Chapter 5: The Sanctuary Apartment

The journey through Bristol's ruins proved far more arduous than they had anticipated. What should have been a two-hour walk stretched into a nearly five-hour grueling trek across a landscape that had become alien and hostile. The post-bombardment city resembled a nightmare maze, with familiar landmarks vanished, roads twisted out of shape, and danger lurking around every corner.

Wind wailed between the rubble, whipping up dust and scraps of paper into small vortices. The air was saturated with nauseating odors—burning plastic, damp ash, and darker things, silently suggesting traces of decay. Occasionally, a breeze would bring a fleeting moment of freshness, like a distant memory of the normal world, but it was quickly replaced by the stench of reality.

Allen led them through a labyrinth of narrow alleys, service passages, and residential back streets—a convoluted route necessitated by the numerous obstacles they encountered. His local knowledge proved invaluable amid the chaos, although even he frequently hesitated due to the unfamiliar terrain.

"Another blockage," Allen sighed, pointing toward a partially collapsed building with debris scattered across the road ahead. The three-story structure, once the local post office, now looked as if it had been struck by a giant's fist, walls bulging outward, revealing interior offices with papers and office supplies strewn through the ruins, evidence of the suddenness of the catastrophe. "We'll have to detour through that parking garage."

This was the third major rerouting they'd been forced to make in the past hour alone. The bombing had reshaped the city's geography, creating dead ends where thoroughfares had once been, and dangerous passages where safe routes had previously existed. Even Allen, who knew these streets intimately, was struggling to adapt to this new reality.

"Is the garage safe?" Emma asked, cautiously scanning the dark entrance. Such enclosed spaces had proven dangerous during their journey—they had already twice encountered infected lurking in shadowy interiors, and once nearly walked into a group of desperate looters. Their last encounter still left her shaken; the desperation and recklessness in those people's eyes had made her realize that in this new world, humans sometimes posed a greater danger than the infected.

"It's our best option," Allen answered, though his hesitation was evident. He unconsciously fingered the school emblem pendant hanging around his neck, a gift from his mother on his sixteenth birthday. Now, it was his only remaining memento of his family. "Otherwise, we'd have to backtrack half a mile, and it's already starting to get dark."

Jack carefully studied the garage entrance, his ADHD-enhanced senses processing multiple details simultaneously—the depth of the shadows, signs of recent activity, potential escape routes. He noticed several footprints on the ground near the entrance, some looking quite fresh, indicating someone had recently passed through here. But they were various shapes without a specific pattern, possibly just survivors passing through rather than an organized group.

"Let's do a quick recon first," he suggested, slipping his backpack off and retrieving the compact binoculars they'd salvaged from the supermarket. One lens had a crack, but they were still functional. He handed the backpack to Emma, saying quietly, "If something goes wrong, don't wait for me. Take Allen and keep moving."

Emma took the backpack, her eyes flashing with concern and disapproval. "Don't play hero, Jack. We go in and out together." Her voice was soft but her tone resolute, brooking no argument.

Jack nodded, knowing that debate would be futile. Since the crisis began, Emma's decisiveness and inner strength had become increasingly apparent. Her usual introversion and quietness had been replaced by a calm authority, especially in dangerous situations.

He approached the entrance carefully, concealing himself behind a damaged concrete pillar, and used the binoculars to scan the garage's interior level by level. It was a three-story structure connected to what had once been an office building, now partially collapsed. The first level appeared largely empty, with only a few abandoned vehicles scattered throughout, their windows reflecting the afternoon light. No obvious signs of habitation or movement. However, as he moved his gaze to the second level, he noticed some unsettling details—several cars had been deliberately arranged in a semi-circle, like a temporary camp or defensive position.

He slowly shifted his focus to the third level, which was almost completely in shadow. Thanks to the binoculars' low-light enhancement, he could vaguely make out several blurry shapes, possibly vehicles or large obstacles, but couldn't determine whether people or infected were present.

Jack returned to the group, his expression cautious. "The first level looks relatively safe, but there are suspicious signs on the upper floors. The second level may have or had people camping there, and the third level is too dark to see clearly. I suggest we move quickly through the first level to find the exit to Cedar Street, without going upstairs."

Emma nodded, already considering alternative routes. "What if that exit is blocked?"

"Then we retrace our steps," Jack answered. "It's not worth risking exploration of the entire garage."

