爱 | Simon “Ghost” Riley

The world burned three years ago. Not in one day — in an agony that lasted for months. Nuclear strikes, then biological ones, then chaos. Governments fell. Cities turned into mass graves. Those who survived either hide or hunt. There is no third option.

You are one of those who hide. A former medic, engineer, teacher — it doesn’t matter. The past no longer matters. Only one thing matters: survive until morning.

You settled in the basement of a ruined library on the outskirts of a dead city. Water will last a week. Food — three days. No bullets. No hope either.

Tonight you heard gunshots. Close. Too close.

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The night was cold. You sat by the weak flame of a candle, wrapped in two layers of scorched blanket, and listened to the silence. That very silence that always lies. Because something is always hiding in that silence.

You had long since learned not to trust silence. Silence is the pause before the storm. Silence is a predator lurking in the bushes. Silence is when somewhere far away a person dies, and you don’t hear a sound, because he died quietly, as is proper in this world.

You adjusted the candle wick — it had almost burned down. Three candles left. Three nights. After that — only darkness. You thought about it without panic. The panic had long since burned out, like everything else. All that remained was a cold, calculating weariness. Like an old soldier who knows he has lost but still holds the line.

You remembered how you had ended up here. Six months ago. You had fled from a city where the “Family” had staged a raid on the districts. You lost your backpack, your boots, your hope. You reached the library on your last breath. It was empty here. Only books — thousands of books that no one needed anymore. You laughed then. For a long time. Hysterically. Because you realized: civilization had left behind only paper that no one was left to read.

Then you found the basement. Dry, warm, with an iron door. You barricaded the entrance. You placed empty bottles on the floor — to hear footsteps. You made a bed out of library shelves. You stole a few weeks of life from the dead world.

The first shot came at 02:47. You flinched. The second — three seconds later. Then more. A burst. Shouts. Swearing. Someone’s voice, low and hoarse, was giving commands — short, clear, as if the man had not been in a firefight for the first time.

You put out the candle. Pressed yourself against the wall. The basement became dark, so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. You heard only your breathing and your heartbeat. You knew that beat. That is how the heart beats when you realize your small, fragile little world is about to collapse.

Footsteps upstairs. Slow. Heavy. Someone was walking around the first floor of the library. The floor creaked under boots. You heard him stop by a shelf. Something fell — a book. Then — a quiet, angry exhale. As if the man was tired even of having dropped a book.

The footsteps stopped right above your head.

Silence. Long. Too long. You held your breath. You knew: if he heard, it was over. You had seen what they do to those who hide. You had seen it in the city. You didn’t want to die like that.

Then — a voice. Calm. Tired. With a British accent.

— I know you’re there. Downstairs.

A pause. You felt cold sweat run down your back.

— I have three bullets. Two for those behind me. One for you, if you try to surprise me. But I don’t want to waste it.

The floorboards creaked. He sat down. Or crouched. You didn’t see — you only heard. You pictured him: large, in something heavy, with a weapon. Maybe in armor. Maybe in a mask. You had heard of people like that. Of those who walk at night and kill. Of those who take no prisoners.

— My name is Ghost. I’m not a looter. I’m not a bandit. I’m just a man who is tired of walking. I have a wound in my side, and I’m losing blood faster than I’d like. I need help. Medicine. Or at least a clean cloth and water.

Another pause. You heard him exhale heavily — with a hiss, through his teeth. As if every word came to him with difficulty. As if he was holding on by stubbornness alone.

— If you have any of that — name your price. If not — I’ll leave. But if you try to give me up... — he smirked, briefly and without humor, — ...I’ll have time to shoot.*

The floor creaked. He stood up.

— Well? I’m listening.

You heard his breathing. Heavy. With a wheeze. He wasn’t lying. He really was wounded. You could hear it in the way he stood — slightly unevenly, shifting his weight onto one leg. You could hear it in the way he spoke — saving air, not wasting it on unnecessary words.

You knew what to do. You had been a medic. Before the Fall. You had studied at university, worked in a hospital, saved people. Then the hospital burned down. Then people stopped coming. Then you stopped counting.

But you remembered. Your hands remembered. Your head remembered. You knew how to stop bleeding. How to treat a wound. How to keep a person from dying, even if he wanted to.

The question was not whether you could. The question was whether it was worth it. To help him meant opening the door. Letting a stranger into your little world. Who might kill. Who might bring others. Who might turn out not to be who he claimed.

Or maybe he might not.

You looked into the darkness. You thought about candles. About water. About three cans of stew. About the fact that if you helped him, he might stay. Or leave. Or kill you. Or save you.

You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. In this world, no one knows anything.

But you heard him standing there — upstairs. Wounded. Alone. Tired. Just like you. Just a person who wants to live until morning.

You took a step toward the hatch. The floor creaked under your feet.

And then you heard — far away, outside. Voices. Many. Someone was pounding on the library’s front door. The wood was cracking. Someone laughed. Someone shouted: “Ghost! We know you’re here! Come out, and we’ll make it quick!”

Ghost didn’t move. You heard him go still. How his breathing became quieter. How he turned toward the door — you didn’t see it, but you felt it. He was getting ready.

He had three bullets. You had a knife and a crowbar. And maybe a little bandage.

You stood in the darkness. Your hand on the hatch bolt.

There was no time.