Rosie shifted weakly on the thin, grimy blanket. "Dad, I'm... hungry," her voice was just a brittle thread, lacking any hint of energy. William felt the sharp, familiar twist of pain in his own hollow gut. His voice wavered as he tried to sound strong. "Try to rest a bit, sweetie." He knew the futility of the command. They hadn't eaten anything substantial for four agonizing days. "Closing your eyes might help reduce the ache in your tummy." It was painful for him, watching his only family, his daughter, suffer solely because of hunger.
He moved closer, gently stroking the fine, dusty strands of her hair. He needed to distract her from the gnawing emptiness. "Listen to this story, Rosie. It's about a time that sounds impossible now. Once upon a time, the world was rich and merciful. The World provided clean water and unlimited food or fruit. There was enough for everyone. Every living being ate to the fullest, taking only what they needed to live."
His voice grew heavy with the weight of memory. "But not human. Humans took everything they could, eating however they wanted. Almost everyday they had massive leftovers. To some people, even eating their plate empty was considered shameful. They forgot who provided the food. They forgot that the kindness might end. The World was nice once, Rosie. Yeah, it was very nice." He kept stroking her hair, remembering those wasteful, abundant days.
Rosie's breathing became slow and steady, the stories finally lulling her aching stomach into quiet sleep. William watched her for a moment, the failure to feed her still heavy on his shoulders. He pulled his torn scarf tighter and secured the dust goggles over his green eyes.
He was weak, but he had to try again. He grabbed his metal pipe, his only defense, and slung a large empty sack across his back. He moved silently, checking the meager defenses of their shelter—a ruined old factory. He covered Rosie with another thin blanket, then carefully shifted several empty, rusty oil drums to hide her from direct view if anyone stumbled into the entrance. Then, he departed.
He walked for ten painful minutes, every step costing energy he didn't have, until he reached the broken edge of the city. Desperation drove him into the first building, then the second, third, and fourth. Each structure was empty; only dust blew through the shattered windows whenever the wind grew strong.
He came to the fifth building, a giant, cracked apartment block that looked more promising. He scanned the ground floor—just a shattered office. He forced his exhausted body to climb, all the way to the top floor. All he found was a large, almost empty water container. The water inside was clean. He quickly filled his own small canteen and started the slow descent. He checked the basement next. It was a dark parking lot full of dead cars. He felt hope drain away. Radiation had killed everything electronic; the cars were useless.
Just as he was about to collapse and give up, he noticed a family car. He couldn't say why, but it seemed different. It couldn't hurt to check one last time. He approached and forced the brittle passenger door open. On the car floor, buried in dust, was a heavy brown paper bag. Inside, he saw rotten vegetables and old bread—likely five years old, since the great strike. But the bag was heavy for another reason. He reached inside and found four cold, sealed cans: two of sweetened peaches, one of corn, and one of beans.
Food. William worked fast, scraping the grime off the cans. He shoved them deep into his sack and turned around. He took a long, confusing detour back to the factory, walking only on thick patches of dust and covering his footsteps where he could, making absolutely certain he wasn't followed. No one could lead a threat back to Rosie.
William reached the broken wall that hid their small shelter inside the abandoned factory. He lowered the metal pipe he carried and tapped the rusted beam three times: *clink, clink, clink*. Then, he spoke her name, his voice a dry rasp in the stale air. "Rosie. Rosie. Rosie." Once the signal was complete, he pushed through the gap and slipped inside. Rosie was exactly where he had left her, curled up in the corner on a pile of dusty rags. She was small and did not move much, but her green eyes, bright like his own, followed him. She clutched her ragged doll tightly.
William knelt down, the synthetic leather of his jacket squeaking. He pulled the four cold, sealed cans from his sack and arranged them on the dusty floor. "Hey sweetie," he said, forcing a cheerful tone. "Look what I found."
He picked up the first can—sweetened peaches—and worked hard to pry the lid open. The thick, sugary scent of fruit instantly filled the air, a scent they hadn't smelled in years. William tilted the can, carefully letting the sweet juice drip onto Rosie's tongue. She swallowed slowly, savoring the richness. Then, using a small, sharp scrap of metal, he cut the soft fruit into tiny, manageable pieces.
