Nothing.

Nothing. Not a thing.

Except for coupons. Even now, in this day and age, he still got his coupons. As if he really needed them.

But most importantly, Conan O’Flaherty regretted, there was no word from Belfast. It had been three weeks since the first big Sozen outbreak in Europe, and he had written home immediately. And still, nothing came. They said the population in Europe had dramatically decreased—

The mail. The postal workers, the post office, it’s them. It’s their doing. I haven’t gotten my mail in… in… what is it, a week now? Week and a half? They’re… they’re the ones who are… who are…

His belief wasn’t unfounded, or even entirely wishful. The Sozen virus might as well have been a mutant superpower in the way it single-handedly destroyed the city’s civilization. What had started out seeming like a simple bout of influenza had very nearly sparked a total apocalypse. Now, Conan didn’t dare venture outside longer than he had to, or at least not without a paper mask; the disease had nestled its way into the air itself, and even a simple chore like buying groceries could prove fatal.

I’m probably eating Sozen by now…

Conan and his sister Cecelia – three years his junior and bearing little, if any, resemblance to him – shared a lackluster apartment that had seen better days and been on the verge of run-down corruption even before the outbreak. The front door wouldn’t lock, the floors weren’t carpeted. The furniture in their tiny apartment consisted only of two mattresses and a sofa; the rest had been either too big to get up the narrow staircase connecting their little flat to the front door, or had been looted away. But then again, the same could be said for just about all of their belongings.

Even his reading glasses had been stolen. Who steals prescription glasses?!

The wooden stairs creaked and squealed in protest as Conan ascended, practically shoulder-to-shoulder with the concrete walls, flipping aimlessly through his coupons as he went. Barely a month ago, he would’ve been thrilled to find “1/2 off Vicks NyQuil” amongst the hoards of baby wipes and dog food, but now it seemed all but pointless. Pointless, when the remnants of society seemed quite fond of their newfound freedom to simply waltz in to any given store and just take things. The five-finger discount. Beats a coupon any day.

Conan barely noticed the surreal silence of the place, interrupted only by an incessant white noise, as he rounded off of the staircase and into the main building. He plopped the coupon stack onto the faux-wood floor and seated himself on the couch, plastic bag of groceries in his lap.

…

What IS that noise?!

Slowly he stood again, groceries sliding to the floor with a thud. He meandered toward the tiny kitchen, a cluttered square of a room no bigger than a walk-in closet branching off the main room. The faucet atop the stainless steel sink poured relentlessly downward at full power, onto the thick, soapy shards of broken ceramic. On the floor in front of the sink, collapsed in a pile of khaki and hair—

“Sissy!!”

Conan was on his knees in a second, grabbing the girl by the shoulders and lifting her off the floor. Her eyes were squeezed shut, eyebrows knit, breath escaping in shaky gasps from between chapped lips. Her body heat resonated – practically scorching – through her clothing, and in a flash, Conan knew what was wrong.

No…

Gingerly he lifted the redhead from the floor, carrying her to her adjacent bedroom and setting her down on the mattress in the corner. Only then, as if the thought had suddenly struck him, did he check for fever, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. It was hot, abnormally so; no wonder she was barely conscious.

Conan exhaled; his breath was shaky, and weak. They said the virus was spreading, that much was inescapable. Logically, it was only a matter of time before it spread to one of them. But still…

“She’s got it pretty bad. Won’t last too long at this rate…”

Conan had no idea who the man was, or how he’d gotten in, but after listening to what he had to say, he couldn’t care less.

~*~

“Sunsabitches cuffed my good arm.”

Cyrus’ upper lip snarled in disgust as he stared down at his right arm. “They” had said that anything could be a weapon, and Cyrus had been enthralled to find a wieldable lead pipe amongst the ruins of an old factory. …and subsequently pissed-the-hell-off when he armed himself with the thing. He wound his arm backward, and put as much force as he could muster into a decent swing, but the chain around his wrist prevented even that much.

Ithea Farmer, the girl who’d been assigned to be his partner – or, as he’d taken to calling her, The Broad – stumbled forward from the force, tripping into Cyrus’ right shoulder. “I’m not a doll,” she stated fiercely as she regained her balance, staring up at Cyrus. He merely huffed in response, and shamefully returned his arm to his side.

“Ain’t my fault they stuck you onto me. I ain’t exactly jumpin’ fer joy at the idea neither. Y’see me jumpin’? ‘Course ya don’t, I ain’t jumpin’ nowheres.”

“I just asked you to quit jerking me around, is all.”

“Why don’tcha quit runnin’ yer mouth an’ gimme a hand, then? Y’know, get’cherself a weapon. I ain’t takin’ care of your ass.”

The Broad frowned, and shuffled off as far as the chain would allow, kicking through random bits of fallen concrete and metal. Cyrus scoffed, and switched batting practice to his left hand, which provided a noticeably poorer performance. His swing wobbled, he couldn’t control his aim, and to top it all off he couldn’t tell which way to swing if he had an instruction manual on the topic; if he swung right-to-left, his elbow popped, and if he went left-to-right, he whacked himself in his own right humerus. That bruise’s gonna be pretty badass, though.

“Did the Sozen do this to you?”

