Ember stepped into the workshop, boots echoing on the concrete floor.

  Josh looked up from the bench and froze. His eyes slid over her chest, slow and greedy.

  Ember noticed immediately. Her loose shirt had fallen open while she rushed in, and he was staring.

  Perfect, she thought. Better than yelling.

  She straightened, letting the shirt hang just so, and moved closer.

  “Josh,” she said softly, teasing, “I need a real suppressor. Not scrap. A proper one.”

  He swallowed, a flush creeping up his neck.

  “A suppressor? Ember… that’s expensive.”

  She stepped around the bench, close but not threatening. Her fingers brushed lightly against his wrist.

  “You can help me,” she murmured. “I know you can.”

  He tried to pull back. Hands twitching, face red.

  “I… I don’t know—”

  Ember tilted her head, locking eyes with him. Her voice dropped, soft and coaxing.

  “You’ll make it work. I can feel it.”

  He swallowed again, sweating. Fingers shaking. She smiled faintly, pressing a little closer over the edge of the bench.

  “Come on, Josh,” she whispered. “It’ll be easy. You know it will.”

  Josh tried to lean back, but she subtly blocked him with her stance.

  Her foot rested lightly on the chair’s footrest, skirt brushing higher.

  He gasped. Mouth half-open, eyes wide.

  Ember leaned a fraction closer, voice low and intimate, whispering:

  “Josh… suppressor.”

  He nodded, breath uneven.

  “Price…” he murmured.

  She pressed closer still, putting an ear near his, and whispered firmly:

  “Just this beautiful knife… and have it ready by tomorrow.”

  Josh’s shoulders slumped.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “Factory suppressor. Price… knife. Tomorrow.”

  Ember straightened, sliding the knife onto the bench and placing her pistol beside it. She smoothed her skirt, buttoned her shirt, and blew a quick, teasing kiss over her shoulder.

  “Good boy,” she whispered. “My clever little treasure.”

  She turned and walked out, leaving Josh slumped in the chair, stunned, sweaty, utterly defeated. Ember’s chest heaved slightly — a spark of triumph in her eyes. She had won exactly what she wanted, with patience, wit, and control.

  ***

  The saloon buzzed with music and voices. Ember finished her last spin on stage, breath steady, skin glowing from the dance. The crowd cheered, but she barely heard it. Her mind was already on the next step.

  She slipped off the stage, pulled on her loose red shirt, and crossed the room toward a corner table. Muddy Joe sat there with his wife, Sara — sharp eyes, strong jaw, always watching.

  Ember dropped into the empty chair and placed her pistol on the table, turning it so the new suppressor caught the lantern light.

  “I got it,” she said proudly. “Real thing. Factory-made.”

  Joe stared at it, then shook his head slowly.

  “Ember… don’t start. You don’t need this. Not that kind of life.”

  She leaned forward.

  “I’m not backing down. I’m ready. Let me join your crew.”

  Joe opened his mouth again, but Sara cut in before he could speak.

  “Ready?” Sara snorted. “For what? To shake your hips at zombies?”

  She looked Ember up and down, unimpressed.

  “Bring back something real. Go to the east ruins and get a police badge. Then we’ll talk.”

  Joe shook his head hard.

  “Sara, stop. That’s too dangerous. No one goes there alone.”

  Sara didn’t look away from Ember.

  “If she wants to play scavenger, let her prove she can do more than twirl for tips. Otherwise she has no business near our team.”

  Joe turned to Ember again, almost pleading.

  “You don’t need this. Listen to me.”

  Ember’s jaw tightened. The challenge lit something inside her — the same fire she felt in the wasteland.

  “I’ll do it,” she said quietly.

  “I’ll bring back the badge. I’ll prove it.”

  Joe closed his eyes, defeated.

  Sara leaned back in her chair with a thin smile.

  Ember picked up her pistol, stood, and walked away — heart steady, purpose sharp.

  This wasn’t about joining a team anymore.

  It was about proving she could stand on her own feet — anywhere.

  ***

  Early morning, Ember slung her pack over her shoulder. Inside: a flask of water, some dried meat, and the copy of the map Zed had copied from the Sheriff. Her knife, hatchet, and pistol with suppressor hung at her belt, easy to reach.

  A thrill ran through her chest, a light lift in her spirits. Finally, the road was hers. She tugged her bandana into place, rolled up her sleeves, and adjusted the pack straps. Everything felt secure. Ready.

  The path stretched through dry grass and scattered trees. Ember kept one hand lightly on the map in her pocket, only occasionally glancing at it to make sure she stayed on track. Creek Town — now the East Ruins — was territory she had never seen, yet she knew the way in theory. Two days there, one or two in the ruins, two days back. Simple: go, find, return.

  Her boots crunched softly on the dry earth. She noted landmarks as she went — a fallen fence, a large rock, the fork in the path — more for reassurance than navigation. Off to the side, a thin stream glittered faintly in the morning sun, marked on the map. Water would be needed before the day ended.