"Eat slowly," he instructed, gently smoothing back her long, dusty blonde hair. "This is special food. We will finish this can later tonight." William watched every bite she took, feeling a heavy weight lift from his chest. He took just one small sliver of peach for himself and washed it down with a meager sip of water from his canteen. The rest of the food was not for him. The remaining three cans were immediately hidden deep inside his sack again.
William felt Rosie clutch his torn synthetic leather jacket. "Dad," she whispered, her voice tight, "I'm sorry I can't help you find food." William looked down at her fragile, small body, her long blonde hair dusty and dull. He hated the failure that hung over him. "It's okay, sweetie," he said, gently smoothing her hair. "It was my mistake to bring you into this terrible, devastating world." He knew he had to go out again in the morning. For Rosie, survival meant risking everything.
He departed the first thing after dawn, the thin scarf covering his lower face and his goggles shielding his green eyes from the dust. He was tall, 187 centimeters, but lack of food made his movements slow. He continued the scavenge hunt, searching six ruined buildings without luck. It was almost noon when he entered the seventh. He was moving quietly when he suddenly froze, hearing a sound he feared most: chattering. Small, but clearly three distinct voices.
He dropped low, his heart pounding hard against his ribs. He tried to remember if he had made a sound, a stumble, a single mistake. No. Then it had to be passersby. *Please just pass,* William prayed silently, tightening his grip on his heavy metal pipe. But fate was cruel. Out of every building in the area, they entered the one where he hid.
"Now, let's search for something useful, will ya?" one of the men commanded.
William was on the second floor. He could hear the heavy steps splitting up below him. He had only seconds to decide: fight three men openly or try to take them down one by one, silently. He waited as one set of footsteps began climbing toward the second floor. When the first man passed his hiding spot, William struck. He wrapped the torn thin scarf around the man's mouth tightly, cutting off any noise. Before the man could react, William twisted his neck hard. A sickening, cracking sound confirmed the death. He quickly dragged the body into the deepest shadow. Ripping open the man's ragged clothes, William searched for anything useful. At the dead man's waist, he found a kitchen knife. It was chipped and old, but it was sharp enough for what needed to come next.
Still hidden in the deep shadow, William picked up four small pieces of rubble. He threw one hard, aiming it in the opposite direction from where he waited. The stone clattered loudly across the floor.
"What was that?" a voice called from downstairs.
"I don't know, maybe just some stone crumbling," another voice replied. "This ruin could fall down any minute."
"Go check it. If Rick is making noise upstairs, tell him to stop."
A man sighed heavily. "Fine, okay."
Heavy footsteps began climbing the stairs again. William gripped the chipped kitchen knife tightly, preparing to strike. As the man passed his hiding spot, William lunged. His left hand clamped over the man's mouth, silencing any noise. With his right hand, William sliced the man's throat quickly and deep.
Before the body could even drop, a third voice sounded right next to him. "Hey mate, you need to bring th—"
The man stopped dead, seeing his friend fall. He started to reach for a weapon, but William was faster. William charged, slamming his shoulder into the man's stomach and driving him to the dusty floor. William pinned the man down, pointing the sharp knife at his neck.
"HOW MANY?" William yelled, his voice ragged from stress.
"I—I don't under—"
"HOW MANY ARE WITH YOU?" William pushed the knife point slightly deeper into the man's throat.
"It—It's just us. The three of us. We've been surviving since the strike. Please, spare me," the man pleaded, trembling.
William didn't wait. He dragged the knife across the man's throat, ending his life swiftly.
He wiped the blood from the knife and quickly checked the bodies for anything useful. On the last man, he found a working revolver with five bullets remaining. He also took a half-pack of cigars and a small bottle of cheap alcohol. He put the items into his worn synthetic leather bag.
William continued searching the ruined buildings for food until evening. It was a poor day. All he found was a dusty bag of instant noodles hidden in a broken cabinet and the few belongings taken from the dead men. It wasn't enough, but it was something. He turned and headed toward the shelter where Rosie waited.
William finally reached the broken doorway that led into their makeshift shelter. His eyes, usually bright green, were dull with fatigue under the grime of his goggles. Rosie, holding her ragged doll close, was waiting for him. But when she saw him, her hand flew instantly to her mouth. His loosely torn synthetic leather jacket was soaked and smeared with fresh, dark blood. She nearly screamed.