The Broad’s question was so unexpected, that Cyrus almost didn’t have a smart-mouthed comment ready for it.

Almost. “The hell you mean, Sozen? I ain’t sick, lady.”

“Not you.” She didn’t turn to face him, but there was something in the way she spoke – something in the way she stood, with her head bowed and her arms limp – that seemed utterly depressing. “Who did the Sozen take from you? You’re so…”

“I’m a real dick, yeah, I know. Like yer the first one t’ tell me or somethin’.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Sure it wasn’t. Don’t even know why you care, anyways. Cyrus Zanner flies solo.”

“You must’ve lost someone.”

“D’you listen t’ me when I’m talkin’ t’ you?”

“Everyone’s lost someone.”

Cyrus’ chest rose as he inhaled deeply, and he shook his head and averted his gaze from The Broad. He didn’t seem to notice the pained look in her eyes as she stared blankly at the brick wall in front of her.

“I…”

She started it uneasily, a quiver in her voice as if she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to continue speaking or not. That wasn’t her decision to make. She stumbled over whether to drop the idea or continue on, while Cyrus’ head suddenly shot upward, alert.

“We ain’t alone.”

She turned. “What?”

He tightened his grip on the pipe. “I says there’s someone else here! Don’t do anythin’ too—”

But the warning came too late.

~*~

Daemon wasn’t much of a talker. That much was obvious from the get-go. But there were some things that Conan didn’t dare try, and striking up conversation with a mass murderer was one of those things.

The pair had been out of the jail cell for near two hours – at least, it seemed like two hours; Conan hadn’t had the foresight to wear a watch – and the only words exchanged between them had been sharp commands on Daemon’s part; “Get down”. “This way”. “Hurry up!”. Conan merely half-closed his eyes and went along with everything the man said. The sooner we get out of this, the sooner I can put it all behind me. No need to make things more difficult.

“Worst mistake I ever made in my life,” he mumbled, staring down at his hands. He could’ve sworn he heard Daemon laugh at that, barely a meter away.

“No such thing,” he smirked, digging intently through a garbage can and picking out whatever weapon-esque trash he could salvage. “You live, you learn, period. Shame you won’t be getting any chances to put your new ‘don’t listen to mysterious government workers’ knowledge to the test.”

The subject was unfavourable, but Conan was nevertheless taken aback at the sudden semblance of conversation. Eyes wide and questioning, he turned over his shoulder to face the man. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you ain’t making it out of here in one piece if you don’t quit the nice-guy routine and arm yourself. You think these kids are gonna play nice?”

“Well…” He chewed on the thought for a moment. “I… violence can’t possibly be the only way. Nothing is ever one-hundred-percent. There’s gotta be…”

“No, there doesn’t ‘gotta be’.” Daemon abandoned the trash and, calm as ever, approached Conan, standing nose-to-nose with his so-called ‘partner’, shoulders squared. “You wanna live in your happy fluffy fantasy land, fine with me, but do it on your own time. We’re in the real world now, and if you think for a second that you aren’t the only one taking the ‘not playing’ route, you’d damn well better—”

He suddenly stopped.

The sound was unmistakably sneaker-versus-pavement, but the real questions lay in where and who it came from. Daemon’s head perked up as he surveyed the area, scrutinizing the adjacent alleys as his hand flew to his pants pocket. Conan, sensing the sudden urgency, opted for the more obvious – but less tactical – route.

“Is someone ther—”

His identity call was cut short with a quick yet sharp tug to the chain around his wrist. He stumbled to his knees, and turned to face his partner inquisitively.

“What?”

“What did I just say to you?”

“But we need to—”

“Do you have a comprehension problem or something? If you get us killed out here, I’ll stab you.”

“Who’s out there?”

The voice was new, clear, and unmistakably feminine. Conan felt the blood in his face run cold, and if the look on his face was any indication, Daemon was probably feeling the same. Neither dared to breathe.

Conan, in a fit of dumb bravery, was the first to break the monotony, peeking over the garbage heap at their company. The one who called out was most likely the leader of the two, a young brunette who took the exploring initiative. The partner she dragged along was sullen and overweight, and she stared off into space whenever she wasn’t shuffling half-heartedly after the brunette, to ease the tugs to her handcuffed wrist. Conan drew in a breath as he watched them, unsure if he should be overcome with fear or relief.

Girls. “They’re girls,” he whispered.

“I don’t care if they’re kitty cats; trust no one.”

Conan didn’t listen. Hastily, he rose to his feet, hands displayed opened and empty beside his face. “I’m not armed,” he said quickly, as the brunette jumped and crouched, ready to defend herself. “I’m not armed… I’m not going to do anything. I don’t want any trouble.”

A firm hand clasped across his mouth. Daemon stepped forward, tight-lipped, and Conan felt a sudden wave of fear much stronger than his initial terror upon meeting the legendary Demon. Something in his mind clicked, and he finally understood; this man could kill me right now, and if it weren’t for this game, nobody would even do anything about it.

“Get out of here,” he growled, locking eyes with the brunette, who simply raised an eyebrow.

“Why? I want to get this over with just as much as you do.”

“I’m not kidding, scram! My associate here doesn’t speak for both of us; take one step closer to me and you’re good as dead.”