The Encounter
The station wasn’t empty. Alita crouched behind an upturned rusted car as the flickering remnants of a small fire illuminated a group of figures. Survivors—or scavengers, more likely. All six of them were clad in mismatched, scavenged garments, armed with makeshift weapons: rebar sawed into spears, bits of chain, and crude blades. Their leader—a burly man whose brown patchwork cloak billowed in the murky air—paced within the group. He carried a solar-powered flashlight clipped to his belt, but he wasn’t using it, perhaps unwilling to squander its brief energy.
Alita adjusted the strap across her chest, which held her father’s old hunting rifle. It wasn’t loaded—she had used up the last round two weeks ago trying to escape a roving walker pack in the wastelands—but the sight of it was usually enough to dissuade confrontation. She adjusted her jacket and smoothed her skirt out of reflex. Then, with her characteristic confidence, she stepped out of the shadows toward the group as if she were walking onto the floor of a bygone high-rise boardroom.
The group saw her, their voices hushed instantly. The burly leader turned, his eyes narrowing as his fingers closed around the hilt of a machete strapped to his thigh. Alita stopped five feet from the firelight and set her feet wide, her wardrobe pristine against the dirt and chaos of the environment. This was deliberate—she needed to appear out of place, alien. Confidence kept her alive, and nothing commanded that better than her poise.
“Evening,” she said smoothly, her voice cutting through the crackling fire and the weight of the apocalypse itself. Her tone was sharp and unwavering—not asking, but asserting her presence. “I’m looking for a way down into the metro. Do you know if the tunnels are flooded?”
The Unfolding
“Why would you care?” the leader rumbled, his machete now pointed loosely at the ground but still gleaming with menace. “Can’t be nothing down there worth dying for.”
“Oh, there’s plenty worth dying for,” Alita replied, her lips curling into a faint, almost mischievous smirk. Her hand rested lightly on the rifle strap across her chest. “The actual question is, what’s worth killing for?”
That sent ripples through the group—bravado shifting uncomfortably into doubt. She could almost hear their survival instincts kicking in. Skilled scavengers didn’t pick fights—they avoided them. And her outfit, pristine and intact, combined with the air of authority she carried, screamed an enigma they couldn’t figure out. An enigma was dangerous.
“Tunnels ain’t flooded,” one of the men blurted, a skinny one with wild, nervous eyes. “But they’re crawling with them shadows.”
“Shadows,” Alita repeated, her expression deadpan. “Is that what you’re calling them now?”
The burly leader didn’t flinch, but she could tell the name made even him uneasy. The creatures roaming the tunnels had many names: shadows, stalkers, wraiths. Alita had learned one thing—they hunted sound, the echoes of life in a world that was otherwise dead or dying. But she gave nothing away as she nodded curtly and adjusted her skirt.
“Thanks for the tip,” she said casually, stepping away from the firelight. “Enjoy dinner. Sounds like you might need the energy.”
Courage in Twilight
She vanished back into the shadows before they could respond. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she approached the metro entrance, steeling herself. The burned-orange hues of twilight swirled behind her, framing her silhouette at the metro’s opening like a living portrait of defiance. Her jacket whipped behind her, the fading sunlight catching its brown leather surface like polished armor, while her gray bodysuit seemed to absorb the setting’s melancholy light.
“Let’s see if their warnings hold any weight,” she muttered, not to anyone in particular but to herself, the only real company she’d had for months. She descended into the darkened stairwell, each step swallowing her in a world of deep grays, cold stone, and pooling shadows. The air became dense. The faint sound of something scuttling in the darkness told her she was no longer alone.
Alita gripped the hilt of her combat machete and took a deep, measured breath. In this dying world, she knew two things: survival was equal parts style and strategy. And the advent of night didn’t mean the end—sometimes, it was only the beginning.
Below, in the abyss, something growled.
Genre: Post-Apocalyptic
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Burnt Orange Pencil Skirt with Gray Turtleneck and Sleek Brown Leather Jacket: Chic Urban Fall Style for Modern Elegance
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