William stopped her. "Calm, Rosie. It's not mine," he said, struggling to steady his breath. He needed to get the sight away from her. He ripped the bloody jacket off, tossing it onto the dusty floor far from the firelight.
He knelt quickly, pulling his daughter into a tight embrace. He felt her small, fragile body and closed his eyes against the guilt. "I'm sorry, Rose. I had to," he whispered into her dusty blonde hair. "I took lives today too." He knew it was necessary to survive, but the failure to provide for her without violence gnawed at him.
Rosie pulled back slightly, her eyes wide and wet. She sobbed quietly. "Are you hurt, Dad?"
William shook his head. "No. I'm just tired. We need to rest for the night." He set down the few supplies he had managed to gather—the revolver, the bottle, and the dusty bag of instant noodles. He prepared the small dinner by the low, flickering campfire, stirring the thin soup in a rusty pot. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing the meager meal in silence, the warmth of the fire the only comfort against the cold night.
The next week crawled by. William spent every hour checking the ruins of the city. He found just enough supplies to keep them going, but the shelves were empty now. It was time to leave. "Rosie, we need to move again tomorrow," he said softly, gently patting her head. Rosie, holding her ragged doll tight, sighed. "I'm tired of moving around," she said in a light voice.
"I know, sweetheart," William replied, adjusting his worn synthetic leather jacket. "But it's not safe to stay in one place for too long. And the food is running out." He convinced her easily. "Try to sleep. We're moving by dawn."
William quickly packed their few things: a couple of canned foods, two containers of water, and a small pile of candy for Rosie. He slipped his goggles over his eyes and secured his torn scarf. As the sky lightened, they left the city, walking silently down the cracked highway.
They walked for about three hours, the sun starting to climb toward the peak of the sky. The heat was heavy, pressing down on William's thin, tired body. Just as Rosie started to complain about the heat, William saw it in the distance. It was a rundown wooden cottage.
There was nothing around the small house except for dried bushes and the skeletal remains of what looked like a dead forest. The cottage felt suspicious, sitting all alone in the wasteland. But William saw Rosie dragging her feet. Both of them needed a rest, and they desperately needed shelter from the scorching sun.
William gently pushed Rosie behind a thick cluster of dried brush. He covered her with some dead leaves, whispering for her to stay still. He left their small bag of food beside her. William gripped his knife tightly. The revolver he carried was useless; he didn't know how to fire it. He walked toward the rundown wooden cottage, his heart pounding in his chest.
Just as his hand reached out for the door handle, the door flew inward violently. It slammed hard into William's face. Everything swam for a moment. Several large men poured out of the dark opening.
"Hahaha, look what we have here," a heavy voice boomed. A man grabbed William, slamming him onto the dirt. "A rat." They grinned. The man roughly searched William's torn jacket, pulling out a small bottle of cheap alcohol, an old cigar pack, and the heavy revolver. "Poor rat." He kicked William hard in the stomach.
William screamed, pain tearing through his already weak body. From the bushes, Rosie cried out, "NO STOPPPP!"
"N-o… H-idee…" William gasped, struggling to tell her to stay hidden. The men laughed louder now. "A rat with a daughter! That's rare." Two of the men spotted the small girl and grabbed her arms roughly. "You will become a fine lady, girl. Come with your uncles." Their smiles were wide and sickening.
"Don't. You. Dare," William choked out, thrashing, but he was too starved and weak to fight them off.
"Or what?" the man pinning him sneered. "Should we enjoy her right now? In front of you? A fruit is indeed a fruit, even if it's unripe." He looked at his men. "Do it."
A man reached for Rosie's dress. Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched whistling sound, like a tiny flute, tore through the air. The man holding Rosie collapsed instantly. The sound came again, quick and deadly. Another man's head seemed to burst, and he fell heavily. The leader, still on William's back, looked confused. "Who dare to—"
Before he finished, the whistle sounded one last time. A dark hole appeared in the leader's chest, and his weight vanished. William scrambled up. He lunged at the nearest remaining man, drawing his knife across the man's exposed throat in a desperate, fluid motion. He didn't pause. He ran straight to Rosie, sweeping her into a tight, desperate hug.
