The town square was dead by midnight.
The single traffic light at the corner of Elm and Main was flashing a steady, rhythmic yellow, its amber glow reflecting off the dark windows of the hardware store and the empty asphalt below. The power grid hadn't failed yet, but the town felt like a tomb that had been
scrubbed out by the wind. No cars parked along the curb. No teenagers hanging out outside the diner. Only the occasional scrap of newspaper blowing across the brick sidewalk.
Samuel stood in the shadow of his apartment doorway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He had the commercial radio scanner turned down low in his ear, the small
plastic wire running down the inside of his polo shirt. The county bands were mostly quiet now—not because the trouble had stopped, but because the dispatchers had stopped
answering the calls.
Across the street, a faint yellow light flickered in the back window of the bakery.
Sam watched it for five minutes. He saw the dark silhouette of Kate Mercer move past the glass, her arms full of large cardboard boxes. She was alone. Her uncle's van wasn't parked in the alley behind the shop; its usual space was empty, leaving only a streak of dark oil on the concrete where the old engine had been leaking for months.
Sam stepped out of the doorway, his sneakers making no sound as he crossed the street. The air smelled like burnt sugar and old paper. He walked around to the side entrance of the bakery, where the wooden screen door was unlatched, swinging an inch in the cool breeze.
He tapped on the glass pane of the heavy interior door. Three short, rhythmic clicks.
Inside, the silhouette froze. Kate dropped the box she was holding, the sound of plastic containers rattling loud against the linoleum. She turned around slowly, a heavy iron rolling pin held tight in both hands, her face white under the bare fluorescent bulb of the kitchen. When she saw Sam's face through the glass—his casual smile, his clear eyes—she let out a ragged breath that fogged the pane.
She unlocked the deadbolt with a sharp, metallic screech and pulled the door open.
"Sam," she whispered, her voice shaking as she reached out and grabbed his forearm. Her fingers were cold, covered in a thin layer of white flour that rubbed off onto his sleeve.
"Jesus, Sam. You shouldn't be out there. The sheriff... the deputy came by at eight. Told us to lock the doors and not open them for anyone."
"The deputy's gone, Kate," Sam said, stepping inside the kitchen and closing the heavy door behind him. He slid the deadbolt back into place with a smooth, practiced motion of his thumb. "I saw him drive his truck toward the highway ten minutes ago. He didn't have his lights on."
Kate dropped the rolling pin onto the metal prep table, her shoulders slumping as she
leaned against the counter. She looked exhausted. There were dark gray circles under her eyes, and her apron was stained with old berry juice and flour. The kitchen was a mess—half-packed boxes of spices, bags of sugar stacked near the back door, and three commercial mixers sitting dark and silent against the tile wall.
"Where's your uncle?" Sam asked, looking around the empty room.
"He went to Macon," Kate said, her voice cracking as she wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a fresh streak of white across her temple. "His sister... my Aunt Clara. She called at noon. Said her husband had the fever and wouldn't come out of the bathroom.
Uncle Joe took the van to go get her. He told me to pack up the dry stock and wait for him here."
"He's not coming back, Kate," Sam said softly. He didn't say it with malice; he said it with that flat, administrative certainty that Marcus used when they were measuring the fence posts.
Kate looked up, her eyes wide, a flash of defensive anger turning her cheeks red. "You don't know that. He's only been gone twelve hours. The highway's probably just busy."
"The highway isn't busy; it's blocked," Sam said, walking over to the metal table. He
reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, flipping it open to show her the screen. There was no signal—just a small red 'X' where the network bars should have been. "The regional relays went down at three. The military closed the Macon bypass with three layers of concertina wire at dusk. Anyone inside that circle stays inside."
Kate stared at the dead phone, her lips trembling. She looked around her kitchen—the place she'd spent five years building, the ovens she'd scrubbed by hand every night, the
small business that was her entire life. It all looked like junk now. It looked like trash waiting to be burned.
"What am I supposed to do, Sam?" she whispered, her voice small, like a child lost in a department store. "I can't carry these bags by myself. The flour... the sugar. It's all we have left."
"I have the box truck parked behind my building," Sam said, stepping closer until he could smell the faint vanilla on her apron. He reached out and took her hands, his rough,
sandpaper skin coarse against her soft fingers, but he held them tight, providing the only solid thing in the room. "We load the dry stock tonight. Every bag of flour, every case of yeast, every gallon of oil. We put it in the back of the Ford, and we drive out to the ridge property before the sun comes up."
Kate looked into his face. He looked so young—just seventeen, a city kid with a quick smile and a nice truck—but his eyes looked ninety years old. There was no fear in them. No panic. He looked like he'd been expecting her uncle to leave, like he'd already planned the route through the trees before she even opened the door.
"Why are you doing this for me, Sam?" she asked, her voice dropping into a quiet,
suspicious whisper. "You don't even know me. We've only talked three times over coffee."
Sam let out a low, easy laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners with that perfect, manufactured charm that had kept him alive in his past life. "I told you, Kate. I have a
weakness for your cinnamon rolls. And besides... Marcus said a good neighbor doesn't let a girl carry two tons of grain by herself. It's bad for the local economy."
The explanation was ridiculous, but it was normal, and normal was what she needed. Kate let out a shaky, wet laugh, wiping her nose with her sleeve before she nodded toward the heavy stack of fifty-pound flour sacks near the walk-in freezer.
"Alright," she said. "The hand truck is in the hall. Let's get to work."
They worked for three hours in the dim light of the back kitchen. Sam handled the heavy lifting, moving the fifty-pound sacks three at a time onto the hand truck without showing a single sign of strain. His peak-human muscles shifted smoothly under his polo shirt, his breath staying deep and regular as he wheeled the loads out through the side door and
across the dark asphalt to the faded white box truck.
Kate handled the smaller items—the boxes of baking powder, the jars of extracts, the industrial tins of salt. She watched him move with that effortless, predatory grace, her
initial fear slowly turning into a strange, quiet fascination. He didn't look like a rich kid from Atlanta anymore. He looked like an operator.
Every time Kate went back into the kitchen to clear another shelf, Sam stood inside the dark cargo hold of the box truck. He didn't leave the supplies on the floorboard. With a quick, silent reach into his mind, he activated his interdimensional storage space,
dissolving the heavy pallets of flour and sugar into his inventory, leaving the truck body
empty and light for the next load. He left only four boxes of stale bread and some old baking tins near the door to look like a normal move if anyone looked through the rear window.
By three in the morning, the bakery was completely hollowed out. The shelves were bare, the metal tables wiped clean, the heavy mixers unplugged and dark.
Kate stood in the center of the empty floor, her apron resting on the counter. She looked like she wanted to cry, but she was too tired for the tears to come. She walked over to the front window, looking out at the dark square, her eyes tracking the yellow flash of the traffic light.
"It's over, isn't it?" she asked softly. "The town. The shop. Everything."
Sam walked up behind her, his large frame blocking the light from the back hallway. He didn't put his hand on her shoulder—not yet—but he stood close enough for her to feel the warmth coming off his skin.
"The old world is over, Kate," Sam said, his voice flat, heavy, and clear. "But the new one's just starting. And we've got a big house with a strong fence waiting for us on the ridge.
Come on."
They walked out through the side door, the deadbolt clicking shut one last time on the empty bakery. As Sam started the engine of the white box truck, its low, rhythmic rattle filling the silent street, the radio scanner on his counter across the street suddenly erupted with a long, continuous tone of static—the final signature of the town's emergency loop dying out as the main substation five miles away began to burn in the dark.