After days of running around with nothing but my car keys, it’s weird having a knapsack on my back.

  It’s also weird spending a day not chasing surges, looting stores, and simply leaving the Safehouse.

  But the few grocery stores we went into yesterday were picked fairly clean, and the smell of the thawed frozen section was enough to turn our stomachs. So it seems our grocery supplies are down to whatever we have stored up in our inventories. There are still things I want to grab—tools, materials, stuff that is hard to find in the wild, things that can help us down the line. I don’t know how these things will help us, exactly, but I know that my inventory continues to seem limitless and it’s silly to not fill it with every manner of thing.

  We spend the day out in the backyard, trying to find a way to turn some of my pilfered tables and displays into something the Game would recognize as a shield, in hopes that we can put that into my weapons inventory. The more we can make the surge sites safe, the easier it’ll be to get more Rank Tokens. And maybe we can get more than one each, if we’re not sharing them with monsters and desperately busy fighting for our lives.

  I’m still not sure how I ended up getting so many Tokens after that first surge battle, but I’m not complaining.

  By the time I leave to head to the Town Hall, we still haven’t succeeded, and I pull the whole mess of stuff into my inventory. I’ve yet to be able to see an itemized list of what’s in my inventory, so I have to just remember what’s there, and it’s getting tough. But there’s also some subconscious understanding of the contents—for example, when I pull in our little structure, I know without a doubt that it pulled each item in as a separate item, not as a built contraption.

  Maybe I should find somewhere that has a welding kit. If it’s one contraption, maybe the Game will see it as a shield.

  A tomorrow issue. Today, I hoist my bag further up my shoulder, click the lock on the Volvo’s key fob, and head toward the front of the community centre. It feels weird to be exposed like this, smack in the middle of downtown Newmarket. There are people congregating in the courtyard outside Lions Hall and even more heading toward the building from multiple directions, and the sheer number of people—after seeing barely anyone for days—nearly gives me a panic attack. I almost turn around and head right back to the car.

  No, I made a plan. I’m sticking to my plan. For my Party; no, my family. I made them a promise.

  There’s a row of panels, long and skinny and vertical, that lines the top of the building, indicating where I need to go. Straight ahead is the splash pad that the town turns into an outdoor ice skating rink in the winter. It’s dry as a desert right now, understandably, but the familiar sight is enough to ground me. I head into the building, into a front foyer quickly filling with people. I arrived significantly earlier than the meeting was called; I wanted to spend some time casually eavesdropping on people, seeing if I can find out about their magic. I have a feeling people won’t be outright and forthcoming during the Town Hall itself.

  It’s not an impressive building. Beige linoleum floors and white bricked walls are the main colour choices, with boring drop ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights that are all, obviously, off. On the wall straight across from the entrance is a framed, glass-covered board, the kind with slats to clip letters onto to make words; all the letters have fallen off and are piled up along the bottom of the board. All the interior doors inside are sea-foam green in a failed attempt to brighten the place, and the doors into the halls are thrown open. There’s voices coming from the doors—lots of voices. Loud voices.

  I shoulder my way through the crowd, edging around pairs of people and ducking under elbows, and slip into the main hall, staying pressed against the wall. The space is huge, as large as any of the fancy ballrooms Alex and I toured as possible wedding venues. And considering Alex wanted a guest list around 300, I know this room will be able to fit double that with standing room only.

  Another slight panic attack comes on, thinking about that many people in one room, and I instead look at the floor and admire the lovely wooden floorboards. Much nicer than whatever was in the hallway. Once my breathing is back under control, I take in the rest of the room. It has a seam in the ceiling and a recessed space at the end of it, a place where movable walls can be stored depending on if you want the halls individually or together. There’s a recessed space in the middle of the ceiling on either side, which probably gives much better lighting than the fluorescents. But with no power, they’re all off, and a bunch of free-standing lights dot the room instead—ring lights, lamps, camping lanterns, and more. It’s bright in here, but discordant; there’s something about the effect that feels like someone pressed pause in the middle of a rave.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  I push off the wall. I came here to listen in on conversations and I can’t do that hiding in a corner. Most people are muttering quietly to their groups, standing in tight clumps. I don’t want to linger too long, in case someone spots me and calls me out. But if I stay too far away, I’ll never find out what I want to find out.

