C5 With Horace!

On the streets, people and vehicles were frantically searching for an escape, scattering in all directions like ants from a disturbed nest, seeking shelter from the rain. Some pleaded with those inside the cars for help, but nearly no one opened their doors.

Then, a woman soaked by the black rain pressed against the car window. Her face, stained by the rain, was almost unrecognizable, but her eyes shone brightly as she screamed at the father and son inside, "Horace, Frank, it's me!"

The boy cried out, a mix of terror and joy in his voice, "Stepmom! Stepmom!"

Indeed, his name was Horace, and his son was Frank. Horace was his username, a name she favored, and so it stuck.

Perhaps for her, Horace symbolized hope for the future.

Yet, he had not brought her a bright future.

Now, in a world where tomorrow seemed nonexistent, his name felt like a cruel irony...

"Daddy, daddy..." Frank murmured with a tone of reliance, a tone reserved for those moments between sleep and wakefulness, reminiscent of the days before the world changed, when life was carefree.

Realizing his son had been awakened by the need to urinate, Horace wasn't surprised, considering the boy had drunk half a bottle of water.

"Son, time to get up and pee," he said, gently coaxing Frank as he had when he was younger, supporting him to the long-unused restroom, where he took the opportunity to relieve himself as well.

To their surprise, the toilet's tank still held clean water, not yet tainted or foul-smelling. They washed their hands thoroughly, making the most of what they had.

They didn't flush the toilet, simply closing the lid, conserving the water for later use since they planned to spend the night and the tap water had long since been shut off.

After the bathroom break, Frank was wide awake, looking at his father with anticipation. "Dad, did you find anything good to eat?"

This was his most frequent question; for a child, the quest for something tasty was paramount.

With a dramatic flourish, Horace hummed a tune and, like a magician, produced a can of soybean fish from his palm.

"Wow! Fish!" Frank's eyes sparkled with delight, and he burst into laughter. It was his favorite delicacy.

"Just a moment, son. Dad will tidy up the room, and then we'll eat," Horace said, his heart warm with affection.

His son's smile was the spiritual pillar that had sustained him up to this point.

It was also because of his son that he managed to hold onto a sliver of hope in a world where humanity was deteriorating and darkness was growing. He hadn't fallen into despair and moral decay like the other survivors.

In just fifteen minutes, the room was transformed.

It was quite simple, really. Horace just had to remove the thin cloths from the furniture, flip them to the clean side, and spread them on the floor as makeshift carpets.

He only tidied up the living room and one bedroom, closing the doors to the rest to keep them out of sight.

Father and son sat at the solid wood dining table, solemnly lifting their expired disposable chopsticks to enjoy the richest meal they'd had in weeks.

They were still dressed in their work overalls, dusted off and ready for a quick departure should the need arise in this unfamiliar place.

Their hats were on, but the face masks were flipped up, revealing their entire faces.

The two were strikingly similar, with chiseled features, high nose bridges, and thin lips, habitually furrowed brows.

The only difference was in their eyes; Frank's shone with defiance, while Horace's were etched with the signs of hard times.

Frank devoured the fish, while Horace made do with bean paste and compressed biscuits. They savored their meal, Frank even crunching down the fish bones.

Hearing his son's loud burp, Horace swelled with pride.

He then took out two iodine pills and four vitamin tablets, splitting them between them, marking the end of their meal.

The pair lowered their masks once more, shielding themselves from any potential radioactive rainout in the air. According to the nuclear radiation meter, a small amount of exposure was harmless, and the iodine pills would prevent any serious harm from radiation—still, it was best to avoid it if possible.

*Beep! Beep!* The alarm on Horace's watch sounded, signaling the end of his "workday," though it was only four in the afternoon.

Normally, the father and son would make haste to return home before darkness fell.

Today, however, was an exception; they needed to spend the night outdoors.

Upon hearing this exciting news, Frank let out a whoop of joy and hobbled over to explore their makeshift abode, his sprain seemingly better.

Horace pondered for a moment, considering making this spot a backup shelter. With two hideouts already, adding this one would make his set complete.

For now, he resolved to spend the night here.

He casually picked up a yellowed newspaper from the coffee table and settled into the sofa, skimming the pages in the natural light filtering through the windows.

Horace, a digital native, had never been in the habit of reading newspapers, preferring online news. But after the nuclear blast severed internet connections, he couldn't access newspapers either, as society had ground to a halt.

The paper in his hands was a local evening edition from the day after the nuclear explosion, likely its final issue—an artifact worthy of a museum.

With external communications disrupted, it contained no international or national news, just local updates.

Three years on, the front-page story remained chilling. The headline read, "The Cannibal Apocalypse?" Despite the mosaic censoring, the accompanying image was horrifying.

It depicted a woman in frantic flight, her face unrecognizable, mangled as if mauled by some beast, with several indistinct shadows in pursuit.

Horace read the detailed account with a furrowed brow: "Those fortunate enough to have survived the catastrophe saw these nuclear victims staggering through the streets, their bald scalps and the raw flesh of their torn clothes on full display, their faces marred by blisters that looked ready to burst. People recoiled in disgust, ignoring their outstretched hands pleading for help. A young woman screamed as if she'd seen a ghost, pointing at them and shrieking, 'Zombies! The zombies are here!' Hearing themselves labeled as such, the nuclear victims' expressions twisted into something monstrous. They swarmed the woman, tearing into her with a frenzy, sending blood and flesh flying. Chaos erupted in the streets as people fled in all directions, their screams of 'zombies' echoing through the air."

He could never fathom why the victims resorted to cannibalism, nor had he heard any official explanation, for they were not the true undead.

Perhaps this was the true catalyst; being ignored or even despised by the survivors, they resorted to such drastic measures to assert their existence.

Frank tiptoed back into the living room and solemnly gestured to his father, pointing downstairs.

Realizing that his little scout had made a discovery, Horace quickly retrieved his telescope and approached a window facing the street to take a closer look.

As expected, another cluster of dark figures was meandering down the street, their movements hesitant. Who else could it be but "them"?

"They" were in tatters, with unkempt hair, bare-chested and barefoot. Any skin that was exposed looked as though it had been scorched, a sight that was heart-wrenching to behold.