Broken routine

James's days had settled into a routine of sorts, one that involved a constant search for anything that might prove useful. His backpack, a sturdy 35-liter hiking bag, had become a mobile base, a testament to his adaptability. It was his home on the move, containing everything from canned food to a compact sleeping bag, from a small stash of medical supplies to a few precious personal keepsakes.

The car before him was a familiar sight—just another vehicle left behind in the panic, an abandoned cocoon of metal and glass. His movements were methodical as he rifled through the glove compartment, the side pockets, and under the seats, looking for anything that could be of use. "Never know what you might find," he mused inwardly, his silent mantra whenever he began the search. His internal voice was a constant companion, a necessary solace in the oppressive silence of the world.

Crack. The sound sliced through the stillness like a gunshot. James froze, every muscle taut, his heart a pounding drum in his chest. "Easy, James. Could be anything," he coached himself, but the primal part of his brain screamed danger.

He shot upright, ready to confront whatever threat lay in wait. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a woman, her eyes wild with fear—or was it aggression? Before he could react, a towel was pressed against his face, covering his mouth and nose with a suffocating grip. Panic surged, a fiery track lighting up his nerves.

"Don't breathe. Don't," he commanded himself internally, but the instinct to inhale was overwhelming. He felt his limbs flail, his hands grappling to remove the towel, but the woman was surprisingly strong, or perhaps it was desperation that lent her strength.

In the struggle, his mind raced. "Who is she? A survivor? One of them?" But these creatures didn't use towels or subdue their victims with such calculated methods. "Focus, James. Think!" His internal voice was a beacon, a lighthouse guiding him back from the edge of terror-induced disarray.

His training, the self-defense moves learned from classes taken long ago, for reasons now seeming both prescient and trivial, kicked in. He shifted his weight, trying to break her hold, to get leverage. "You've faced worse. You can get out of this," he reassured himself, even as his body began to betray him, his vision tunneling, darkness creeping in at the edges.

In a final, desperate gambit, James managed to hook his foot around the woman's ankle, pulling with all the waning strength he had. The move was enough to off-balance her, to loosen the towel's deathly seal. Fresh air rushed into his lungs, sweet and life-giving.

They both tumbled to the ground, the woman's grip finally breaking. James scrambled backward, gasping for breath, his eyes wide and searching for the woman. His mind was ablaze with questions, with the need to understand, but his survival instinct warned him to be cautious, to not let his guard down.

The woman lay sprawled on the pavement, disoriented from the fall. Her eyes met his, and in them, James saw not the soulless gaze of the creatures, but human fear, confusion, and a flicker of something he recognized all too well—desperation. They were two survivors, their encounter a misunderstanding born from the same instinct to survive that had kept James moving all this time.

He watched her warily, both of them catching their breath, an unspoken truce hanging between them as they took stock of one another. "No sudden moves," he reminded himself, keeping his voice silent, knowing that out here, in the open, any sound could be a beacon for those that hunted by noise.

James's hand rested on the cane, his fingers wrapped tightly around the wood. It was a weapon if needed, but also an offer of peace—a sign he was ready to defend, but willing to listen. The silence stretched between them, a taut line that could lead to an alliance or snap into conflict.

As the potent chemical from the towel seeped into his system, James felt his world tilt and sway. Fresh air had filled his lungs, but it was tainted now with the cloying taste of whatever substance she'd used. His stomach churned in protest, a roiling sea threatening to breach its shores. He fought to stay present, to stay conscious, but his body was rebelling, slipping towards darkness.

"Stay awake, stay focused," he willed himself internally, the voice in his head a captain trying to steer a ship through stormy waters. But even as he issued the command, his grip on consciousness was fraying, the edges of his vision dimming as he slipped in and out of awareness.

The woman's movements were a blur, a frenzied dance of someone who knew the stakes of hesitation in this broken world. She was up now, her eyes darting, calculating her next move. And then, with the precision of someone who's had to fight to survive, her fist connected with his nose. Pain exploded in a bright white starburst, and his vision whited out. The internal voice that had been his guide and companion was drowned out by a high-pitched ringing.

James's last conscious thought was tinged with regret and confusion. "Why?" The question echoed in the silence of his mind as he teetered on the precipice between waking and unconsciousness. "Did I misjudge? Is trust such a fragile thing now?"

The punch was the final blow that tipped him into darkness. His body crumpled to the ground, his defenses falling away as he succumbed to the enforced sleep. There, in the vulnerable sprawl of unconsciousness, he was a tableau of the times—a man overpowered not by the monstrous creatures that roamed the streets, but by another human being.

Consciousness returned to James like the slow, relentless tide of an indifferent sea. His mind awoke in fragments, pieces of thought floating to him through the fog of his grogginess. "What is going on?" The words were a murmur inside his head, an internal whisper that failed to pierce the silence enveloping him.

James's senses were dulled, but the feeling of constraint was unmistakable. His wrists chafed against a coarse binding, his ankles similarly fettered. He tugged experimentally, but the effort sent ripples of discomfort through his limbs, manifesting as sharp, aching protests in his muscles. The world was a black canvas, devoid of light, devoid of clarity.

"Is it nighttime?" he wondered silently, hoping the darkness was nature's doing rather than a blindfold imposed by his captor. His eyes were open, straining against the black, searching for the faintest glimmer, a shape, a shadow—anything. But there was nothing, just the inky, impenetrable black of a world without sight.

Panic fluttered in his chest, a captured bird frantic to escape its cage. He took a deep breath, or as deep as his constrained chest would allow, quelling the tide of fear rising within. "Think, James. What's the last thing you remember?" His mind scrambled to piece together the narrative, to find the thread he'd lost. The woman. The car. The towel over his face, and then, the void.

"Got to stay calm," he counseled himself, focusing on the rhythm of his own breathing. It was a technique he'd learned long ago, in another life, it seemed, when he'd been a junior account manager preparing for big presentations, not a survivor navigating an apocalypse. He had always been someone who kept his cool under pressure, relying on logic and reason to navigate challenges. Now, though, reason gave him little comfort, logic offered no escape route.

He listened intently, straining for any sound—a clue to his surroundings, a hint of his captor's presence. But there was only silence, a hush so profound it almost seemed loud to his deprived ears. His internal voice became his solace once more, a soft murmur in the stillness. "You're not out of the game yet, James." It was a hollow reassurance, but it was all he had.

The cold ground beneath him was hard and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the relative comfort of the makeshift beds he'd found in abandoned homes. "This isn't a house," he realized, piecing together the tactile information. "Too cold, too... concrete."

He moved his head slowly from side to side, trying to dislodge any covering that might be over his eyes, but there was nothing. It was the darkness itself that blinded him. "If it's night, it'll pass. If I'm inside, there's got to be a door, a window..." He grasped for hope, for any sliver of opportunity that might present itself. He had to be ready.

"Stay alert, stay alive. Wait for your moment," he coached himself. Patience had never been his strong suit—James had always been proactive, a doer who took charge to make things happen. But this situation called for a different kind of strength, a different approach. His usual assertiveness wouldn't serve him here; he needed to be strategic, to wait, to listen, to conserve his energy for when an opportunity arose.

Hours or minutes—time was an elusive creature in the darkness—passed as James lay in wait, conserving his strength, honing his mind, preparing for whatever came next. The guardian within him was down but not defeated, the spark of defiance that defined him as much a part of him as his very breath. And as he lay in the void, James held onto that defining ember, a silent promise that when the moment came, he would be ready to reclaim his freedom.