Charles stumbled through a sagging wooden gate and into someone’s backyard. He couldn’t believe he had made it that far.Gunshots cracked again — this time much closer. From the house.
He jerked sideways instinctively, half dancing, half collapsing as another round snapped past him and buried itself in the fence.
“I’m not one of them!” he shouted, voice breaking. “I’m one of the good guys! Stop freakin’ shooting at me, you’re gonna kill me!”
The back door stood open. A woman filled the doorway, arms extended, pistol trembling in her grip. She was vastly overweight, her frame heavy and uneven, a visible hunch rounding her back. Black hair hung in unwashed strands around her pale face. She wore a long red gown — once bright, now wrinkled — and cheap flip-flops that looked both new and exhausted.
Her mouth hung open in shock. Charles bent forward, hands on his knees, gasping.
“Ma’am…” He licked cracked lips. “Please. Stop shooting. You’re going to draw attention. And trust me — you don’t want that attention.”
The gun lowered slightly. She stared at him as if he had been dragged in by a storm.
“Do you…” His chest heaved. “Do you have any water?”
She didn’t answer. He felt himself tipping — black creeping in at the edges of his vision.
“Water!” he shouted suddenly, summoning everything he had left.
The volume snapped her out of whatever trance held her. Her eyes hardened. She disappeared inside.
“Finally,” Charles whispered, fighting dizziness.
He swayed where he stood, trying not to collapse. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and close his eyes — just for a minute — but he knew if he did, he might not get back up. Two twenty-four-ounce bottles of water came flying out the doorway.
They hit the dirt and rolled to his feet. He stared at them, disoriented. Water. He lunged and twisted one open, gulping desperately. It came back up almost immediately. He doubled over and vomited.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing hard.
“Slow,” he muttered to himself. “Slow.”
He took smaller sips. The water spread through him like medicine. His headache throbbed less violently. His thoughts steadied. Then he looked up. The gun was pointed at him again.
“Lady,” he said, squinting, “what is your problem?”
Her face tightened.
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I haven’t exactly—”
“Who did you vote for?”
The question cut clean through him. He blinked.
“What?”
“Who,” she repeated, jaw clenched, “did you vote for?”
There was something dangerous behind the question. Charles took another sip, buying time. She stepped closer, gun rising again.
“I asked you a question, boy. Who … did… you… vote… for?”
He saw it then. This wasn’t about politics. This was about allegiance. About sides.
“I didn’t,” he answered evenly. “I didn’t vote.”
Her face twisted.
“Then you’re no better than the morons who voted that racist idiot in!” she snapped. “I voted for her. I chose a side.”
Spit flew from her mouth with every word. She steadied herself, breathing hard.
“Now listen carefully,” she continued. “I just gave you water. And until that water leaves your system … you’re mine.”
Charles stared at her. Mine. He was exhausted. Beyond angry. Beyond done. He was not about to become someone’s hostage.
“Okay,” he breathed.
He started walking toward her. She kept the gun trained roughly in his direction — not steady, not professional. He noticed that.He noticed everything. He stepped into the doorway. She shifted her weight to grab the doorframe.
For one second, the gun dropped. That was all he needed. He spun, shoved her hard. She stumbled backward and flopped onto the porch steps, crying out in pain. The pistol slipped from her grip, bounced once, and slid across the concrete. Silence fell between them.
Charles walked toward the gun slowly. She clutched her back, sobbing — until she saw him nearing the weapon. Suddenly she rolled toward it, reaching. He stepped past her and picked it up first.
He straightened, sliding it into the small of his back. “Just kill me,” she spat bitterly.
He stared down at her. “No,” he hissed.
She laughed once — sharp and bitter.
“You think you’ve won? You haven’t. I chose correctly. They gave people like me a choice. Be useful. Look the other way. Help. Or be removed.” She lifted her chin. “I may not be physical, but I’m intelligent. They need minds.”
Charles felt heat rise into his face.
“You sold your country,” he said.
“You lost your country,” she shot back. “Soon we’ll have electricity again. Food supply restored. Order. The new idiot in office isn’t my president — and people like you are going to die.”
For a moment, he wanted to shoot her. He really did. But then he saw something else. She wasn’t powerful. She was afraid. And she had chosen survival over conscience. It reminded him of something ugly inside himself. He turned away instead.
He went inside. The house was cluttered but stocked. Canned food. Bottled water. Dry goods. He grabbed a backpack from a hook by the door and filled it as full as it would go. When he stepped back outside, she was standing in the doorway.
He paused. He could end her. No witness. No threat. He hesitated.
“You know,” he mumbled, pointing at her, “we’re going to take it back. There are more of us than you think.”
She glared.
“I hope you die.”
He brushed past her, shoulder-checking her hard enough to stagger her.
“Traitor,” he said.
And he walked away.
The streets were empty. Too empty. He muttered to himself, anger still boiling.
“The nerve of that woman … seriously.”
But beneath the anger was something else. Loneliness. He hated being alone. He walked past beautiful homes — manicured lawns now drying under the heat. If only he’d made more money. If only he’d moved somewhere safer.
If only—he stopped that thought.
The road ended at a treeline near the interstate. Too much exposure on main roads would get him killed. He cut into the woods. The ground was dry. Leaves cracked under his boots. A snake slithered ten feet away, disappearing into brush. He followed the interstate’s direction until it opened into a parking lot packed with abandoned cars. Gunfire erupted again in the distance.
Tires screeched.
He ran.
Across one lot. Then another. Ahead, the interstate rose into an overpass. To his left — chaos. Automatic weapons. Shouting. Engines revving. To his right — silence. He ran right. Halfway across the overpass, the gunfire behind him stopped. An engine roared.
His heart nearly stopped.
“This is where you die,” a voice whispered in his mind.
“You’ll never make it.”
He ran harder. His legs screamed. His lungs felt shredded. He saw a store ahead. Chain wrapped around the front doors. He grabbed a broken chunk of concrete and smashed one side of the glass. Gunfire erupted behind him again.
He dove through the opening, ignoring the shards that tore at his sleeves. He rolled behind a wall. A truck roared past outside, men laughing as they fired randomly into storefronts. Having fun.
Charles lay still, breathing through clenched teeth. The truck faded. Silence returned. He let himself breathe. The place was a small gas station. Destroyed — shelves overturned, chips crushed into the floor — but not empty. Food. Water.
He stood slowly, grabbed a bottle, opened it carefully this time.
Bread. Snack cakes.
He walked to the back office. The safe was open. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills sat untouched. Register drawers spilled cash. He stared at it. Money. Meaningless. He took a slow sip of water. A bite of sugar and bread. And for the first time all day, he smiled.
“If I die,” he murmured to himself, “this is where I’d want it to happen.”
He leaned back in the manager’s chair.
Quiet. Stillness. Safety — for now.
He imagined his son walking in, wrinkling his nose at the mess.His fiancée shook her head at the chaos but laughed at the ridiculous pile of cash. The smile faded. The silence grew heavier.
He sat there with the food in his hand and realized something:Safety meant nothing if they weren’t there. And the quiet he thought he wanted? It felt a lot like grief.