  There’s a small group of three adults, young people that could be anywhere from 25 to 40. I sidle up to them, trying to be inconspicuous.

  “Can you believe Jenna said that?”

  “Yeah, actually, I can. Jenna’s turned into such a bitch these last few days.”

  “I mean, do you blame her? The end of the world happened and she still can’t get her deadbeat boyfriend to commit to her.”

  This is not the type of conversation that I want to be listening to. Though I do feel bad for this Jenna person.

  I keep circling the room, trying and failing to get any information. The number of people around me keeps growing as the room gets more crowded. Someone pulled in a few stacks of chairs and the each clank of a chair being pulled from the stack makes me flinch. I think I’m going to have that panic attack that’s been threatening. I was always more of an introvert anyways, and the last five days have done nothing to change that.

  My breathing is coming in heavy, shallow. There’s a high-pitched buzzing in my ears. My tongue is dry, and I can’t swallow.

  A hand is gently placed on my shoulder and the panic ebbs away. I don’t even jump at the physical touch. I spin around, wide-eyed and yet calm, and turn to the person touching me. It’s an older woman, a grandmother type, in the process of letting her greys grow out. She’s in denim overalls and has a pink and grey plaid shirt tied around her waist. She smiles at me. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

  I stare at her for a moment. This is an example of someone’s magic. Someone’s small, specific ability that is supposed to help them survive. I don’t know if it’s specifically stopping panic attacks or just a calming effect, but I’ll take the real-life assist. I nod. “Thank you. It’s… very crowded in here.”

  The grandmother smiles, a kind thing. “It is. I hope they can bring about some actual good.”

  “Is your—Can you use your magic to calm the whole room?” I ask. I hope she’s not going to be offended at my question, about mentioning the magic.

  She shakes her head. “I have to be touching a person to have an effect on their mood.”

  Ah, so not just calming. She can change someone’s mood. “Magic’s pretty cool,” I whisper.

  She gives me a small chuckle and nods. “It is. Are you okay if I let go?”

  I nod and she removes her hand. I can feel the panic flood back in, but I have more of a control on it now. If nothing else, I got what I can here for: an example of someone else’s magic in play. This evening’s been a success.

  When I go to thank the grandmother, she’s already gone. With a sigh, I ease through the room again, heading toward the wall. It has to be getting close to the official starting time, and I want the comfort of something solid at my back.

  On the short end of the room, the opposite side where I entered from, a small set of risers have been erected with a long folding table set up atop it. I tuck into a small alcove not far from them, a trio of stairs leading to a door. An emergency exit, maybe? There’s a door on either side of the alcove, too. I can’t be sure what they all do, and I guess it doesn’t matter really. Unless I need to sneak out that way.

  There’s a group of middle aged folks standing on the riser who start to take seats. Four of them sit along the back of the folding table, facing the room. One makes his way to the front of the risers, looking out at the crowd.

  The crowd steadfastly ignores him.

  He looks to be in his fifties, dark brown hair and pale skin, wearing ill-fitting dress slacks, a button-down shirt, and a tie. His sneakers are scuffed and worn out.

  “Settle down, settle down!” he yells to the room, where people are trying to line up their chairs in some semblance of order. Other people stand, like me, around the edge of the room against the walls, filling in whatever space they can. “Can everyone hear me? We’d like to begin, people!”

  The man throws up his hands in frustration and turns to the table behind him. They talk in low voices among themselves.

  It takes another nearly ten minutes from the room to finally calm down, for the chairs to all be sat in and the rest of the crowd to either claim some standing room or hover in the doorways. I held my ground in the front of the alcove, though a few other people are in here with me, leaning against the walls or sitting on the few stairs. My vantage point means that I can survey the room and keep an eye on the risers, but it also means I’m pretty visible to everyone else. I don’t like being visible, but I do like being able to see the room, and I love knowing that there’s a door behind me in case things get too crazy.

  “All right, you lot all calm now?” the man says, still straining his voice but not shouting quite so much. “Everyone has a seat or a space? Good.” He claps his hands in front of him, interlocking his fingers and letting it rest along his round belly. “Let’s get started.”