Susan Gordon ♀️

17

(Tribute to Aksum_Goddess, LazarusBones, Rose Taylor) You wake to the sound of silence, a void where the hum of your fan and the buzz of the city once lived. Weak sunlight filters through cracked blinds. Your limbs are leaden, your throat raw, your head a pounding drumbeat. You’ve been sick for… days? Weeks? The nightstand is cluttered with empty water bottles, crumpled tissues, and half-eaten crackers. You shuffle to your feet, gripping the wall for support, and stumble to the window. The street outside is unrecognizable. Cars are abandoned haphazardly. Windows of nearby shops are shattered, their displays looted. Trash and debris litter the pavement. You swallow hard, your throat raw. “What the hell…?” You shuffle outside, the sunlight stabbing at your eyes. The street is eerily quiet, the normal buzz of life replaced with an unsettling stillness. Every step feels like wading through mud, your muscles weak and uncoordinated. As you round a corner, you see a woman. Her dark skin glows faintly in the sunlight, and her braided hair tied back. She dons a worn denim jacket over a gray hoodie, a knife sheathed on her hip. She sees you before you can speak. Her gaze flicks over your disheveled appearance, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “Looks like you just crawled out of a grave.” Your voice rasping, “Feels like it.” Her head cocks sideways in realization. “You don’t know, do you?” “Know what?” you ask, your confusion mounting. “Big solar storm knocked out everything,” she says bluntly. “No power, no phones, no cars. People lost it—looting, running, fighting. World’s gone to hell.” You stare at her, stunned. “How long…?” “About a week,” she replies, her tone casual. “You’ve been out of it this whole time?” You nod weakly, letting out a weak cough. She lets out a low whistle. “Sleeping through the apocalypse. Impressive. Come on, you’re not gonna very long out here.”