  The air smelled of dust and old growth. Every rustle in the grass, every snap of a twig made her pause. Move carefully. Watch for movement. Trust instincts. Zed’s lessons ran through her mind.

  A crow took off overhead, scattering the quiet. Ember’s hand hovered near her knife, then rested on the pistol. Zombies, predators, maybe bandits… Anything could happen.

  She tightened the pack straps, gripped the hatchet at her belt, and stepped forward. The road curved ahead, trees thinning in places, giving glimpses of distant hills. Alone, but alert. Every step tested her senses, patience, and planning.

  Mid-morning, Ember paused to check the map. The path ahead looked clear, but something felt off. A sudden rustle in the dry grass made her hand go to the hatchet at her belt. Her pistol hung close, ready, but she kept fingers off the trigger — ammo was limited, and every shot had to count.

  Fresh footprints pressed into the dirt — too large for an animal, too deliberate for the wind. She froze, listening. Somewhere nearby, a low, wet groan cut through the silence.

  Heart thudding, she adjusted her stance, hatchet raised, eyes scanning the brush.

  ***

  Evening was settling when Ember reached the small stream marked on the map. The water glittered in the dying light.

  Two coyotes crouched at the edge, drinking. Their yellow eyes flicked toward her, low growls rolling from their throats, but they didn’t move. Ember froze for a heartbeat, then slowly shifted a few steps to the side, keeping hatchet in hand.

  The coyotes growled again, warning, but returned to the water. Ember crouched, scooped water into her flask, and filled her pack. When she straightened, the animals had finished drinking. They let out a final low growl and melted back into the shadows.

  She exhaled, pulse still racing, then slung her pack tighter and scanned the area. The road back to the path was clear. Night was coming, and she needed a safe place to rest.

  A tree with thick branches caught her eye a little off the trail. She approached, eyes alert, and began climbing, securing herself above the ground. From this vantage, she could see the surrounding grass and brush, ready for whatever the wasteland might throw at her next.

  As she settled, exhaustion met exhilaration. Today had tested her, and she had survived. Ember allowed herself a quiet smile. Tomorrow, the ruins awaited.

  ***

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Morning came cold and gray. Ember stretched, wincing as sore muscles in her back, legs, and rear reminded her of the night spent perched in the tree. Her arms ached, her shoulders protested, but she pushed herself upright, slung her pack over her shoulder, and adjusted the belt with her pistol, knife, and hatchet.

  The road ahead looked narrower now, shadows longer between the trees. Every step demanded attention: loose rocks, hidden roots, rustling brush. Danger seemed closer, sharper. Her senses were taut, scanning for movement, listening for anything out of place.

  By midday, the air grew warmer, the sun climbing high. Ember paused to sip from her flask and nibble on a piece of dried meat, letting the brief respite settle her breathing. The map guided her, but she didn’t need to check it constantly — she had memorized most of the route.

  After lunch, she rounded a bend and froze. The first ruins appeared ahead: the skeleton of Creek Town, broken buildings and crumbling walls rising from the overgrown earth. Dust and the faint scent of decay hung in the air. Her pulse quickened, a mix of anticipation and nerves.

  The East Ruins lay ahead, waiting. Ember tightened her grip on the hatchet at her belt, eyes scanning for movement among the shadows. Today, she would test herself further.

  ***

  Ember paused at the edge of the ruins.

  Broken houses leaned toward the street, their roofs caved in. Rusted cars stood in crooked lines, some with doors open, others crushed under fallen beams. And between them… movement.

  She crouched low.

  Zombies drifted through the wreckage like slow shadows. Some dragged their feet. Others twitched as if listening to sounds she couldn’t hear. Too many. More than she had expected.

  Her throat tightened, but the feeling wasn’t fear alone. A strange thrill moved through her chest, the same one she felt when stepping on stage before music started.

  I’m really doing this.

  She slid the map from the side pocket of her pack. Hands steady. Eyes moving fast.

  Main Street ran straight through the center of the old town. The police station sat three blocks in on the south end—the shortest way, but also the most open.

  She traced the line with her finger, checked the street in front of her again.

  “I can make it,” she whispered.

  She pulled the bandana tighter over her hair and shifted the strap of her pistol on her belt. The hatchet hung ready in her other hand—light, silent, reliable.

  Ember stepped out.

  Her boots touched cracked pavement. The air smelled of dust, old metal, and something sour drifting from deeper inside the ruins.

  Cars forced her to weave between bumpers and shattered windows. A truck lay sideways across the road, its cargo door ripped off. She stopped behind it. Two zombies wandered only twenty yards away, swaying gently, noses lifting as if testing the wind.

  Ember held her breath.

  One of them scraped a hand across a car hood, leaving rusty streaks. The sound echoed too loud. She flinched, but they didn’t turn. They kept drifting, lost in whatever remained of their senses.

  She pressed on, heart beating faster—not from panic but from the sharp energy running through her.

  Keep moving. Stay low. Don’t make noise.

  Main Street stretched ahead, clogged with vehicles, broken signs, and slow, hungry shapes.

  ***

  A sudden scuffle broke the stillness.

