The Stray
My stomach rumbled with an ache that had been my constant companion for the last three months. I still had some money on me, old currency from the world before, and the urge for a real meal, a simple sandwich, was overwhelming. The new world might be strange, but at least the markets were open. I walked into a small deli, the bell above the door chiming with a familiar, pleasant sound. The air inside smelled of bread and cured meat, a scent so normal it almost brought a tear to my eyes.
I approached the counter and pointed to a turkey club. "I'll take that one," I said, pulling a ten-dollar bill from my pocket. The young woman behind the counter gave me a polite, practiced smile. "Certainly, sir. That will be three credits."
I offered her the bill, and her smile vanished. Her eyes, once kind, hardened into a cold, suspicious glare. She didn't look at the money; she looked at my hand. My unmarked hand. My stomach dropped. I had heard the broadcast, but I hadn't truly grasped it. I hadn't realized the mark was a requirement, not a choice.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said, her voice now sharp and cold. "I can't take this. And I can't serve you."
My mind raced. "I don't understand. I have money. What's wrong?" I asked, my voice low and confused.
Her eyes flickered to the broadcast on a screen above her head. "It's policy," she said, a finality in her voice that sent a shiver down my spine. "Now you need to leave. We don't want any trouble."
I didn't have time to process her words before I heard the whispers. My presence, a quiet, innocuous thing just moments ago, was now a loud, glaring threat. I looked up and saw that everyone in the store, from a young couple in the corner to an old man drinking coffee, was staring at me. Their eyes held a mixture of fear and outright hatred.
"He's a stray," a man in the back hissed, his voice full of menace.
"Get out of here, stray!" someone else yelled.
The word "stray" hit me like a physical blow. It was a word for a dog, a wild, dangerous animal that didn't belong. I looked from face to face, bewildered by their sudden hostility. I didn't mean any harm. I just wanted a sandwich. I held my hands up in a placating gesture.
"I'm not looking for trouble," I said, trying to be calm. "I just... I'll go."
The tension in the room, however, only grew. The mob mentality was palpable. I backed out of the deli, the sound of their menacing shouts following me out the door. Once I was on the sidewalk, a group of people from a nearby cafe pointed at me.
"A stray! Get him out of here!"
I didn't wait to see if they would throw anything at me. My legs, which had felt like lead for the past three months, suddenly felt light. I started to run. The shouts grew louder, a chorus of angry voices chasing me down the street. I heard footsteps behind me, a pounding rhythm of pursuit. I was no longer a person to them; I was an intruder, a contamination in their perfect, sterile world.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I turned a corner, my lungs burning with every desperate gasp. The shouts were a wave of pure hatred that washed over me, a chilling confirmation that the world had not been saved, but had simply chosen a new master. And in that new world, I was an outsider. I was an enemy.
Then, from the distance, I heard a new sound. The wail of sirens, getting closer, getting louder. My body, exhausted and bruised, ran faster, driven by a fear more profound than anything I had felt before. The system was hunting me. The world had branded me a fugitive, and I had nowhere to go.