Fred carried the small boy down the endless hallway.
Every step felt heavier.
Not because of the boy's weight — he was frail, barely skin and bone.
But because of the burden Fred now carried inside him.
Two people.
Two faces.
Two screams that would never leave his mind.
He tightened his arms around the boy and kept moving.
There was no comfort in surviving.
Only the gnawing guilt of those he had left behind.
---
The Living are Heavy, but the Dead are Heavier
They reached a door at the end of the hall.
Fred pushed it open, and bright light blinded him for a moment.
He stumbled forward into a vast, empty courtyard surrounded by crumbling concrete walls.
Above, a sky the color of ash stretched endlessly, no sun, no clouds — just a gray void.
The boy whimpered in his arms.
Fred lowered him carefully onto the cracked asphalt.
There were others here.
Dozens of survivors.
Some lying on the ground, too weak to move.
Some sitting in clusters, whispering in broken voices.
Some pacing alone, eyes hollow.
Every one of them wore the same expression:
Haunted.
As Fred set the boy down, a shadow fell over him.
He looked up.
A tall man stood there — gaunt, scarred, with cold, assessing eyes.
The man wore a jacket stitched together from scraps of old uniforms.
Pinned to his chest was a crooked metal badge:
> ZONE LEADER.
Fred tensed.
The man knelt beside the boy, checked his pulse, then glanced at Fred.
His voice was low, rough like gravel:
> "Name."
Fred licked his cracked lips.
> "Fred."
The man nodded slowly.
> "You saved him?"
Fred nodded.
The man studied him for a long moment.
> "Good."
Then he stood and barked an order:
> "Newcomer! Zone Nine! Sector B!"
A teenage girl hurried over, her arms full of torn blankets.
She was no older than Fred — maybe younger — but her eyes were like winter: frozen, unfeeling.
She grabbed the small boy gently, wrapped him up, and carried him away without a word.
Fred watched them go, an ache settling in his chest.
The man spoke again:
> "You did what you had to do."
Fred flinched.
How could he explain?
He hadn't just chosen life.
He had chosen death — for someone else.
The man turned away.
> "Rest while you can," he called over his shoulder.
"The next trial comes at nightfall."
Fred's stomach turned.
Nightfall.
Barely hours away.
He sank to the ground, back against the cold wall, and buried his face in his hands.
---
As Fred sat there, shivering in his torn clothes, he noticed something about the courtyard:
There were no smiles.
No laughter.
No hope.
Just huddled figures trying to stay invisible.
Whispers drifted past him:
> "They took Tommy yesterday. He didn't come back."
> "Zone Four is starving... they say they're eating rats now."
> "Heard someone in Zone Seven killed two people over a slice of bread..."
Fred shut his eyes.
This wasn't survival.
This was slow, organized collapse.
Shelter 6 wasn't just testing them.
It was crushing them.
Breaking them.
Molding them into something else.
Fred clutched his knees to his chest.
Was this what survival meant?
Killing, stealing, sacrificing until there was nothing human left?
He thought of the boy he had saved.
The hope in those wide, terrified eyes.
Maybe — just maybe — saving one life was enough.
Maybe it had to be enough.
--
As the afternoon wore on, Fred dozed off against the wall.
He dreamed — or thought he dreamed — of the two faces he had abandoned.
They stared at him, silent, accusing.
He tried to apologize.
Tried to explain.
But their mouths opened wider... wider... until they became screaming black holes that swallowed him whole.
Fred jerked awake, gasping.
Sweat soaked his back.
The courtyard had changed.
The survivors were gathering into tense groups, whispering, glancing around fearfully.
Fred saw it immediately:
The Zone Leaders were moving.
Organizing.
Preparing.
A horn blared from somewhere deep within the shelter — long, low, and mournful.
The sound of death.
The man with the scarred face reappeared.
He barked orders:
> "Nightfall approaches!"
> "Prepare for The Purge!"
Fred's blood ran cold.
The Purge.
He didn't know what it was.
But he knew — instinctively — that it would be worse than anything he had faced so far.
---
As the sunless sky darkened into something blacker, the Zone Leaders lined them up.
Row after row of broken, hollow survivors.
Fred stood in the middle, heart pounding, body trembling.
Beside him, a gaunt girl with tangled hair whispered:
> "They cull the weak at night."
Fred turned his head.
> "What?"
She didn't look at him.
She just stared ahead, voice empty:
> "If you can't fight... if you can't run... they take you."
> "And they don't come back."
Fred felt his knees weaken.
He scanned the courtyard.
Armed figures were emerging from the shadows — faces hidden by masks, batons in hand.
Fred clenched his fists.
He would run if he had to.
He would fight if he must.
He wasn't going to die here.
Not after everything.
Not after sacrificing so much already.
---
The horn blared again — sharp and violent this time.
The figures charged.
Chaos erupted.
Screaming.
Shoving.
Fighting.
Fred bolted into the darkness, heart hammering.
Hands grabbed at him.
He twisted, ducked, shoved.
Someone tackled him.
They tumbled across the cracked ground.
Fred punched wildly, broke free, sprinted again.
All around him, people were being dragged down — dragged away.
No mercy.
No negotiation.
Only survival.
Fred dove into a gap between two crumbling walls and pressed himself flat.
Footsteps thundered past.
He squeezed his eyes shut, praying he was invisible.
Minutes stretched into eternity.
Finally — finally — the footsteps faded.
Silence returned, broken only by the sobbing of the few who remained.
Fred slid down the wall, gasping.
He was alive.
Again.
But at what cost?
How many more nights like this could he survive?
How many more pieces of himself would he have to lose?
---