THE BROKEN DREAMS

Fred crouched in the narrow alley between two collapsed buildings, panting.

The courtyard behind him was silent again.

Only a few had survived the Purge.

He dared to peek out.

Bodies lay scattered — some unconscious, some... not.

Those who remained limped to new hiding spots, clinging to life like wounded animals.

Fred wiped the blood from his mouth, wincing.

His knuckles were scraped raw.

Every bone in his body screamed.

Still, he had survived.

But the question echoed louder inside him now:

> Was survival even worth it anymore?

The boy he had saved — the boy he had carried — flashed across his mind.

Fred forced himself to stand.

If nothing else, he owed the boy.

He owed the memory of those he couldn't save.

---

As he staggered down the broken corridors, a voice called to him:

> "Fred!"

He turned.

It was Maya, the gaunt girl with the tangled hair who had warned him before the Purge.

She stumbled toward him, dragging another boy — barely older than twelve — by the wrist.

Both looked battered but alive.

Maya's voice cracked:

> "Come with us. Sector B has supplies — food, water. You won't make it alone."

Fred hesitated.

He didn't trust easily anymore.

But he also knew this place was a graveyard for loners.

He nodded once.

Together, they moved.

---

Sector B was a maze of broken rooms and shattered glass.

The smell of rot filled the air.

Maya led them through dark corridors, her steps quick but careful.

The boy she dragged — she called him Theo — said nothing.

His eyes were wide and glassy, as if he wasn't really there.

Fred recognized that look.

He had seen it too often lately.

They found a storeroom hidden behind a rusted metal door.

Inside: a few cracked bottles of water, some ancient cans of food, a pile of moth-eaten blankets.

Treasure.

They devoured the meager feast in silence, greedily gulping down water that tasted faintly of metal.

For a brief moment, Fred allowed himself to believe they could survive this.

That there might still be a future, however broken.

He was wrong.

---

It happened in the dead of night.

Fred woke to the sound of whispers.

Maya and Theo were crouched over him.

Their faces were cold, merciless.

In Maya's hand, a jagged piece of broken glass gleamed.

Fred barely had time to roll aside as she stabbed downward.

The shard sliced the air where his neck had been a heartbeat before.

Fred scrambled backward, heart slamming against his ribs.

> "What the hell?!"

Maya's voice was eerily calm:

> "Nothing personal."

> "There's not enough food for three."

Theo lunged at him — surprisingly fast for a boy so small.

Fred twisted, catching Theo's wrist and slamming him into the wall.

The boy crumpled with a weak cry.

Maya screamed and charged.

Fred caught her arm mid-swing, fighting for control of the shard.

They struggled, slipping on the cracked concrete.

Fred felt the glass bite into his palm — warm blood spilling — but he didn't let go.

With a desperate shove, he sent Maya sprawling backward.

She hit the ground hard, gasping.

Fred staggered to his feet, panting.

> "You were going to kill me."

Maya wiped blood from her split lip, her eyes burning with fury.

> "Better you than us."

Fred stared at her — and something inside him cracked.

He had expected betrayal from enemies.

From strangers.

But from someone who had saved him?

From someone he had trusted?

There was no humanity left in this place.

Only survival.

Only knives in the dark.

---

Fred looked down at Maya, then at Theo, still groaning weakly on the floor.

He could end them.

He could pick up the shard, finish it.

Remove the threat forever.

Part of him wanted to.

The part that was tired of being the fool.

The part that had seen kindness turned into weakness too many times.

But another part of him — the last fragile shard of who he used to be — refused.

He dropped the glass.

It clattered to the floor between them.

> "I'm not like you," he rasped.

> "Not yet."

He turned his back on them and walked away.

Out into the cold, broken shelter.

Alone again.

Alive.

But more hollow than ever.

---

Fred wandered through the shelter like a ghost.

He saw others in passing — survivors with haunted faces, scavengers who would kill for a crust of bread.

Everyone looked through him.

No alliances.

No friends.

Only fragile truces, doomed to break the moment survival demanded it.

He understood now:

There were no heroes here.

Only survivors.

And sometimes, the line between the two blurred until you couldn't tell which you were anymore.

Fred sank to the ground beside a burned-out vehicle and hugged his knees to his chest.

Tears threatened, but he refused to let them fall.

Tears were a luxury.

Tears got you killed.

He rested his forehead against the cold, rusted metal and whispered:

> "One more day."

> "Just survive one more day."

It was the only prayer he had left.

And in Shelter 6, it was the only prayer that mattered.

---