I didn't know why I was surprised. Perhaps, after that discussion, I'd hoped that she'd changed. She actually sounded emotional. It had made it harder to view her as a killer. She'd promised not to bother me, but apparently she didn't count robbing me blind as a bother. That satchel had all of my water and food. The bike was my transportation. Tonya had taken everything that wasn't on my person. Only my backpack, sleeping bag, gun, and tin was left. Anything that she could take without bothering me, she had.

   Now, not only was I reduced back to a trudge, but I also had no food. Finding food this late into the Final Winter was going to be difficult. The bag had canned beans, dried fruits and vegetables, dozens of granola bars, and packs of jerky. It would have lasted me and Chance for weeks. Now I had to hope that I could find food in abandoned buildings. Killing wildlife wasn't an option, because anything that wasn't an Artic animal was dead.

   I didn't let myself sit in frustration. That was wasted time. My stomach rumbled as I began to pack my things. Maybe if I was lucky, Tonya hadn't gotten to much of a head start. There was a slim chance I'd be able to catch her. She didn't have a map. Therefore her route was going to be a rough estimation south. I could cut corners. I needed that food. Chance needed that food.

   My shoulder throbbed painfully. I briefly tested the wound to make sure it wasn't infected before realizing my first-aid stuff was gone. It'd been in a small pouch in the satchel. That was far worse than missing food. If my shoulder got infected, I was as good as dead. I had to get that bag.

   Chance returned after relieving himself and sat at my feet, his ears perked upright and eyes wide. His tail wagged. My heart sank when I realized he was waiting for his breakfast. We'd followed this routine every morning. I'd wake up, he'd go use the forest bathroom, and once I was mostly packed, I divided breakfast. He'd followed his steps and knew he deserved food. I stared at him, terribly guilty. He was going to be hungry for several hours. Pursing my lips, I rifled through my bag, praying I had something in it. Anything to make him stop giving me that look.

   At the very bottom of the bag, I found a pack of old granola. It was half-empty. I'd apparently opened it and then forgotten about it, likely early in my travels – before I got organized. I pulled out the bag. Chance's tail wagged. Knowing this was the only food I had until I found more, I poured a small handful. It'd be enough to keep him satisfied for a few hours. I'd been lucky enough to have enough food to keep him full and growing healthily, but not now.

   Chance ate the granola straight from my glove. He seemed to realize that he'd finished much too soon. Looking up at me, his ears turned forward again. I pursed my lips and rolled up the bag, having eaten none.

   Within half an hour, I'd packed my things up. Tin folded, bag rolled, and pack over my shoulders, I tucked Chance back into my coat. My legs began to burn from walking within an hour. I found the road and trudged through the snow, knowing I had to go quickly. I had to find the city within several hours of nightfall to have time to search for food. My stomach rumbled painfully the whole walk.

   By the time the city came into sight, my gut was trying to eat itself. I hardly ate enough when I did eat – having eaten nothing in nearly twenty-four hours made it much worse. Chance was hungry, too. I felt his tummy rumble a few times. He'd whine occasionally, wondering why he was hungry. He'd never needed more food when he was with me.

   From the first building I found, I went through each structure methodically, searching for any scraps of food. All of the houses on the main road had already been ransacked. Over and over, I smashed windows with my crowbar and crawled through, explored every room, and left through the same window when I found nothing.

   The sun was getting too close to the horizon. The temperature dropped dangerously fast. Starting to get worried, I began smashing windows with a renewed force. House after house. The sun danced on the horizon, through the clouds, and taunted me. I broke into the next home and immediately noted the number of locks on the door, some of my old memories pointing them out.

   The owner of this house was paranoid. Six locks on a door? Hope bubbled in my chest. Paranoid people tended to stock-pile goods. The odds were that this person was a hoarder or a prepper. There had to be food somewhere in here.

   After half an hour of searching, Chance whined softly. He was beginning to get sore. I'd confirmed there were no traps in the house and decided we might as well stay for the night. Reluctant, I unzipped my coat. Chance launched off of my chest with his back legs, tumbling out of my hands and flopping onto the floor. I winced. He promptly put his nose to the floor and wandered. Zipping my coat closed, I continued my search.

