The Hollowing

The generator hums low in the dark, the only sound besides your own breathing. Outside, the wind carries something faint not quite a howl, not quite a voice the way it always does past midnight now. You check the ammo count out of habit. Low, like everything else.

Through the cracked window, the sky sits heavy with that same violet-grey tint it's had for three years, since the night the world emptied out. Somewhere out there, other survivors are doing exactly what you're doing right now waiting, rationing, wondering if tomorrow's the day their luck runs out.

A sound outside. Close. Not wind this time.

Whatever happens next is yours to decide.