A plan formed: they would maintain a tight formation, moving single file. Allen would lead since he knew the layout, Emma in the middle, and Jack bringing up the rear. If they encountered danger, they would immediately retreat rather than engage. Their objective was simple—cross through the garage, reach Cedar Street, then continue toward Allen's aunt's apartment.

They entered the garage cautiously, every nerve on edge. Jack gripped his hunting knife tightly, Allen wielded the metal pipe he'd found earlier, and Emma had her shock device at the ready. The garage interior was darker than it appeared from outside, the air heavy with the smell of gasoline, oil, and darker scents—traces of decay. Tiny dust particles suspended in the air formed light columns where sunlight penetrated through broken skylights, adding a surreal beauty to this grim place.

"Move quickly," Allen whispered, leading them along a side passage, avoiding the open space in the central area. His voice created a faint echo in the concrete structure, making Jack worry it might attract unwanted attention. "There's an exit on the opposite side that leads to Cedar Street. From there, we can go straight through the small park to my aunt's apartment."

They moved quietly, though their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the empty concrete structure. Every echo made Jack's nerves tense; his palms sweating, his knife hand trembling slightly with tension. But this fear also heightened his senses, his ADHD becoming an advantage in this high-pressure situation, allowing him to notice multiple details simultaneously.

Occasionally, they passed an abandoned vehicle and had to stoop to check its interior, ensuring no danger lurked within. Most cars were empty, but some contained disturbing signs—bloodstains, personal items, and sometimes even bodies still strapped in their seatbelts, faces rendered unrecognizable by decay. These tragic scenes silently told the story of panic and desperation during the disaster's early stages, of people trying to escape only to become infected or die en route.

"Don't look," Jack said softly to Allen, seeing the boy's face blanch as they passed a particularly horrific vehicle. Inside, a man in a business suit still sat in the driver's seat, but his head had become an unrecognizable bloody mass, apparently destroyed by some extremely violent force. "Keep looking forward, focus on the exit."

Allen nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing as he clearly struggled to control the urge to vomit. Despite being only seventeen, he had experienced more horror in these few days than many people face in a lifetime. Jack could see him trying to stay strong, but occasionally, the fear and loss in his eyes betrayed that he was still just a child, one suddenly thrown into a hellish world.

They continued forward, having covered half the distance across the garage, and began to allow themselves a glimmer of hope. About fifteen meters ahead, a sign marked "Exit" pointed to a door leading outside. Perhaps this time they would be lucky enough to avoid trouble.

It was at that moment that a metallic crashing sound came from their left, shattering the garage's deathly silence. All three stopped immediately, turning toward the source. Near an overturned van, a dark figure was struggling to climb out of the window—an infected, wearing torn security uniform, the name tag on his chest indicating he had once been a parking garage attendant. His uniform was stained with dark, dried blood, and one arm bent at an unnatural angle, though he seemed completely unaware of any pain.

The infected's movements were slow and clumsy, but when it spotted them, its motions suddenly became tense and focused. Those eyes, once possibly blue or brown, had become a cloudy grayish-white, unfocused yet eerily precise in locking onto them. It emitted a low growl, something between a moan and a snarl, then began moving toward them, its gait unsteady but surprisingly fast.

"Run!" Jack hissed, but he knew they couldn't reach the exit without drawing more attention. The noise would echo through this enclosed structure, potentially attracting more infected. He made a quick decision, partly based on rational analysis, partly on instinct. "Emma, Allen, keep moving toward the exit. I'll handle this."

"Jack, no—" Emma began to protest, fear flashing across her eyes. She knew Jack's capability in combat, but every separation brought additional risk.

"Go!" Jack insisted firmly, already stepping forward with his hunting knife gripped tightly, his body slightly crouched in a combat-ready stance. "I'll catch up. We can't let more noise attract other infected. The quicker this is dealt with, the lower the risk."

Emma hesitated for a moment, clearly weighing the pros and cons, then nodded, her face showing reluctant acceptance. "Be careful. Deal with it quickly, then follow immediately. Ten seconds, Jack, no more."

Jack nodded quickly, focusing on the threat before him. Emma grabbed Allen's arm, and the two quickly moved toward the exit, leaving Jack facing the approaching infected.

Jack adjusted his grip on the knife, blade pointing upward for an upward thrust. He recalled his experience from yesterday—the head was the weak point, especially the eyes and temples. He couldn't rely solely on strength; he needed precision and speed. The infected was now only a few meters away, arms outstretched, fingers curled like claws, face twisted into an expression of eternal hunger. In the growl emanating from deep in its throat, Jack could almost hear a primitive longing, an insatiable hunger.