The world went silent. Only the sharp, ragged sobs of Rosie and the frantic drumming of William's own heart could be heard in the wake of the violence. "This is no place to raise a child, Mister," a voice said, sharp yet somehow gentle. William looked up. A woman stood there, carrying a huge, powerful sniper rifle on her back. She wore a thick bulletproof vest and looked strong, though a long, faded scar marked her shoulder.
"Are you the one who saved us?" William asked politely. She just nodded, putting a dry blade of grass into her mouth. "Thank you. Things would have ended really ugly if you hadn't helped." William bowed his head low, while Rosie hugged his worn trousers tightly.
"Don't mention it. I'm tired too. Let's rest inside." She pointed toward a small, battered wooden cottage. William quickly grabbed their few things from the bushes where they had been hidden and followed her. She prepared a handgun, just in case, before checking the empty rooms. It was safe.
She dropped the heavy sniper rifle and sat on a worn-down sofa. "Sasha is the name."
"William. William Carter. And this is Rose." William lifted his daughter, holding her on his lap.
"Yours? Biologically?" Sasha asked.
"Yes."
"How long have you been out here?"
"Long enough to not feel anything even if killing a human." William offered Sasha one of the few canned meals they had left.
"I can't say no to free food." Sasha took her portion. They ate, and Sasha often watched Rosie carefully spooning her own small amount of food. "It must be hard for both of you." She continued eating. "Why didn't you try to settle down inside a government bunker?"
"Ah, we tried," William said, wiping Rosie's mouth with a piece of fabric. "People aren't actually nice. Especially when every single one of us is hungry. You saw what happened earlier."
"Which bunker did you try?" Sasha asked.
"We both tried Omega. We escaped from it. It's a long story."
"Shit is crowded. Omega is a no-go for leisurely living. Try mine. I came from Charlie. It wasn't that far. Probably about a week by foot, or less if you're alone." She looked at Rosie again.
"I'll consider that. Let's just rest peacefully right now." William began cleaning up the empty food cans and utensils.
Rosie slept early that night. The terrible events of the day had finally worn her down. William Carter and Sasha gathered around a tiny fire pit they had built inside an empty drink can, just enough to give off minimal heat. Sasha began snapping small twigs in her hands. "Seriously, I want you to go to Charlie," she said, her voice low. "You cannot raise a child out here in the wasteland."
"I know that," William replied, clutching the worn synthetic leather of his jacket. "It's just…" He tried to explain his worries, but the proper words would not come out.
"Just try. Here." Sasha ripped her bright name tag clean off her vest. She found a piece of coal and scribbled something on the cloth. "Bring this. This will identify you as a friendly, not a hostile. They'll understand." She handed the tag and a small, folded piece of paper to William.
"Just try not to get killed before reaching Charlie," she added, pushing a few short twigs into the tiny can fire.
"Thanks, I guess," William said, taking the identification. He looked at the flickering flame. "We used to live peacefully. Not like this. We had jobs, and a working society. Food was always there when we got home." He sighed heavily, the sound ragged and full of guilt. "I wasn't supposed to bring her into this world. She's suffering more than she can enjoy." They both looked over at Rosie, small and still.
Sasha's eyes were sympathetic. "Hey, terrible things happened. How you survived all this time is all that matters. And she will continue to need you. Stay strong, man."
Sasha spread her worn map on the ground the next morning. "Here," she explained, tracing a line with a stick. "This is Charlie. This route is the fastest, and I think the safest." She marked three small circles. "I left these three temporary shelters. Use them to rest when you need to." She handed the map to William. "Try not to die, and take whatever useful things you see. Simple things can save lives." William gathered the items that had been taken from him before—the revolver, the small cigar, and the bottle of strong drink, all recovered from the dead man lying outside. He put them carefully into his worn jacket pocket.
"Thank you for everything," William said, bowing low again. Sasha nodded, already checking the straps on her heavy sniper rifle. "I need to finish my mission. Let's meet up at Charlie." They shook hands firmly. Rosie waved her small hand. "Goodbye, Sis Sasha!" Sasha gave a final, sharp instruction. "Survive." Then, she left quickly down the dirt road, disappearing into the morning haze.
