Stepping carefully through empty, desolate streets, the loudest sound was the crunch of shattered glass under my shoes…and my pulse rushing in my ears. My muscles were tight, my entire body tense and alert as my gaze constantly darted along the street. The sunlight that filtered through heavy clouds was dim, the pale light reflected by the few intact windows too weak to provide any relief from the muted atmosphere. I could remember when the city had been a bustling place, always full of life and busy even in the dead of night; it was eerily silent now, vehicles left haphazardly on the street, long abandoned and covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt.

My throat was tight as I passed familiar buildings, fingers clenched in a vice around the hunting knife in my hand as I searched every broken or cracked window with paranoid attention. Though the structures still stood mostly intact, the buildings carried scars of what had brought the city to ruin—the walls scorched and pitted with bullet holes.

Wind howled through the empty buildings, the chilling sound setting my teeth on edge as I tugged the collar of my jacket up to protect myself against the cold sting of the air. I hurried my steps as I had to pass across the street, the open space filling my mind with grim imaginings of what such a risk could bring.

My gaze focused on a single building with a sense of relief; crammed between taller structures. The brick exterior was cracked and the green canvas awning was torn, fluttering in the wind; tattered lost and found papers still clinging to the dusty windows. There was something comforting about the front door being unlocked, as if waiting for me to return—the metal handle cold against my fingers.

Shoving it open, I was grateful to be off the street, shutting and locking the door behind me…as if such a measure were enough to keep me safe.

The knot in my stomach eased slightly as I looked around the familiar lobby, everything still neatly in place and covered in the same thick layer of dust as the rest of the city. The posters on the walls looked frayed and weathered, small displays undisturbed. Though hospitals and clinics had been among the first places to be ransacked, few people considered the supplies that could be salvaged from a veterinary office. It was an oversight I was grateful for as I walked behind the reception desk—pens still neatly placed in their cups and phones hooked to the base—to enter the back of the clinic.

The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the small windows in the emergency doors on either side. My footsteps echoed on the tile, uncomfortably loud as I peered into empty examination rooms, half expecting to see one occupied. The computers sitting on the long counters were lifeless, screens black and faintly reflecting my image as I opened the door to the treatment room.

The sharp click of the heavy door shutting behind me made me flinch, grimacing at my own insecurity as I shrugged off my backpack. It was nearly empty, containing only emergency rations of water and packaged food along with a small flashlight in case I couldn’t make it home before dark. Setting it on one of the metal examination tables, I turned my attention to the cabinets and shelves that lined the walls, intent on finding the supplies that had brought me out of hiding.

I still knew the clinic well, my heart strained as I recalled when the business had been lively, memories of my coworkers and the clients I had come to know haunting me as I collected bottles and boxes from different shelves. My gaze darted to other doors occasionally; the surgery suites were all dark, the halls leading to kennels and enclosures for larger animals unsettling voids in the distance.

Every small noise I made seemed to echo, my knife still clenched in my free hand even as I finished filling my bag.

In my brief moment of stillness, something clattered in the distance, and I froze as fear gripped my heart. It took a moment to find my breath again, snatching up my backpack as I strode toward one of the clinic’s back exits; it was too risky to leave out the front again, chances too high that something might have noticed me on my way in.

I didn’t even make it to the short hall before a loud snarl made me stop dead in my tracks. My gaze searched the dim, raising my knife as I braced myself for a fight.

Fear churned in my stomach as I heard faint padding steps, the sound of claws clipping against the tiled floor. My teeth gritted to quiet my panting breaths in hopes I might somehow escape notice. The silent prayer went unanswered as I heard the intruder come closer, and my gaze flicked to the door down the hall—wondering if it was better to try to surprise the creature approaching me, or to flee and hope I didn’t feel claws tear into my back.

Paralyzed by fear and indecision, my breath stilled as I heard a rumbling growl only feet from me. The sound broke through my panic, menacing…but familiar. My grip on my knife eased as the beast stepped into the hall and my breath rushed out on a sobbing hitch of relief as it came into view—not what I had expected.

It had been months since I had seen a dog. The strays on the street hadn’t been able to survive, no food sources remaining after the birds and other animals died away along with the vegetation. I remained still for a moment as my gaze raked over the animal, its form solid and muscular, teeth bared as it gave another threatening growl. Though its warm brown coat was almost matted with dirt and blood in some places, its eyes were clear and alert as it looked at me, ears pricked as it sunk down on its haunches with wary aggression.

I had no reason to trust a strange dog, but my heart ached for the animal, knowing it likely couldn’t survive on its own.

Carefully, I crouched down, putting myself on the dog’s level as I cautiously extended my open hand. “How did you get in here, pretty shepherd?” I whispered, trying to seem as harmless as possible as the dog approached in slow steps. It snarled again when its muzzle was inches from my fingers, and my pulse raced for a moment, before I felt the cool press of its nose against my palm.

There was a heavy whine and bang as a door slammed shut somewhere in the dim, and a rush of heavy thudding footsteps. The dog flinched back, ears pricked up, before we both raised our glance upward toward the hulking, shadowed figure.

Before I could make out any details I felt a large, strong hand pluck me from where I was crouched on the ground, practically lifting me off my feet before I was slammed hard into the wall.

Pain flared through my spine, knocking the breath out of me as my knife clattered to the floor and the impact shook me. The air rasped in my throat and I reached for the hand grasping my collar on reflex; my desperate fingers didn’t budge that iron hold. Fear gripped me as I turned my gaze up, cursing myself for dropping my guard as I wondered if the raider would kill me for getting in his way.

Though the man’s face was shrouded by his hood, his eyes bore into me—the same blue-green as beach glass. He was taller than me by at least a head and menacing; his bearded face was snarling, and this close I could see a thick scar that cut along his jaw. He smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat, dark hair lank and streaked with gray as it fell over his thick brows.

His hold on me was strong, his figure obviously muscular even beneath the layers of his leather jacket. A bandolier of ammo was strapped across his broad chest along with a shoulder holster that carried two pistols on either side. A shotgun, tactical gun case, and bag were secured over his back, but of all the weapons he carried, nothing was more threatening than his voice when he snapped, “Get away from my fuckin’ dog.”