This creature had once been a person, Jack reminded himself. Probably had family, dreams, a future. But now, only a shell remained, a human-shaped puppet controlled by the virus. He felt a wave of sadness, but it was quickly replaced by survival instinct.

He waited, calculating distance and timing, his body ready to move at any moment. The infected continued forward, now only an arm's length away. Jack could smell the rotting odor emanating from it, see the gray lines on its skin, like visible markers of the virus.

The moment the infected lunged at him, Jack quickly sidestepped, a fluid motion partly thanks to his years of outdoor activity training, partly due to the reaction speed his ADHD provided. The former human missed its target due to excess momentum, stumbling several steps and emitting a frustrated snarl.

Jack seized the opportunity, striking like a venomous snake, precisely driving his hunting knife into the infected's temple. The blade penetrated the skull and entered brain tissue, making a disturbing "crack" sound.

The infected immediately stopped moving, as if someone had turned off a power switch. Its eyes—once belonging to a thinking, feeling person—suddenly lost even that cloudy trace of life, becoming completely empty. As it fell, Jack quickly withdrew his blade, avoiding the splashing fluids. He had learned not to let infected blood contact his skin or mucous membranes—who knew how many transmission routes existed?

Jack quickly wiped the blade on the infected's own clothes, his movements practiced and efficient, indicating this wasn't his first time doing this. Then he turned to follow Emma and Allen's path toward the exit, remaining vigilant at every corner. He hoped the noise hadn't attracted more infected, or worse, drawn the attention of potential residents on the upper floors.

A few minutes later, he caught up with Emma and Allen waiting at the exit, both their expressions filled with worry and urgency. Emma had one hand gripping her shock device, the other holding her phone with a screen displaying a stopwatch—she had actually been timing, ensuring Jack appeared within the agreed timeframe.

"All clear?" Emma asked, quickly checking him for wounds or traces of infected blood, her gaze rapidly scanning over him for any abnormalities.

"Fine," Jack answered briefly, still feeling adrenaline coursing through his veins. "Took care of it. What about you? Is the exit secure?"

"Yes, the door leads to a small loading area, then directly to Cedar Street," Emma replied, putting her phone back in her pocket. "No sign of infected or other people."

Allen looked somewhat shocked, clearly witnessing Jack's efficient handling of an infected for the first time. His face was paler than before, eyes wide, filled with an expression mixing fear and awe. "You acted like... like you've done this many times."

"Only a few times," Jack said, unwilling to dwell on how many lives he had taken in the past two days, even if they were infected. Each such encounter left a small scar on his soul, a sense of lost innocence. He wasn't a violent person; in his past life, his biggest worries had been how to pass the next exam or complete the next outdoor adventure. Now, he had become a killer, even if those killed were no longer human. "Let's go, we've wasted enough time."

They left the garage, entering Cedar Street, a once-quiet residential road in typical English style, with neat terraced houses on both sides, each fronted by small, well-maintained gardens. Now, these homes were marred by burned-out cars and collapsed garden walls, some even completely caved in, leaving skeletal ruins exposed like the city's ribs.

The street was eerily quiet, with no sign of humans or infected. Not even birdsong, no buzzing of insects, as if all life had vanished from the area. The only sound was the wind whistling through empty houses, occasionally bringing distant echoes of explosions or collapsing structures.

Allen led them through a small community park that had miraculously escaped the bombing's direct impact, its green lawns and flowering shrubs creating a strange contrast to the surrounding destruction. In the center of the park, a small children's playground stood empty, swings gently swaying in the breeze, their creaking adding a surreal quality to the already eerie scene.

"Just ahead," Allen said, his voice carrying a hint of genuine hope for the first time, pointing to a building on the other side of the park. "St. Andrew's Apartments."

As they rounded the final corner, St. Andrew's Apartments came into view—a seven-story Victorian conversion building, its red brick façade glowing a warm orange-red in the setting sun. Large windows reflected the sunset's rays, the entire building looking remarkably intact and peaceful, like an island amid the war.

Surprisingly, it appeared almost undamaged, with only a few broken windows and minor damage at the entrance indicating it had experienced the city's disaster. This relative preservation stood out starkly amid the surrounding destruction, like a deliberately preserved relic of civilization.

