Chapter 2: The Things That Remain
Morning — if such a thing still existed — came like a dull ache, a gray smear of light that barely bled through the cracks of Tower 9's walls. There was no sun. No warmth. Only the thin reminder that the world outside was still turning, even as everything else had stopped.
John Gou stirred awake first, muscles stiff from the cold floor. His mother, Cherlyn, lay curled beside him, clutching the rosary tighter than ever, knuckles pale. Jake sat propped against the door, knife in hand, eyes red and sleepless. He had stood guard all night, listening for movement in the dark.
"Still here," Jake muttered. His voice was flat, hollow. "No dreams. No light. Just this."
John sat up slowly, the weight of hunger gnawing at his insides. They had eaten nothing since the world died. Scavenging was no longer optional — it was survival.
"We need food," John said, rising carefully. His legs trembled but held. "We check the other floors. Quick and quiet. Before they come back."
Jake wiped his face, pushing exhaustion away. "Or before something worse wakes up."
They gathered what little they had: the metal pipe, the rusted kitchen knife, a single candle stub. Cherlyn kissed the rosary and slipped it into her pocket.
Opening the door revealed the same hallway — silent, dark, smeared in the evidence of panic. Dried blood in long handprints. A broken doll in the corner. A shoe, torn and scorched. The air smelled of rot, metal, and something older. Something wrong.
Rick was gone. So was Lina. Their doors hung open, insides gutted. No bodies. No sound.
"They ran," Jake whispered. "Or they're gone."
John motioned down the hall. "Apartments on the twelfth floor. Maybe there's food left."
They moved as one, every footstep soft on the cracked tiles. The stairwell yawned like a throat, gaping wide, swallowing the echoes of their boots. They passed the ninth floor landing, where faint black stains traced strange patterns on the walls — symbols scorched into the paint like old burn marks.
"Looks like Rick tried to make wards," Jake said, eyeing the sigils. "Didn't work."
John ignored them. Time was short. The light — such as it was — would fade soon.
On the eleventh floor, they found the first door ajar. Jake slipped in first, knife raised. Inside: ruin. The living room was smashed, furniture overturned, broken glass everywhere. Blood smeared the walls in frantic arcs. But no bodies. No movement.
"Kitchen," John pointed.
They searched quickly, breath held. Nothing. Empty cans. Spoiled meat. A single unopened tin of peaches — dented, old, but safe. Jake pocketed it, a faint smile on his cracked lips.
"Better than nothing."
As they turned to leave, Cherlyn gasped.
"Wait. Look."
In the far corner of the room lay a bundle — cloth, stained dark. A child's dress. Beneath it, small bones. Picked clean.
Jake swore under his breath. "What did this?"
John felt the chill settle deeper into his spine. He didn't answer.
They moved on.
The next apartment was worse. Door ripped from its hinges. Deep gouges clawed into the floor. Something had dragged itself through here — or been dragged. More blood. Fewer signs of life.
In the third apartment, they heard breathing.
John froze. Jake raised the knife. Cherlyn clutched her son's sleeve.
A shadow stirred in the far room. Slow. Deliberate.
"Rick?" John called softly.
The shape shifted. Crawled. Closer.
A woman — or what was left of one — pulled herself into the light. Her face was pale, stretched tight over bone. Eyes sunken and empty. Blood stained her mouth and hands. Fingernails torn to the quick.
"Help me..." she rasped.
Cherlyn stepped forward, but John grabbed her arm. "No. That's not human anymore."
The creature smiled — wide, broken. Its jaw unhinged, snapping open far too wide. The stench of rot flooded the room.
"Run," John hissed.
They turned — just as the thing lunged. It shrieked, too loud, too sharp. Jake slammed the door as they bolted down the hall, the sound of claws tearing at the wood behind them.
"Up! Now!" Jake yelled.
They scrambled for the stairwell, climbing fast. The creature's screams echoed below, but it did not follow.
On the twelfth floor landing they collapsed, gasping. The world outside the shattered window lay gray and dead — the distant city skyline broken, silent, lost in mist.
John sat back against the wall. His heart pounded.
"We can't stay here forever," Jake said. "They're changing. People... turning into them. Whatever they are."
"The Hollow Ones," Cherlyn whispered. "Born from the dark. Fed by fear."
John looked at the ruined world below.
"No gods left to save us," he murmured. "Only us. Only Tower 9."
But far below, deep in the shadows of the city, something stirred. Watching. Waiting.
And above them — high in the tower's dark heights — the whispers of the Twins began again.
Their game was not finished.
The light was fading.
End of Chapter 2.