Stone and Silence

Morning came with a dull, blue light that filtered through the jagged remnants of the chapel's stained glass. The glass no longer held color—most of it had faded, fractured, or fallen. The pieces that remained cast fractured beams of light across the stone floor like broken prayers.

I stood in the church's main hall, arms crossed, staring up at what used to be a painting of angels. Their faces were gone, scorched off by heat or time. Their wings were cracked. It looked less like salvation and more like judgment.

A soft wind crept in through the shattered steeple, carrying the smell of moss and wet dust. It was quiet—still—but not peaceful. Nothing in this world was peaceful anymore. It just waited until you stopped paying attention.

I started my day with a circuit of the perimeter.

The main entrance had two reinforced doors, each held shut by a metal bar scavenged from a construction site. I'd bolted them into the floor with concrete anchors, then drilled holes into the handles and ran rebar through them. It wasn't pretty, but it would hold.

To the left, the old side hallway connected to what had once been a community kitchen. I'd bricked off that section entirely using broken sidewalk slabs and poured concrete mix I found in the garage of a collapsed home three blocks away. It was crude work—rough edges, uneven lines—but it sealed off the weakest point in the structure.

The windows had all been boarded. Behind each board, I'd placed shards of broken mirror to use as makeshift periscopes. It gave me vision lines without exposing myself.

Above the chapel, in what used to be a bell tower, I'd created a lookout post. It was narrow—only wide enough for one person—but high enough to see over the rooftops and alleyways for several blocks. From there, I could track movement patterns, smoke trails, or anything unnatural in the streets.

So far, I hadn't seen any smoke in two days.

That meant one of three things: the nearest survivors were gone, dead, or had gone quiet on purpose.

None of those options were good.

The basement had become my den.

A space carved from storage and old foundations. The air down there always held a chill, but I'd grown used to it. A single LED lantern sat on a concrete block near my bed—three sleeping pads stacked over wood crates. Every corner had a use. One wall was for weapons and tools. One held scavenged supplies—cans of food I couldn't eat but bartered with if I ever needed to trade. Another corner held a tarp-covered container filled with harvested mutant flesh.

I didn't eat all at once.

Some of it I cured with salt. Some I smoked slowly over the firepit I built using old bricks and iron grating. I couldn't afford to feed every day, and eating too fast made the changes worse.

I'd learned that the hard way.

Three nights ago, I'd eaten a creature with long, narrow limbs and reflective eyes. It gave me enhanced low-light vision. But it also gave me its memories—jumbled fragments of stalking through ruined malls, leaping over rooftops, howling at the clouds like it missed the sky it came from.

Those weren't my memories.

They'd almost drowned me.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I crawled across the chapel floor until my knuckles bled, muttering things I didn't understand in a language I'd never heard.

I woke up face-down beside the altar.

Since then, I rationed what I took in.

No more whole creatures.

Only pieces.

Only what I could handle.

At noon, I cleaned the front steps.

The area just outside the main doors had become a tangle of debris. Fallen shingles. Burned leaves. Empty shell casings from an old firefight. I swept the stone clean using a broom I'd pieced together from a mop handle and plastic wiring. Then I carved a set of warning marks into the door using an old chisel and a steel mallet.

Three claw slashes over a triangle: danger ahead.

An open eye with a line through it: watched.

A single downward arrow: shelter claimed.

They weren't symbols most people would understand. But those who were smart, careful, and desperate—they'd get the message.

This wasn't a place you walked into casually.

And if you did come in?

You better be ready to prove your worth.

By early afternoon, I was reinforcing the inner walls with scrap iron and wiring when I heard it—faint, metallic rattling. Not wind. Not weather.

Footsteps.

Deliberate.

Cautious.

I stopped moving.

Pressed my back to the stone and drew the axe from the tool bench.

Listened.

There it was again.

Not loud. Not clumsy. Someone moving with awareness.

I climbed the stairwell to the choir loft, moving quiet as I could. I crouched behind the pews, keeping to the shadows. From this angle, I could see the front doors through the crack in the window boards.

A figure stood at the edge of the courtyard.

Male. Lean frame. Torn jacket. Holding a weapon—maybe a crowbar or rebar shaft. His face was partly covered in a cloth wrap. Dust and ash clung to every inch of him like he'd been walking for miles.

He didn't knock.

He didn't call out.

He just stood there, looking at the church like he didn't trust it.

Smart man.

I didn't reveal myself.

Not yet.

Instead, I slipped back downstairs and retrieved one of my trade bags.

Inside: a flashlight, two cans of food, a canteen with a water filter cap, and a warning note.

"If you're not infected, take this and leave. If you are—don't test my patience."

I placed it outside the door and waited behind the barricade.

Ten minutes passed.

The bag disappeared.

The man was gone.

No sound. No damage. No aggression.

He was just hungry and smart enough to walk away when given a chance.

That, to me, meant there was still hope out there. Not everyone had turned feral.

That night, I sat in the choir loft and stared at the shattered ceiling.

The wind had shifted. I could smell the sea now—salt, rust, and algae carried in from the port. Mixed in was another scent. Burnt meat. Not fresh.

Someone had lit a fire nearby.

Too far to see.

Close enough to track.

I marked it in my journal:

Day 10 – Someone passed by. Didn't engage. Took food. No signs of infection. Showed caution. Noted. Will observe if he returns.Built three more traps—silent ones. Wire-triggered darts using spring pressure and glass tips. Might work against thin-skins.Hunger minimal today. Strength stable. Memory fragments under control.Still alone. Still human. I think.

The night passed without incident.

The fire outside kept burning for another few hours, then vanished.

I stayed awake until dawn.

Not out of fear.

Out of purpose.

Because this base, this place, was worth protecting.

Not just because it kept me alive…

…but because someday, someone else might need it more than I do.