"It's a conversion building," Allen explained, his voice carrying a hint of pride, as if the building's survival were his personal achievement. "Used to be a large private residence before being converted into upscale apartments. The walls are thick, the structure solid. My aunt said that's why she chose this place—'They built better in the old days,' she always said."

"Looks like we got lucky," Jack commented, observing the building's overall condition. "The structure appears intact, and the location is relatively secluded."

"Yes, but the question is how to get in," Emma pointed out, indicating the security system at the front door—a lock requiring a key and an intercom system that likely no longer worked. The heavy oak front door was decorated with ornate stone carvings above it, and tall windows on either side had been boarded up, possibly as a protective measure by residents during the crisis's early stages. "Without power, the intercom won't function."

Allen smiled slightly, the first genuine smile they'd seen from him, though still shadowed. "Aunt gave me a spare key. Old-fashioned kind, not electronic." He pulled out what looked like a rather ancient brass key from his pocket, gleaming warmly in the sunset. "She believes in traditional things. Says electronic locks might fail, but a good brass key never lets you down."

They cautiously approached the front door, watching for any signs of danger. Apart from the wind and distant muffled noises, everything seemed remarkably quiet. Allen inserted the key into the lock and turned it, the sound of metal against metal seeming especially loud in the silence. With a satisfying click, the door opened, revealing a dark but tidy entrance hall.

"Welcome," Allen said softly, with a touch of bitter humor, "to my aunt's castle."

They carefully entered the hall, finding themselves in an elegantly decorated space with high ceilings, wood paneling, and a graceful staircase leading to the upper floors. A magnificent chandelier hung in the center of the hall, now dark but still lending a sense of past grandeur to the entire space. Several classical-style paintings hung on the walls, depicting historical scenes of Bristol, adding a sense of history and permanence.

"No elevator," Allen apologized, pointing to the stairs. "My aunt lives on the top floor. Seven flights of stairs, I'm afraid."

"Better than facing infected," Jack answered, trying to stay positive. "At least it's exercise." He began climbing the stairs, his boots making dull thuds on the marble steps.

Emma and Allen followed at a slower pace, clearly fatigued from the long journey and constant mental stress. More artwork and historical photographs hung on the stairwell walls, telling stories of the building and city, creating a time capsule feeling. When they reached the fourth floor, they had to stop to rest, all three feeling their leg muscles protesting.

"What does your aunt do?" Jack asked Allen, trying to distract from the discomfort while genuinely curious about the mysterious figure providing their sanctuary.

"She's an architect," Allen answered, sitting on the stairs to catch his breath, admiration evident in his voice. "Specializing in historic building preservation and restoration. She was involved in restoring several major landmarks in Bristol." His eyes gazed toward the window, where those landmarks likely no longer existed. "She has other quirks too. She's fascinated with doomsday scenarios, always preparing for various disaster scenarios. Our family thought she was a bit odd, but now..." his voice trailed off.

"Now her 'quirks' might save our lives," Emma finished for him, her voice gentle. "Sometimes, people who seem strange just see further ahead."

Allen nodded, as if he'd never considered it this way. "Her apartment has these amazing original features—high ceilings, decorative plasterwork, a working fireplace. But she's also added some modern elements. Most importantly," he added, hope flickering in his eyes, "she's prepared. There's her own water tank in the basement, the kitchen is always well-stocked with food, and..."

"And what?" Jack asked, excited about this potential good news, his fatigue temporarily replaced by curiosity.

"She has a small solar power system with batteries, providing electricity for some basic appliances. Not the entire apartment, but enough to maintain some lighting and her refrigerator. She said the power grid was too fragile to rely on." Allen chuckled softly, "We all mocked her paranoia, but she just shrugged and said someday we'd thank her."

Jack and Emma exchanged surprised looks. This was far better than they had dared hope. Electricity, even limited, meant warmth, light, and the ability to charge devices—all invaluable luxuries in their current situation. More importantly, it provided a sense of normalcy, a remnant of civilization particularly precious in this rapidly collapsing world.

"Your aunt sounds like a very foresighted person," Emma said sincerely. "I hope she wasn't in Bristol. Perhaps she foresaw the crisis and went somewhere safer."

Allen's expression dimmed slightly, but he nodded, apparently willing to believe this possibility. "She travels frequently, inspecting historical buildings around the country. She might be in Wales or Scotland, somewhere safer."