William adjusted his goggles against the dust and held Rosie's hand. Their journey began. They walked for a full day, covering ground steadily. When the sun reached its highest, scorching peak, they found what little shade they could and rested, huddled close until the air began to cool. They continued walking through the evening and into the dark, driven by the need to reach the first shelter.
It took them two long, tiring days to reach the spot Sasha had marked. William's body, already weak from hunger, screamed with every step. Finally, they reached the first hidden shelter—a small, metal structure tucked into a hillside. William pulled open the rusted door. They stepped inside, dropping their few belongings. They were immediately exhausted, beaten down by the endless walking. William checked their small sack; the food was almost gone. But they couldn't think about hunger now. They lay down together on the dusty floor and instantly fell asleep, heavy and deeply tired.
William woke up first, his body still aching but rested. He slipped quietly out of the shelter before Rosie even stirred. He had to find food and water today. He walked toward a nearby village, hoping to find something left behind. The village was small and thoroughly ruined, battered by years of wind and neglect. William, adjusting his goggles against the dust, started his search.
At first, he found only useless things—broken gold chains and shiny jewelry. He ignored them; they couldn't feed Rosie. He needed food. He checked a small grocery store, finding nothing but empty, rusted cans covering the floor. Someone had already stripped the place bare. He kept looking, though, searching every corner. Behind a pile of smashed shelving, he found a small pair of socks. They were tiny and perfect for Rosie, and he tucked them into his torn jacket.
Then came the first real find. Tucked low behind the counter, hidden from view, was a large bag of flour, slightly damp, but usable. Next to it were smaller sacks of sugar and salt. That was enough for several meals. He secured his find and moved on, still hoping for a real treasure.
He entered a small, ruined house. The door was locked, but the window had shattered. William used his metal pipe to force the door open. In the kitchen, everything was overturned. He kicked aside a pile of moldy trash bags. Lying underneath was a single, perfect can. Condensed milk. William almost shouted the name of his daughter. It had been too long since Rosie had tasted anything sweet.
With the food secured, William realized he had no water. He left the village and walked until he found a patch of ground that looked slightly moist. He dug the hard earth repeatedly with his pipe, determined. After much effort, dirty water began to bubble up. It was filthy, but he knew he could filter it through fabric until it was drinkable.
He gathered everything and arrived back at the shelter as the last light left the sky. Rosie was awake, sitting on the floor, using a lump of coal to draw simple shapes on the dusty wall. William built a small fire outside. He boiled the water, carefully filtering it several times. Then, using some of the flour and sugar, he made thick, warm pancakes. He mixed a little of the condensed milk into the last cup of boiled water, finally giving Rosie a warm drink.
William called softly, "Rosie, come here, sweetie. Dinner's ready." He carefully handed her the metal can, which was wrapped in a piece of torn cloth to keep her hands from the heat. "Hold this, careful, it's hot." Rosie looked down and saw the creamy white liquid inside. "MILK! Where did you find them?" she shouted, her voice full of rare excitement. William managed a weak smile. "Well, I got lucky," he said. Rosie leaned forward and pressed a kiss onto his dust-covered cheek. "Thank you, Daddy." She blew gently on the warm drink before taking small, careful sips. William watched his daughter drink the sweet milk. His worn heart melted instantly. He felt a sharp rush of love and relief, and tears pricked at his green eyes. He had failed her in so many ways, but tonight, she had something warm and sweet.
The small dinner was soon finished. Rosie fell asleep quickly, curled up with her ragged doll inside the dusty shelter. William stayed outside by the flickering campfire. He sat on the cold ground, staring up at the dark sky. Radiation still painted the atmosphere with strange, glowing colors—auroras dancing everywhere. He searched for the brightest star he could see and fixed his eyes on it. He looked at it for a long time, then whispered into the harsh night air. "Oh, Dear, please bless our little angel with your strength. She needs you. I need you." A single tear finally broke free and tracked a clean line down his thin, dust-covered cheek, carrying the grime of the day and the pain of years. "It's me who should have died back then. It's me who should have died in the strike. Rosie needs you, sweetheart." His body shook with sorrow as he sobbed quietly under the unnatural, glowing sky.