One moment of weakness. Tears in her eyes. She shouted into the oblivion of night. Save me. Someone speak to me.

But she was alone. And her voice echoed and echoed—until she almost imagined the words changed.

She sat there, covering her face.

She should have realized it by the dead couple. The wife had died before her husband, not after. No dates.

“I’m going the wrong way.”

Despair enveloped her. She could have lain there forever, against the cool floor.

But something made her rise. Slowly, the young woman stood up and turned around. Not because she had hopes she could easily travel back the way she’d come. No—nor the thought that this was some elaborate prank and safety awaited.

Just a cold certainty, born of her beliefs.

There was no one who would rescue her. No heroes, no saviors. Just her. If she wanted to live, she had to move.

It was an agony to stand up. Like forcing yourself to rise out of bed when you were exhausted and would have given anything for an hour of sleep, but worse than even that. Yet—it was that or lie down and die.

So she stood. The darkness grew more absolute. And her fears began to creep up on her. She felt like she was being watched as she turned and plodded back the way she’d come.

And she was. Something watched from afar. She had not disturbed any more coffins, any more graves.

Perhaps it was wisest to watch. She seemed helpless. She would die soon. And that would be that.

It would bury her, here. With all the others. That was its purpose—to guard and wait. The living had no place here. She was the only living thing here.

Again, except for the mice. The young woman realized they might be edible. She stumbled towards one peeking out from behind a coffin and realized—

It was dead. The desiccated corpse stared up at her. The mouse had starved to death.

——

Sixteen hours later. She passed back the way she’d come. She had slept. Fallen, really, and gotten back up.

Desperation kept her moving. She was so tired. She’d slept lacking water, and her stomach had stopped rumbling, which was a bad sign. She was…just moving.

She had passed the first grave. She knew that—only because she had stopped now and then to read.

Every 30 minutes, roughly, by the light of her phone, less than a second or two of light.

40% power left, exactly. She was terrified it would run out so she forced herself to compromise. A moment of light every thirty minutes for sanity. Only a second to make sure the power would remain.

She even knew how long she’d been walking thanks to the clock on her iPhone and she realized something.

She’d die before her power ran out, at this rate.