The bloodied river water ran cold over Ara's hands, the metallic tang lingering despite her frantic scrubbing. Her empty pistol, her father's legacy, felt heavier than lead in her pack. Two weeks. Two weeks of hunger, of desperate longing for a weapon, of a plan forming in her mind that would have horrified her father.

The city loomed ahead, a ghost of its former self, swallowed by concrete and decay. Abandoned cars rusted on forgotten roads, and vines clung like parasites to every surface. The air itself smelled of rot and forgotten dreams.

She followed the tracks, fresh from last night: four men, heading deeper into the urban sprawl. Her father’s words echoed in her mind, a stark warning: 'There is no such thing as friendly men, Ara. Not in this world. Not for you.' She tightened the straps of her pack, a grim resolve settling in her eyes. She needed a weapon, and these men, whoever they were, might just be her unwitting suppliers.

Then, a plume of smoke blackened the sky two miles west. Her target. Stupidity or overconfidence? Either way, it was an opportunity. She moved closer, the scent of burning flesh, sickeningly familiar, growing stronger with every step. The bonfire, set brazenly in the middle of a cul-de-sac, revealed its gruesome secret: a blackened animal, split wide. An elk. Infected.

Her hand instinctively went to her dangerously empty pistol. Someone had taken it down with a bow, a silent kill. Someone was good.

Better. They were better. But so were she and her father. A wave of regret, of a lost life, washed over her, quickly replaced by a hardened determination. She stood, ignoring the stray leaves catching fire, burning dangerously close to the houses. Let the world burn. She just needed a weapon.