GINA
Gina heard a noise from the next room, low and dragging. Her hand immediately went to the shotgun slung across her back. Moving carefully, she stepped into the hallway and saw him—the stranger she had just found—reaching toward a gun. A body lay crumpled beside him, blood already drying in dark pools around it.
"Fuck," she whispered under her breath.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. In her mind, there was no question. She thought this stranger had killed the man.
"Don't fucking move!" she barked, leveling the shotgun at him.
The man froze, hands hovering in the air. His face was pale, confused, scared even.
"Put the gun down. Now."
He slowly moved away from the revolver. "I didn't do it," he said quickly, his voice rough and hoarse. "I just woke up here. That guy... he shot himself."
Gina kept her gun trained on him, studying his face. She didn't trust easily—not anymore, not after what happened last week. Trust was dangerous. Trust got people killed.
"I swear," he said again. "I woke up. He was standing there. Then he just... he shot himself."
There was a desperation in his voice that was hard to fake. Gina's instincts screamed at her to leave him behind, but another part of her—the part that remembered the people she had lost—knew she couldn't survive out here alone much longer. After a tense moment, she nodded stiffly.
"Fine," she said. "But you follow me. Step out of line, and I'll kill you."
He nodded, grateful.
Before they left, Gina picked up the revolver. It was heavier than she expected. She checked the cylinder: only one bullet left.
"Figures," she muttered, stuffing it into one of the side pockets of her bag. Guns were gold now, especially after the world had turned to shit three months ago when the "things" appeared.
"We're going to a safehouse," she told him as they stepped into the dying sunlight. "A lot of people there. You pull any weird shit, and I'll blow your fucking head off."
Again, he nodded without argument.
The neighborhood around them was eerily quiet. Broken windows, overgrown yards, abandoned cars—the city had fallen apart fast. Solar panels still powered a few places, keeping lights flickering through the oncoming darkness.
As they walked, the man broke the silence. "What's your name?"
"Gina," she said without looking at him.
He hesitated before asking, "You don't even remember your name... so what should I call you?"
He looked thoughtful for a second. "Call me Logan," he said finally.
She glanced at him—a little taller than her, lean but not scrawny, messy hair and haunted eyes. He barely looked old enough to be out here alone.
"You look like you're twenty," she said, almost as an accusation.
He cracked a tired smile. "Probably. I feel like I'm eighty."
"I'm twenty too," Gina muttered. "In case you were wondering."
They walked for a while, looting houses along the way. Gina led, moving fast and checking corners. Logan followed, quiet and watchful.
After a few blocks, they found a bigger house—two stories, stone walls, a fancy iron gate half torn off its hinges.
"Rich assholes," Gina muttered. "Hope they left something behind."
Inside, the place was a mess. Furniture overturned, paintings ripped from walls. She made a lot of noise rummaging around, not really worried—the whole place felt dead.
"Hey, Logan," she called, turning toward the door.
Before she could finish, a figure lunged from the shadows and slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. She reached for her shotgun, but a boot kicked it away.
"You fuckers," a man snarled, standing over her. "You think you can steal our loot? I told you—this is our turf!"
Gina spat blood, glaring up at him. "Does it look like I give a fuck?"
The man didn't answer—he just punched her hard across the face, and everything went black.