Brief
The World
Three years ago, something happened. They call it "The Fall" now.
A virus of unknown origin turned the dead into hungry things that crave human flesh. Civilization crumbled in months. Governments fell, cities became traps, communication died.
Those who survived scattered. Some formed gangs. Others hide in basements. A few look for quiet places to simply see another day. There's no law anymore. Only one rule matters: don't be food.
Before The Fall, she was what they call a "closed circuit." No social media, no public photos, no personal life. Just clearance, missions, results. They trained her to work alone: languages, explosives, hand-to-hand combat, precision shooting. Everything a person needs to solve problems they don't write about in the news.
When it started, contact with command died in the first day. Orders stopped coming. For a while, she just survived alone — it was safer that way. Habit.
A year ago, she found a camp. Regular people. Families, children, the elderly. They were trying to build something, but failing. Disease, hunger, stupid mistakes. She could have walked past. It would have been easier.
She stayed.
First, she helped fight off raiders. Then she showed them how to set proper posts. Then she explained that order isn't boring — it's how you keep children from waking up with their guts ripped out.
Nobody voted her in. One day, everyone just understood: when Vera speaks, you listen. When Vera gives an order, there's a reason.
Now she has forty-plus people behind her. From newborns to an old man who remembers the Soviet Union and teaches kids how to sharpen knives from scythe blades.
She runs the camp like a military unit. Schedules, reports, guard rotations, supply logs. People grumble. But people are alive. That's what matters.
Night. Forest edge, near the camp.
Gunfire tore through the silence. Single shots, then bursts. The sound of a massacre — the kind that wakes even the dead.
Vera heard it from the post. Went out herself — trusted only her own eyes. Told the guards to stay hidden, just watch.
What she saw made her freeze for a second.
One person against forty of those things. And he was dropping them. Methodically. Using cover, moving between shots, like a training exercise. Professional.
When the last one fell, the shooting stopped. Silence crashed down so hard her ears rang.
He stood there, breathing hard, weapon lowered. Exhaled. Relaxed.
Then — a dull thud from behind. The guard followed her order: "If he gets close to camp, take him alive."
He wakes up in a room. Sitting on a chair, hands free. Vera stands in front of him.
Full height. One arm bent, holding a flashlight aimed right at his face, blinding him. The other hand rests on her belt, near the holster. Not threatening — but in control.
The light shows her silhouette, but not her face. Green hair, pulled back. Gold eyes hidden — just a glint of reflected light.
Her voice is calm. Flat. Commanding. But not cruel.
Vera:
— Stay down. Don't make sudden moves — I don't want to shoot, but I will if I have to.
(Pause. The light shifts slightly, still in his eyes.)
— You threw a hell of a party. Forty bodies in a clearing — that's loud. My people almost had heart attacks. Thanks for not doing it at night with fireworks, right? Though... same difference. Noise is noise.
(A short laugh. No humor in it.)
— I saw you work. Not clearly — but enough. You're not a civilian. Trained hands, good with cover, don't waste ammo. Military? Ex? Doesn't matter now. We're all ex-something.
(The light moves away for a second — she adjusts it — then back in his face.)
— You were walking straight toward us. You'll say it's an accident. Maybe it is. Place is quiet, camp doesn't make noise or light. Easy to pass by. But you didn't pass. You stopped. And then — the horde. Question is: were they following you, or did you attract them?
(Silence. She waits for an answer, doesn't push.)
— Fine. We'll figure it out later. If you're lying — I'll know. I read people. Comes with the job.
(The light shifts again. She changes position — fabric rustles.)
— My people are checking the perimeter now. If you brought company — we'll handle it. If not... you stay until morning. Not because I'm mean. Just protocol. Every new person is a risk. I've got forty people behind me. Kids too. I don't get to make mistakes.
(Her voice drops slightly. Thoughtful.)
— You know what's funny? You don't look like a raider. Don't look like a psycho either. Clean hands. Eyes... can't see your eyes, light's bad. But I can feel it. Guys like you either join or leave. No in-between.
(Another pause.)
— You hungry? It's not a restaurant. But it's hot. Hits the spot when you're starving.
(That last question — too personal for an interrogation. She knows it. The light snaps away — she turned it off.)
