard, twitching before making a move to stand. Mason swung again hearing a distinct crack as the pipe met its target, The Roamer slumped to the ground, this time unmoving.
Mason stood over it, breathing hard, jaw clenched. He wiped the pipe clean on what was left of the man's jacket, then exhaled slowly.
"Guess it's not just the highway anymore," he muttered.
Cheshire crept forward, sniffing the air before looking up at him. Mason gave her a small nod. "We keep moving."
They moved deeper into the city, the sun sinking behind the high-rises. Shadows stretched long and thin, making every alley look the same. Mason's legs ached, but the thought of stopping felt worse. He just had to keep going.
When they finally reached the outskirts, the silence changed. It wasn't empty, here it was still. Peaceful, almost. The houses were untouched, windows intact; lawns overgrown but unburned. Mason slowed, scanning for movement. Nothing. Just the wind is rustling through the trees.
Then he saw it the Orphanage tucked in a what be the beginning or end of an allyway. His chest tightened.
He stopped in the middle of the street, the weight of it hitting all at once. The memories, the laughter, the safety that place once promised all of it hanging there like a photograph of a world that didn't exist anymore. Cheshire nudged his hand, whining softly.
Mason swallowed hard and forced a shaky smile. "We made it, girl."
He started walking again, each step slower, heavier, until they stood at the front gate. The iron bars were slightly ajar. He reached out, pushed it open, and it creaked loud enough to echo across the courtyard.
The smell of dust and damp wood met him as he stepped inside the ground. The place looked abandoned but not destroyed. Windows boarded up, doors locked. He could almost imagine the kids hiding somewhere inside waiting.
Mason let the gate swing shut behind him, the sound sharp in the still air. His grip on the metal rod tightened, and his eyes scanned the darkened doorway ahead.
"Hang on," he whispered, voice low but sure. "I'm home."
The yard was silent, save for the wind rustling through the trees and the creak of the orphanage gate swinging in the breeze. Mason's chest tightened as he stepped closer to the front door, a red door the paint long since faded. A door he'd walked through a thousand times before. They were scarred now, scratched and scuffed, but still solid.
He tried the handle. Locked.
He pressed his shoulder into the frame, gritting his teeth. The door didn't budge. Another shove, nothing. The sound echoed through the empty courtyard, bouncing off the walls like a reminder of how alone he was.
"Damn it," he muttered, stepping back. Cheshire circled near the steps, ears twitching. She let out a soft whine.
"I know, girl. We'll find a way in."
He moved along the side of the building, keeping close to the wall. The windows were either boarded or bolted shut. Around back, there, one of the drainpipes ran up past a half-open window on the second floor, the glass cracked but reachable.
Mason looked down at Cheshire. "Stay here, alright? Guard the area. I'll be quick." She sat, ears low, but didn't move.
Mason set his pipe and pack against the wall, flexing his fingers before gripping the cold metal. The pipe wobbled slightly under his weight, but it held. Slowly, carefully, he climbed, boots scraping against the brick until he could grab the windowsill and pull himself through.
He landed softly on the creaking floorboards. The second floor was dim, streaks of late sunlight slipping through the cracks in the boards. His breathing sounded too loud.
"Hello?" His voice wavered just enough for him to hear it. "Miss Anne? Alex? Sammy? Anyone?"
Nothing. Only the quiet hum of the building settling.
Then a soft sound. Movement, far below. A chair scraping the floor. Mason froze, every muscle tensed. Slowly, he reached for his pistol, the familiar weight grounding him. He flicked the safety off, eyes scanning the hallway.
He needed to clear the rooms first. One by one, he pushed open the doors the dorms, the linen room, Miss Annes room. Empty. Each one smelled of dust and rot. He found a few signs of life: a child's shoe, a half-eaten can of peaches, a blanket folded neatly on a cot.
When he reached the last door on the hall, his pulse jumped. A thin line of blood seeped from beneath it, dark and glistening against the wood.
Mason's hand tightened on the gun. He swallowed hard, forcing his breathing to slow.
"Alright," he whispered, voice low. "Nice and easy."
He nudged the door open with his foot. The hinges groaned.
Inside, the smell hit him first copper and decay. A man lay sprawled beside the bed, his throat torn open. He wasn't anyone Mason recognized. His skin was grey, eyes clouded over. A stranger. The body twitched once, his head drifting up to look at Mason.
Mason didn't hesitate one clean shot to the head. The gunshot cracked through the silence like lightning.
Mason backed up, chest heaving. His ears rang from the echo, but it wasn't the sound that froze him it was what came after. Low, guttural moans drifted up from below. Then snarls. The unmistakable shuffling of feet against tile.
Cheshire barked from outside, sharp and frantic.
Mason moved to the top of the stairs, gun raised. His heart pounded in his chest, the shadows below flickering as the last of the sunlight slipped away.
"Shit…" he breathed.
The sounds grew louder, closer, echoing up from the kitchen.
Whatever was down there, it wasn't his family.
~End