Phileo woke to silence.
Not the normal kind. Not birds, not engines, not voices drifting through walls. This silence was thick, heavy, like the world was holding its breath.
For a moment, he didn't move.
He lay on the cold floor of the hardware store, eyes open, listening. His muscles ached, and his neck was stiff from sleeping in the same position all night. The metal rod was still in his hand. He hadn't let go of it once.
Light filtered in through the broken windows, pale and weak.
Morning.
Phileo sat up slowly, every sound he made feeling too loud. He waited again, counting his breaths, scanning the shadows. Nothing moved.
He stood and stretched carefully, wincing. Hunger twisted in his stomach. Thirst burned his throat.
"Okay," he whispered. "Slow."
He checked the barricade at the back door. Still in place. Untouched. That small victory steadied him more than it should have.
Using his flashlight, he searched the store properly this time. He found rope, duct tape, gloves, a crowbar, and a small first-aid kit hidden behind the counter. He packed what he could carry. The crowbar replaced the metal rod in his hands—it felt heavier, more solid.
He drank water and forced himself to eat. Each bite felt strange, like his body didn't remember what food was for anymore.
When he finally stepped outside, the town looked worse in daylight.
Blood stains marked the road. Cars were abandoned at odd angles. One body lay near a lamppost, unmoving. Phileo didn't go closer.
He moved slowly, staying near walls, listening before every step. He learned quickly that noise carried far. A kicked can echoed down the street. A slammed door sounded like a gunshot.
He learned something else too.
The things that wandered the streets reacted to sound.
He saw one in the distance—what used to be a man—standing still in the middle of the road. When a loose sign banged against a wall, the thing's head snapped toward it instantly.
Phileo backed away, heart racing.
"Quiet," he whispered to himself. "Stay quiet."
By midday, he found a small grocery store that hadn't been completely emptied. He waited, watching it from across the street for a long time. When nothing moved, he went in.
He took only what he needed. Water. Canned food. A small knife from the counter drawer. He felt strange doing it—like he was stealing—but there was no one left to ask.
Outside, a sudden scream ripped through the air.
Phileo froze.
It came from nearby. Human. Terrified.
Then it stopped.
Phileo stood there, shaking, torn between running toward it and running away.
He chose to live.
As the sun began to set again, he found another place to hide—a small apartment above a closed shop. He blocked the stairs, covered the windows, and sat in the dark, listening.
He thought of his mother. Of the way she said his name.
"Phileo."
He closed his eyes.
The world had changed.
And now, so had he.