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Awakening

 

Flako walked along the empty street with his head down. He kicked a small pebble, chased after it, and kicked it again—just to have something to do. He didn't know how long he'd been waiting, or what for. He was simply here, like he'd always been. The great storm hadn't shaken him the way it had the bustling city. He had watched with curiosity as people vanished, but it didn't trouble him much. He was still here. And he knew not everyone had gone—there were still others among the crumbling walls.

Not long ago, he had to weave through crowds just to move along the pavement. He'd had to sprint to cross the road, dodging blaring horns and fast cars. City parks had bubbled with cool fountains and picnicking families. People often left their excess behind on benches or in bins nearby.

He'd scoured the park again today, hoping to find something to eat, but the cracked fountains yawned like wounds in the dusty grass. Their waters had long dried up. The few people still living in the city didn't come here. They stayed hidden in their ruined homes. Flako used to venture in too, scavenging what he could, but now there was nothing left to eat, only broken walls and danger.

He made his way towards the old alley behind the restaurant, but it was buried now, a mountain of rubble stretching several storeys high. He sat down across the street, staring sadly at the stones, thinking of the container once filled with warm food. He hadn't eaten in days. Things had never been perfect before—but at least he hadn't gone hungry, and there had always been a quiet corner to curl up in for the night.

A few weeks ago, a terrible noise had woken him. The buildings shook, screams echoed all around, and dull booms rolled closer, like thunder before a storm. But this storm made the earth groan beneath his feet. He'd pressed himself against a wall, heart pounding, waiting for it to pass. Every storm passed eventually. Buildings crashed down in deafening roars. His wall held. He'd been lucky.

Then came the silence. A silence so deep he thought he'd gone deaf. But eventually, the first sounds of life returned. People crying. Muttering quietly to themselves.

Flako had stood up, walked among them. No one noticed him. The dust hung in the air, thick and grey. The city lay in ruins. He barely recognised the buildings or squares. Trees lay snapped across the roads, crushing cars and bodies beneath them. He'd lived through many storms—but never one like this. The strangest thing of all was that not a single drop of rain had fallen. Only tired dust had sifted down from the sky.

Now, it was raining for real. He didn't notice at first, only saw dark spots forming on the dust. He looked up. A drop landed on his nose. Water! He licked it off joyfully. He sat for a while, mouth open, catching raindrops on his tongue. Then he got to his feet and, soaked to the bone, looked for shelter.

He didn't dare go inside—if another storm came, the buildings might collapse on him. Instead, he crawled beneath a fallen balcony. A foul stench hit him. He turned his head. A foot was sticking out from the rubble. The rest of the body was buried beneath the collapsed balcony, only the lower legs visible—writhing with maggots, a seething mass on rotting flesh. But there was a patch of skin still untouched. Flako leaned in and sniffed. Then sat down beside it, head drooping.

He should've eaten it while it still smelled fresh.

But it was a person. Then again, the person didn't feel pain anymore—and Flako was starving. The man wouldn't care now whether it was worms or Flako who ate him.

Still... a human.

His stomach growled again, stretching his ribs against his thinning skin. He leaned closer and, baring his teeth, sank them into the patch of clean flesh. He tore at the ripe meat, snarling softly, uncaring if a few maggots crunched beneath his jaws. He ate with quiet, desperate relief—thinking only one thing:

It would taste better if it were still alive.

Finally, he raised his head, licked his lips, and slipped back onto the street. The rain had stopped. Little puddles glistened along the edge of the pavement. He drank from one, shook the water from his matted fur, and, nose low to the wet ground, trotted along the wall—following the scent of the survivors.