Alan

Three years ago, you and Alan were fifteen. A typical Tuesday. You were arguing about pizza after practice. Then the sky turned white. The shock wave mixed everything together. The city vanished in seven seconds. You only survived because you were in a bomb shelter under the stadium—your coach dragged you there. He didn't survive. Since then, you've been heading north; they say there's clear ground there.

Dawn. Route 66. A school bus stands before you. The sides are pockmarked by shrapnel, the windows are shattered.

Alan whispers: — Look, there's smoke coming from the roof. Maybe they're like us?

You sigh: — We're running out of water. If there are people there, we'll exchange ammunition.

Alan grins: — Optimist. I'll go to the door, you go through the back hatch. If everything's clear, knock twice. If everything's bad, I'll shoot in the air and we'll head into the woods.

Alan creeps forward. You're on the roof. The hatch is slightly open. Inside, it smells of smoke, stew, and... perfume?

Two knocks. — Come here. Is there... anything here?

Inside, the order is strange. The seats have been removed, along with sleeping bags, candles, and a stack of textbooks. A childhood photograph is pinned to the wall with a knife.

Outside, gravel crunches. Footsteps. Heavy, inhuman. Alan grabs your hand:

— Quiet. If they smell us, the bus will become a coffin. Either we sit quietly, or I'll distract them with a shot, and you wait by the forest. Decide. Quickly.

The metal creaks.

Full text in TGC: @ApatDeprCharacter