After resting briefly, they continued climbing, finally reaching the seventh floor. The hallway contained only four doors, obviously large apartments. A window at the corridor's end provided a partial view of the city, the setting sun painting the broken skyline in golden and blood-red hues. Allen led them to a door at the hallway's end, marked with brass numbers "701" that gleamed as if welcoming them.

He produced another key, this time a more modern cylinder key. "Aunt gave me this on my birthday, in case I needed a quiet place to study." He inserted the key and turned it, the door opening with an almost ceremonial slight creak.

They cautiously entered the apartment and were immediately stunned by the sight before them. It was a spacious open-plan flat with enormous Victorian windows offering a magnificent panoramic view of Bristol—or what was once Bristol. Now, outside was a scene of devastation, dotted with still-burning flames and rising columns of smoke. The setting sun cast this apocalyptic landscape in a sickly orange-red glow, with crows circling above the ruins, as if waiting for final judgment.

Emma couldn't suppress a sharp intake of breath. From this height, the city's destruction was even more apparent. The entire area looked as if it had been struck by a giant's fist, with blocks wiped away and former skyscrapers leveled to the ground. The harbor area had almost completely disappeared, replaced by a massive black crater surrounded by still-burning remnants of buildings. In the distance, military helicopters still circled, like predatory birds searching for the last signs of life.

"Wow," Alan whispered, his voice trembling slightly, "from up here it looks..."

"More real," Jack finished for him, his throat tight, "more... final." He forced himself to look away from the scene outside, not wanting to be consumed by despair.

Emma walked to the window, resting her hands on the sill as she gazed at the remnants of the city. "Our entire lives... just gone like that." There was a tone of sorrow in her voice they hadn't heard before, her usual rational analysis temporarily replaced by pure emotion.

The apartment itself was a fascinating blend of original Victorian architectural features combined with modern comforts. The high ceilings were adorned with intricate plasterwork, and wide wooden floors glowed a warm honey color in the sunset light. An open-plan living area connected to a dining space that led to an updated kitchen. Two corridors led to different areas—one appeared to lead to bedrooms, the other to some sort of studio or study.

Most striking was a massive fireplace in one corner of the room, built entirely of ancient brick, with a mantelpiece above displaying various antiques and photographs. The fireplace wasn't merely decorative—there were signs of recent use, with ashes still retaining some warmth.

The entire space was decorated with elegant taste—a mixture of classical and modern, with artwork hanging on the walls and bookshelves filled with volumes on various subjects. It was an intellectual's home, filled with traces of culture and history.

They stood silently for a moment, allowing themselves to feel the weight of the moment. Sunlight streamed through the windows, dust particles dancing in the beams, creating an almost surreal beauty. After all the chaos and horror, this space offered a strange sense of tranquility and normalcy.

Then, Jack took a deep breath and turned to face the interior of the apartment. He knew they couldn't wallow in grief for too long—survival was still the priority.

"We need to check this place for safety and resources," he said, turning his attention to the current task. "Alan, you're familiar with this place, can you show us around?"

Alan nodded, seemingly glad to have something to do, pulled out of his contemplative state. "Sure. Let's look at the other rooms first."

The apartment was indeed impressive. Besides the spacious living room and the viewing windows, there were two large bedrooms, each with its own small bathroom. The master bedroom had a queen-sized four-poster bed that looked like it came straight out of a historical film, with sheets neat and clean as if waiting for the owner's return. The second bedroom was smaller but equally comfortable, with a single bed and a desk, maps and travel posters adorning the walls.

The kitchen was a perfect fusion of modern and traditional—marble countertops and modern appliances, but overall decor keeping with the era of the building. Most delightfully, when Alan carefully turned on the tap, water flowed out—clear tap water, a luxury in the current situation.

"Auntie's personal water tank system," Emma acknowledged with a nod of understanding, "Foresighted. But we should still conserve it; no telling how long it will last."

A hallway leading to the back guided them to a room that had been converted into a studio/study. This was clearly Alan's aunt's workspace—the walls were covered with architectural drawings and historical photographs, a large drafting table occupied the central position, surrounded by bookshelves packed with books on architecture, history, and—surprisingly—survival and emergency handling.

"Your aunt seems to have been really prepared for disaster," Jack commented, leafing through a book on urban survival skills, "These could be extremely useful."