   The pantry was empty, as was the (horribly smelling) fridge. I opened cabinets, checked crannies, and even the dining table. Nothing. There was nothing but dust and ice. I sat back against the island, biting into my cheek and running a glove against my forehead. What if I didn't find food? I'd been gathering that food for months. Most of it had been stocked before the Earth's orbit was broken. There was a good chance there wasn't enough left to sustain the survivors.

   The house was quiet. My instincts wouldn't settle. I quit moving my hand to listen, puzzled, until I realized why I was confused. Never when I'd had Chance with me had a house been quiet. His claws always clicked. Now that I listened, there was nothing.

   Alarmed, I pulled the gun from my pocket and moved through the house. I didn't dare speak. Instead, I systematically examined each room for a sign of his black fur. I swear, if he's hurt... My feet padded through the halls softly.

   Finally, I found him in one hall. He was quiet because he was circling a spot on the floor, his nose centimeters away from the hardwood surface. I lowered the gun. Chance sniffed at the floor. His ears were fully perked. My lips pulled. I approached him and looked at the ground, confused. Chance continued to sniff as if there was something there.

   Hoarder. Prepper. My eyes widened. What if there was a basement? Preppers were famous to having basements packed with weapons, food, and first-aid supplies. Eager, I dropped to my knees and pulled the crowbar from the strap on the side of my pack. Chance backed up as I ran my gloved fingers across the wood. My glove caught on a notch and pulled.

   "Chance, you're brilliant!" I whispered hoarsely, locating the square trap door. His tail wagged at my tone. I jammed the crowbar under the lip and thrust my weight against the lever. The wood lifted slightly. I leveled the bar multiple times until the door finally opened. Dust scattered as I carefully lifted the door open and propped it against the wall. Chance's weight shifted to his back legs as his head wobbled, examining the dark space below.

   "Chance, stay here," I said firmly, before realizing I rarely spoke, much less taught him commands. Chance watched me, trying to decipher my words, but I just shook my head. A moment of fishing later and I located the flashlight at the bottom of my bag. Clicking it on revealed that the batteries were low. A faint light flickered into the dark basement. I tested the ladder with my hand before turning around.

   He watched as I slowly climbed down, looking for a light switch or chain. There had to be one. If this prepper was serious, they would have their own generator and their own power. I finally located a chain towards the center of the dark space and reached for it.

   There was an animal-like scream. A shape of white flesh and gaunt bones launched out of the corner. It collided with my chest. I staggered backwards. Cold hands sealed around my neck, tearing at the scarf. Chance barked. I backed up, coughing. They followed me with serpent hisses, spitting into my face. My back hit a shelf and something fell off, shattering against the floor.

   I swung the flashlight and crashed it into their head. The figure screeched, releasing my neck and skittering backwards. I hacked for air, my knee buckling. Seconds later and the being twisted, a baseball bat swinging for my head. I ducked and rammed my shoulder into their gut, tackling them to the ground. The bat clattered to the ground. As I jammed small, thin hands into the ground, I realized what I was seeing.

   It was a person. He – or she, I honestly couldn't tell – must've been down in this basement since the Earth began the trip away from the Sun. Their skin was white and papery, already having multiple tears from the scuffle. Dark hair thinned to barely dust their scalp, leaving nothing but a skeleton with what looked like white papier-mâché delicately covering the thin bones. Sunken eyes skittered around the room desperately. There were deep bags under their eyes and their cheeks were nonexistent. Their lip was already bleeding from the abuse the dry flesh had received.

   "Quit – fighting—" I coughed, jamming their wrists further into the ground. "I don't – want to hurt you."

   They responded with an animal's snarl, lips pulled back to show their yellow teeth. They banged their skull against the ground with a howl, bucking against my straddle. I shouted. "Hey! Cut it out!"

   Another howl and another bang against the floor. Their skin had broken in and blood dripped onto the dusty floor. I frantically pulled up at their wrists, trying to make them stop hurting themselves, but there wasn't much I could do. With a final scream, they smashed their skull into the floor. I winced as the sounds of breaking bone echoed in the small space.

   They gurgled. Within seconds, their body began to convulse with seizures. Their skull had punctured their brain. I hung my head, disappointed, but released their limbs. The shakes only lasted a minute before the body collapsed, the person dead. They had killed themselves than rather watch me take their supplies or kill them for it. 

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