Chapter 7 : No Graves Left

  Conner sat upright on a makeshift mattress, the bandages tugging tightly against his ribs. His muscles ached. His mouth was dry. Every breath reminded him that he was still alive—barely.

  CREAK.

  The door swung open with a low creak.

  For a second, Conner’s heart surged. He hoped—prayed—he’d see Aunt Cathy.

  But it wasn't her

  "You," a voice said. Rough, tired, and rasped from overuse.

  "You're finally awake, right..."

  A woman stood in the doorway—dark circles under her eyes, both arms wrapped in bandages, clothes stained in blood and grime. Her presence filled the room like smoke.

  Short, ragged brown hair and tired, deep-set eyes that hadn’t seen sleep in days. Her skin was pale, stretched tight over a sharp face marked by dirt and faint scars. A torn tank top clung to her wiry frame, bandages wrapping both arms, soaked through in places with old blood. She looked worn, not weak—like someone who'd fought too many times and lived through all of them. Quiet. Still. Dangerous.

  Conner stared for a second. His hopes of seeing aunt Cathy fading away..

  Disappointment carved across his face.

  "...You're not her," he whispered, looking down as tears welled in his eyes. His chest tightened. His journey had stalled again.

  But the woman smiled, her voice cracking with emotion.

  "I can’t believe you’re alive."

  Conner blinked at her, ashamed of his reaction.

  "...Thank you," he murmured, looking up.

  "I'm Clara," she said. Then, a sudden shift in her tone—no more warmth, no more joy.

  "How’d you do it?"

  "...Do what?"

  "How’d you down one of the shiny ones?"

  "...Shiny ones?"

  "Yeah. The armored freaks. The knights."

  She stepped in closer. Her eyes weren’t just curious now. They were searching—Seeking.

  "You got something... don’t you?"

  Her gaze cut through him like glass.

  "They took my mom," she said, voice calm and bitter. "When my dad tried to stop them, they split him in two."

  She pointed to the jagged scar that ran from her collarbone to her belly, a brutal slash across her abdomen.

  "That’s what I got when I went after one myself. Souvenir."

  A half-smirk. Hollow. Cold.

  "If it weren’t for those hounds dragging the bodies, I’d be in pieces too."

  Conner’s eyes widened. "Wait. What?"

  "You heard me."

  "...Dragging bodies?"

  Clara’s eyes twinkled—madness in the corners of her smile.

  "You been outside, right? Never once looked around?"

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  She chuckled low in her throat.

  "Think about it. Big city. Total chaos. People dying left and right.

  Where are all the damn bodies?"

  Conner’s blood ran cold.

  He thought back. Every street. Every alley. The carnage was always fresh.

  The only corpses he’d seen were the ones he’d killed or stumbled on minutes after death.

  In a city this overrun, there should’ve been thousands.

  "What the fuck is happening, Clara? What do you know?"

  Clara snorted, grin widening.

  "Ohh... you’re gonna wish you hadn’t asked."

  She turned toward the door.

  "Wait—no!" Conner shot forward and grabbed her shoulder.

  She didn’t flinch.

  She turned her head slightly, eyes sharp and unreadable.

  Then—THUMP.

  She shoved him back.

  Not with anger. Not with effort. Just a palm.

  But the force sent him reeling, back onto the mattress like a ragdoll.

  He wasn’t hurt.

  But more than that… he hadn’t even seen her move.

  It was fast. Too fast.

  Controlled. Precise. Gentle.

  She could’ve snapped him in half, and chose not to.

  "...I still can’t believe you downed one of them," she said, eyes cold.

  "Rest up. You’re gonna need it."

  She left the room with quiet steps.

  Conner just stared, dazed. He didn’t even know how to process what had just happened.

  He laid back flat, cupped his face with both hands.

  Haaaaah... he exhaled, mind spinning like a rusted wheel.

  Everything was too much.

  Too fast. Too twisted.

  His body screamed for food, his brain begged for peace, and his heart still cried out for his family.

  Thud.

  Something landed on his face. He flinched, grabbed it.

  Bread.

  "...That’s all we’ve got," Clara said from the hallway. Her tone was dry, worn out.

  "The looters took the rest."

  Conner sat up, unwrapped the bread. It was dry and stale. But it filled the void.

  He devoured it without thinking, crumbs spilling down his chin.

  Finally… a moment to breathe.

  What day is it?

  How long was I out?

  Is Aunt Cathy even still…

  No.

  He clenched his jaw.

  I’ll find her. No matter what.

  As he chewed, he didn’t realize Clara was watching from the corner—arms crossed, leaning against the frame, a flicker of amusement softening her otherwise brutal stare.

  "...Sleep," she said. Voice firm. Almost like a command.

  "And don’t wander off. Bleed out again, and I’m not dragging your ass back a second time. These ‘skills’ only get you so far."

  There it was again.

  She knew more than she let on. A lot more.

  "When the hell are you gonna tell me what’s going on?" Conner snapped, some anger behind his words now.

  "Careful now," she said with a dry smile.

  "Might wanna watch your tone around your savior."

  "...Please," he said after a pause. Quieter this time.

  "Please… just tell me."

  Clara stared at him, eyes unreadable.

  "...Sleep. I’ll tell you tomorrow."

  She turned the oil lamp off.

  Darkness filled the room. Dusk had settled—silent and absolute.

  Conner laid down again, the stale taste of bread still lingering.

  Since leaving the apartment…

  He had crawled through blood, fought creatures out of nightmares, been torn apart, pushed past death, and stared into the eyes of a god.

  He thought of Rick. Of Jane. Of Cathy.

  Of the warehouse.

  The cleaver.

  The knight.

  The hound.

  The screams.

  The endless pain.

  He closed his eyes.

  Just a moment to—

  GGGRRRRRRRRRAAAHH.

  A deafening growl tore through the silence.

  Conner jolted upright, gasping. His heart hammered in his chest.

  He rushed to the window, his body aching, his bandages tight.

  He peered through the cracked glass, the cold air chilling his skin.

  Thud. Step. Snarl.

  And then—

  "You wanted answers, didn’t you?"

  He jumped.

  Clara was already there. Standing on the stairway railing, arms folded.

  Her eyes… glowing. A deep, unnatural purple shimmer.

  Conner’s breath caught.

  "...Your eyes… they—"

  "Shhh," she whispered, holding a finger to her lips.

  "Just look."

  Two of those hounds—black and malformed—lurked below in the shadows, their teeth glinting.

  They were sniffing. Searching.

  Then, one of them stepped into the moonlight.

  It had something clutched in its jaws.

  "...That’s—" Conner whispered.

  A man.

  Slumped. Bloody. Being dragged like garbage.

  From this distance, he could still make out the blood-soaked shirt, the limp arm, the trails of red left behind.

  "...Shouldn’t we help him?"

  Clara didn’t even look at him.

  "You wanna help a dead guy?" she muttered, eyebrow raised.

  "Relax. He’s a looter. Probably after your gear. You downed that knight, remember? Means his stuff’s yours now."

  "...What, is this a game to you?" Conner snapped.

  "I kill something, I get its loot? That’s what this is?"

  Clara turned her head slowly. And laughed.

  A short, sharp bark of a laugh that spiraled into something manic.

  "Yeah," she said, eyes gleaming.

  "Look around. It IS a game."

  Conner looked down again.

  The hounds dragged the man’s limp body into the dark.

  And the world felt just a little smaller. A little colder.

  "...Where are they taking him?"

  Clara didn’t answer at first.

  She stared out into the night, arms still crossed.

  Then finally—

  "...Rest up."

  "I’ll show you in the morning."