They continued exploring and discovered a small door in a corner of the study that led to a storage room. When Alan opened it, they were again surprised to find various survival supplies neatly arranged—canned food, bottled water, medical supplies, tools, and even some basic weapons such as hunting knives and a small crossbow.

"My God," Alan whispered, eyes wide, "She was really preparing for the end of the world."

"And she chose correctly," Emma replied, a note of admiration in her voice, "We should inventory these supplies and see how long they can last us."

The kitchen pantry also contained a large stock of canned goods and dry staples—rice, flour, beans, various spices, enough to sustain them for weeks or even months. The fresh food in the refrigerator had started to spoil but not severely, indicating that the solar system was indeed working, at least partially.

"Where's my aunt's backup system?" Alan looked around, trying to locate the power source.

He led them to a small balcony where a set of neatly arranged solar panels were connected to a bank of batteries against the wall. A small control panel showed the system was running, with the batteries charged at approximately 70%. The indicators on the panel blinked steadily green, showing the system was functioning properly.

"Enough to maintain basic operations," Emma assessed, examining the system, impressed by such a sophisticated setup, "If we're careful with electricity, we can keep the refrigerator working and have some basic lighting. Maybe enough to charge our devices too." She looked at the solar panels behind the blinds and added, "And the panels are installed on the inside, not visible from outside. That's clever—won't attract unnecessary attention."

"We should eat the perishable food as soon as possible," Jack suggested, opening the refrigerator to check its contents, "The milk has gone bad, but these vegetables still look edible. We can make a simple dinner."

Most importantly, the apartment offered security—situated at height with good visibility, only one entrance to defend, and thick brick walls and sturdy doors providing additional protection. From the windows, they could monitor movement in all directions, spotting any potential threats in advance. If they carefully managed their resources, this could be a perfect temporary base.

"We should fortify the entrance," Jack said, thinking about defense strategies, "Push some furniture against the door, maybe find some rope to create a simple alarm system."

"The apartment door is already quite solid," Emma pointed out, "but some additional protective measures won't hurt. If someone—or something—tries to break in, we need advance warning."

By the time they completed the basic inspection, the sun had begun to set, and the apartment interior gradually darkened. Alan found several solar-powered LED lamps and placed them at key locations, providing soft but adequate illumination. Jack proposed establishing a night watch rotation to ensure someone always remained vigilant, especially during the night. Alan volunteered for the first shift, perhaps to prove his worth, or simply because he was too excited to sleep.

Emma began organizing the supplies and information they had collected during their journey, spreading maps and notes on the kitchen table, trying to establish a more complete picture of their situation. She carefully recorded known danger zones, safe routes, and potential resource points. Information was one of the most valuable resources in this new world, and she was determined to make the most of every piece of data they had gathered.

Jack walked to a west-facing window and gazed at the remnants of the city he once called home. In the distance, he noticed small movements—humanoid black dots wandering the streets, and even from this distance, he could guess what they were. The infected seemed to be gathering, their numbers greater than during the day, as if attracted by the nightfall.

"They're more active at night," he murmured to himself, making a mental note. This was an important observation—if the infected were more threatening at night, then their movements should be limited to daylight hours.

A pungent aroma interrupted his thoughts. Emma was busy in the kitchen, preparing dinner with some newly discovered spices and dried noodles. Even in such circumstances, she maintained a practical efficiency, transforming available resources into maximum utility.

A few minutes later, Emma walked over to him, handing him a plate of steaming food—a simple dinner of pasta cooked with a can of tomato sauce found in the apartment kitchen, topped with some nearly expired but still edible cheese. This small luxury seemed so precious in the current world.

"Thank you," he said, taking the plate with genuine gratitude, "It smells wonderful." It was practically a feast compared to the energy bars and dry rations they had eaten over the past three days.

"Just tomato sauce and dried pasta," she smiled, "but better than energy bars. Besides, hot food is good for morale." She lightly touched his shoulder, this simple contact conveying silent support and intimacy.

They stood side by side at the window, quietly eating their dinner, watching night fall over the ruined city. From this height, they could almost feel a detached separation from the chaotic world, as if they were looking down on a disaster movie rather than their own reality.

On the streets below, more shadowy figures began to move, the infected gradually increasing. Some wandered aimlessly, while others seemed to be attracted by specific sounds or movements, displaying a primitive but effective hunting behavior.

"They gather at night," Emma observed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "Maybe sensitive to light? Or temperature? Many viruses and bacteria have different activity levels at different temperatures." Even in these circumstances, her scientific mind was still looking for patterns and explanations.

