Capítulo 45: Chapter 45
Mark woke to the taste of bile in his mouth. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry and cracked. His throat felt like it was lined with glass, each breath a dull ache. The world outside his hideout had turned black, except for the glow of distant fires that never seemed to go out.
The sickness was working its way through him, slow and methodical. It had been almost a month since he'd started feeling it. Now, it was eating him alive.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Didn't even feel hungry anymore. The days bled together in a haze of fever and exhaustion. He ran his hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble, the feverish heat radiating from his skin. He was dying, but he wasn't sure how long he had left.
There had been others, once. People who tried to survive, who tried to make something of this world after the sickness swept through. The disease was a plague, a plague that wiped out nearly everyone.
Mark didn't know if it was a weapon, a curse, or just bad luck. He didn't care anymore. All he knew was that the rest of humanity was gone. The infected roamed, but they were fewer now, slow and rotting. But Mark wasn't one of them—yet. Not fully. Not yet.
A noise made him freeze.
He leaned forward, his legs cracking beneath him. His breath came in shallow bursts, each one harder than the last. He didn't want to move, didn't want to face whatever was out there. But the noise was closer now, unmistakable. Footsteps.
He dragged himself to his feet, grabbing the rusted pipe he kept nearby. It wasn't much, but it was something. His fingers were cold, stiff from the lack of circulation, but he gripped it tightly. His heart thudded in his chest, but not with fear. He didn't have the energy for fear anymore.
The door creaked open.
A figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim glow from the fires outside. Mark didn't move. The figure stepped in. Their breathing was heavy, labored. Mark couldn't make out any details at first, but the smell hit him like a slap. Sweat, rot, and something worse—something sharp, metallic.
"Are you alive?" the figure rasped.
Mark didn't answer. He didn't care. The figure took a step closer, then another. Mark's vision blurred, but he could still see the glint of something in their hand—a knife, glimmering like a promise.
The figure's voice was hoarse, breaking, but there was an edge to it. "You look sick, man. How long you been hiding here?"
Mark didn't answer. The words felt like sandpaper on his tongue. He coughed, and it came up thick and wet, splattering the floor. The figure hesitated, then stepped forward, raising the knife.
It was no surprise. It never was. People had become desperate, willing to do anything to survive. Mark was just another body, another source of food or a thing to be dealt with.
The figure lunged, and Mark swung the pipe with the last of his strength. It connected with something—flesh, bone, maybe both. But the knife found its mark anyway. It was sharp, it was fast. Mark's world spun, his body betraying him, failing him. His vision grew darker.
The figure yanked the knife out, then paused. "Not much left in you, huh?"
Mark didn't feel much anymore. He didn't care. He just waited.
Estado de energía semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Piedra de
Poder