  From behind the overturned truck, a cluster of zombies lurched out, arms twitching, jaws snapping. They weren’t coming for her—they were chasing something small, fast, bleeding.

  A rat, wounded and panicked, shot across the street straight toward Ember.

  Her stomach dropped.

  “No, no, no—go away,” she hissed.

  The rat bolted past her boot.

  The zombies followed.

  More shapes rose behind her—drawn by the noise, by the movement, by her.

  Ember slid flat and crawled under the truck, pushing through dust and broken glass.

  A hand shot down after her—fingers gray, nails cracked.

  It clamped around her ankle.

  She kicked hard, twisting free, scraping her knee on the pavement.

  Her breath tore out in shallow bursts as she wriggled to the far side and rolled out into the open.

  She froze.

  Zombies ahead—three of them.

  Zombies behind—closer.

  Move!

  Ember darted into a narrow gap between two collapsed houses. The passage squeezed her shoulders; trash and bricks shifted under her boots. A low moan echoed from the far end.

  More zombies shambled up, blocking the exit.

  Trapped.

  Her eyes snapped to a window on her right—glass cracked but intact.

  She swung the hatchet.

  CRACK.

  The window burst into shards.

  Ember jumped, caught the lower frame and pulled herself up, arms shaking.

  Fingers closed around her boot—cold, desperate.

  “Let go!” she gasped, kicking back again.

  The grip slipped.

  She hauled herself over the sill, chest scraping the frame, legs scrambling.

  She tumbled inside and hit the floor hard, dust exploding under her palms.

  Outside, the moans rose, gathering around the broken window.

  Ember lay still for one heartbeat, her pulse hammering, then rolled onto her knees.

  She was inside.

  Alive.

  For now.

  ***

  Ember pushed herself upright, brushing dust off her palms.

  The house was quiet—too quiet after the chaos outside.

  She took a slow breath and looked around.

  The living room sat in tired disarray, not destroyed, just… abandoned. A couch with the cushions pulled off. An empty shelf. A picture frame smashed underfoot. Whoever broke in had searched fast, not wild.

  She stepped toward the kitchen.

  A sour smell drifted from the counter. A few rotted vegetables sat in an open bowl, soft and collapsed. A tin can lay on its side, contents dried to a dark crust. Two plates were shattered near the sink.

  On the stove, a kettle and a skillet waited as if someone had planned a meal and never returned.

  “Nothing here,” Ember whispered.

  She checked drawers—old cutlery, a cracked mug, dust.

  No ammo, no tools, nothing worth taking.

  A low groan rolled from the street. The broken window rattled faintly.

  Time to move.

  She stepped into the hall and found the stairs. The wooden steps creaked under her weight, every sound sharpening her nerves.

  Hand on the hatchet, she climbed.

  At the top, she paused—listening.

  Silence.

  She pushed forward onto the second floor.

  ***

  The second floor opened into a short hallway. Ember checked each room quickly.

  A small bathroom—nothing but dust and a dry bar of soap.

  A built-in closet—empty. Doors hanging crooked.

  Then the bedroom.

  She stopped in the doorway.

  A man’s dried corpse lay on the bed, curled to one side, clothes stiff with age. His left leg was bent wrong—broken long before he died. On the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, two opened cans of food scraped clean, and one unopened can of sweetened milk. Beside it, a shotgun rested across the mattress.

  Ember lifted it.

  No shells.

  Just as she feared.

  She set it back down and exhaled through her nose.

  “Poor guy.”

  She didn’t want to sleep beside him.

  Gripping the corpse under the arms, she dragged it off the bed. It was light as rags. She pulled it across the floor, then into the bathroom, letting it settle gently in the tub. The sound echoed, dull and final.

  Back in the bedroom, she closed the bathroom door halfway and looked around again.

  The windows were open—glass cracked, but the frames intact.

  Wind moved faint curtains, carrying every sound from outside: distant groans, metal shifting, the low shuffle of feet dragging across debris.

  Her chest tightened. The rush of the day seeped out of her all at once, replaced by a heavy weakness, a slow wave of apathy settling behind her ribs.

  She lay down on the far side of the bed, hatchet within reach, and pulled her pack under her head.

  Her eyes burned.

  Just a moment…

  Just a moment to breathe…

  Sleep took her before she finished the thought.

  Ember woke with a stiff neck and a sharp ache in her lower back.

  For a moment she didn’t remember where she was. Then the ruined bedroom came into focus.

  Quiet.

  Too quiet.

  She pushed herself up and moved to the nearest window.

  A zombie drifted below—then another. And another.

  Dozens.

  Her breath caught. She stepped to the next window.

  Same picture.

  Slow shapes wandering between the cars, brushing against fenders, bumping into one another.

  She crossed the room and checked the window on the opposite side.

  More of them. A thick, uneven crowd, filling the street and the yard next door. Some stood almost still, heads tilted. Others dragged themselves in loose circles, as if tracking old sounds.

  Ember’s stomach tightened.

  The house wasn’t just surrounded.

  It was wrapped on all sides—every street, every angle, every possible escape clogged with the dead.