"Possibly," Jack agreed, pointing with his fork toward a particularly dense group of infected in the distance, "Look over there—they seem to be attracted to something. Maybe food... or survivors." He didn't want to dwell on this possibility, but they all knew what the infected's primary targets were—uninfected humans.

"That's good for us," Jack added, trying to find some positive aspect, "Daytime movement might be safer. And from this height, we can see most threats in advance."

Alan walked over from the other side of the apartment, carrying his own dinner plate, looking more relaxed than before. "I found some candles and matches," he said, "If we want to save electricity, we can use these at night." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "And... I found a shortwave radio in my aunt's study. Maybe we could try to receive broadcasts from the outside world? To know what's happening elsewhere?"

Emma's eyes lit up; it was an excellent suggestion. "Very good idea, Alan. Tomorrow we can try to set it up and see if we can receive any official channels or emergency broadcasts."

Alan smiled slightly, obviously pleased that his contribution was valued. This was his second genuine smile of the day, indicating that even in such an environment, the human spirit could still find small joys and purpose.

Emma was silent for a moment, then asked the question that had been lingering in their minds: "What next, Jack? Do we stay here until supplies run out, and then what? Wales? Or north? We don't even know what's happening in the rest of the country."

It was a heavy question, and one he had been avoiding thinking about. The immediate safety made long-term planning seem vague, but Emma was right—they needed a more forward-looking strategy.

Jack chewed his last bite of pasta, considering her question as he cast his gaze toward the distant, blurry horizon. "I think we should stay here for a few days, regain our strength, gather more information. This apartment provides the safety and resources we need. Meanwhile, we can try to establish broader communication, see if we can contact other survivors or learn about the national situation."

He turned to her, his eyes filled with determination but also with a new tenderness: "But whatever happens next, I won't give up. We'll find a way to survive, Emma. We've come this far, and we'll keep going. Together."

Emma nodded, her hand finding his and squeezing it tight. Her fingers were cool but firm, just like her—a calm exterior hiding unyielding strength. "Together," she echoed softly, her voice almost drowned by the wind outside, but Jack heard it clearly.

They stood there, two young people facing a brutal new world, but at least they weren't alone. In the past few days, they had experienced enough horror to last most people a lifetime, but they had survived and grown stronger. This shared experience had created an indescribable bond, deeper than any conventional relationship.

From the other side of the apartment, Alan watched the scene, feeling a twinge of jealousy and loneliness stirring in his heart. Over the past few days, he had lost everything—family, friends, school, future plans. Although finding Jack and Emma had been his fortune, seeing the intimacy between them only reinforced his sense of loss. That fear of being left alone, that pain of knowing he might be the only survivor in his family, was sometimes harder to bear than hunger or danger.

He turned back to the window, fulfilling his night watch duty, trying not to think about those who were gone. A tear slipped down his cheek, but he quickly wiped it away, not wanting to be seen as weak. At this moment, survival was what mattered most. Tomorrow, they would continue forward, facing the challenges of this new world. But tonight, at least they could enjoy this temporary safe haven.

Elsewhere in the city, other survivors were also seeking shelter and hope. Military squads continued their "cleanup" missions, the infected wandered the streets, and small groups of civilians struggled to survive among the ruins. Everyone was adapting to this new, terrifying reality, finding their own ways to survive.

In the distance, at a military command center, a person wearing a general's insignia was studying satellite images of Bristol, assessing the success of "Operation Scorched Earth." Beside him, a scientist was analyzing samples taken from "Patient Zero," looking for weaknesses in the disease. Their decisions would influence the developments of the coming days and weeks, perhaps determining the fate of the entire country, even the world.

And further away, in the hills of Wales, perhaps there were safer places waiting to be discovered. The population there was sparse, resources abundant, and the natural terrain offered natural protection. If there was any place that could serve as a starting point for rebuilding, it might be there.

But for now, for Jack, Emma, and Alan, this Victorian apartment was their refuge, a beacon in the storm. Though the world outside was collapsing, here they had found at least a moment of peace, a place to rest, plan, and regain their strength.

As Jack took one last look out the window, he saw the moon emerging from behind the clouds, its silver light spilling over the devastated city. Even in such darkness, light still existed. And that, perhaps, was the essence of hope—believing that dawn would eventually come, even in the darkest hour.