Entry #7
From The Archive: A Fictional Account of Memory and Myth
If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is an entry from my on-going serial fiction experiment “The Archive.”
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Day 52 – Early Morning
I should write about what happened last night. But I can’t bring myself to do it, Finn, because I’m afraid it might make it more true. And if it’s true, then I have to deal with it. And I’m not ready.
We talked about this, I know. That there would most likely come a time when my meds ran out. And then what?
Another thing we took for granted, right? The luxury of being medicated for a mental illness. The luxury of being functional.
It’s been… (four weeks? Six?) since I took my last dose. Up until now, I’d say I’ve managed to keep my shit together pretty well. But we all have a breaking point.
What will mine cost me?
I keep waiting for you to say something, Finn. To crack a joke, tell me to breathe, remind me I’ll figure it out like I always do. But you’re quiet today. When I need you the most.
The city is dead, but it’s not empty.
The streets are a graveyard—cars stripped for parts, windows smashed, garbage curling in the gutters like dried-out bones. But the worst part isn’t what I can see. It’s what I can’t.
Every creak, every shuffle of debris, every bird taking flight feels like a fucking ambush.
Atlas is twitchy. Freya keeps stopping to sniff the air, her ears flicking forward, then back. Even Bastet seems uneasy, curling tighter in the cart.
I tell myself I’m imagining it. That it’s just the city breathing, settling. That nothing’s watching us. But I don’t believe it.
Day 52 – Afternoon
There were three of them. If it had been any more, I would be dead.
I don’t even know how we’re alive right now as it is.
They came out of an alley, ragged as hell, with faces carved from desperation. I smelled them before I saw them—that sour, unwashed stench of people who’ve been on the edge for too long.
I mean, I didn’t smell pretty, but I at least tried to keep up minimum viable hygiene practices.
Atlas growled first, Freya following close behind, her hackles rising like a slow-building storm.
And then there was me. Knife in one hand, other hand clutching the cart like a lifeline. Doing my best impression of someone who wasn’t seconds away from throwing up.
The leader was all smiles, but the wrong kind of smile. Too white. Too sharp. His teeth reminded me of a wolf’s—made for ripping things apart.
He was older than me, but not by much. Late-thirties, maybe? He had the kind of face that used to get people free drinks in bars—good bone structure, an easy grin. But his eyes were dead. Hollow.
I knew he was also the kind of man who wasn’t used to hearing the word “no” as a full sentence.
“Don’t push him, Ari.” I heard you say (great timing, dickwad).
“Well, well,” he said, flashing those teeth again. “What have we here? A wanderer with supplies to spare?”
(Supplies to spare? Yeah, sure. If you count one can of beans and my last shred of sanity as a surplus.)
I told him no, of course. Or, well, I danced around it in a way that made it sound less like, I’ll stab you if you try me. It’s a delicate balance, staying polite while trying to radiate fuck around and find out.
The guy didn’t appreciate my tone. His smile faltered, his eyes going hard. I swear, for a second, I thought he was about to lunge.
But instead, he stepped back, gestured to his people, and they showed me what they had. Batteries. A blanket. A few cans of food. It wasn’t much, but my stomach growled anyway.
“What do you say?” the leader asked, that fake grin sliding back into place. “Trade a little, gain a little. Seems fair, doesn’t it?”
Fair was a concept we lost the second people started stabbing each other for bread.
These guys weren’t traders—they were sharks, testing the water before they took a bite.
“I’m good,” I said, tugging on Freya’s collar. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
The guy’s grin disappeared completely. “You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
There’s a kind of hunger that has nothing to do with food. The kind that hollows people out, strips them down to the barest version of themselves. The kind that makes them look at someone like me and see not a person, but an opportunity.
A resource. A meal.
That’s what I saw in their faces—eyes sharp and glassy, full of calculation and greed.
It wasn’t about survival for them. It wasn’t even about getting something to eat. It was the thrill of taking. Of knowing they could, and that no one could stop them.
And the worst part? The part I don’t want to say out loud?
I don’t know if I’m any different.
“Last chance,” their leader said. His voice dropped, smooth and sharp, the kind of voice you hear right before someone pulls a knife.
Freya’s growl deepened. Atlas edged closer to me, his muscles coiled tight. I gripped my knife so hard my knuckles ached, ready to carve a path out of there if I had to.
But your voice was loud in my ear, insistent: “Walk away. Don’t provoke them. Just walk away.”
The moment I turned my back though, I knew I fucked up.
It doesn’t take much to provoke men like that, Finn.
I don’t hear them move—I feel it. A shift in the air, a ripple of intent. And then Freya barks—sharp, panicked. Not a warning. A scream.
I spin just in time to see one of them reaching for her. He’s big, scrappy-looking, clothes hanging off him like a scarecrow. His hand is around Freya’s neck.
Something snaps inside of me.
I don’t think. I move.
I hit him harder than I should be able to, my knife slamming into his shoulder as I drive him back. He howls, staggers and trips on his own feet. He lands with a thud and Freya bites into the fleshy part of his thigh.
Someone grabs me from behind. My body twists, wild, instinctive. I thrash like a fucking animal, teeth bared, and my elbow connects with something solid—a jaw, maybe? There’s a crunch, and I hope it’s a bone breaking.
Then Atlas lunges right beside me. He’s a blur of fur and teeth. One of the men pulls a knife from his pocket and I scream bloody murder while kicking one of the men in the groin.
“GO!” I yell. “RUN!”
Freya bolts. Atlas follows. Finally free of an attacker, I stagger after them, ribs screaming, shoulder on fire. I push the cart and a hissing Bastet as fast as I can. Footsteps thunder behind me, but I don’t look back.
I dump the cart at the next alley, wrapping Bastet against my chest like a baby.
Then, we run until the city swallows us whole.
Day 52 – Later Evening
We ran until my lungs felt like raw meat, until every breath was a knife between my ribs.
We ran until my legs turned to stone, until I was more stumbling than running, until the world narrowed to the rhythmic, desperate drumbeat of my own footsteps.
And then we ran a little farther because stopping meant dying.
Then, we saw it.
A laundromat.
The windows were busted out, glass crunching under my boots as I staggered inside. Washers and dryers stood like ruins of a past life.
It smelled like rust and old soap.
More importantly—it was empty.
I pressed my forehead against the nearest washer, its metal cool against my burning skin. A faded sticker near the coin slot caught my eye—Wash & Dry, 99% Satisfaction Guaranteed! The smiling bubble letters mocked me.
I let out something between a laugh and a sob. Yeah. Because nothing screams satisfaction like bleeding out in a fucking laundromat.
Freya collapsed near the back, her tongue lolling, her ribs rising and falling like she’d just outrun death itself. Atlas paced, still wired, his head snapping toward every little sound outside.
I locked the door, knowing damn well it wouldn’t keep anyone out, but I did it anyway. Some habits don’t die.
I pressed my hand to my shoulder. Warm. Sticky. Not great.
Bastet leapt onto the folding counter, her tail flicking in irritation, watching me like she was waiting for me to admit what she already knew.
“I know,” I muttered. “I’m an idiot.”
She didn’t disagree.
The cart is gone. Candles, blanket, extra food.
All I have is what I was smart enough to keep on me.
Which is more than some people get.
I could’ve traded. But that’s not what they wanted. They didn’t want my food. They wanted me afraid. They wanted me powerless. And I won’t give them that satisfaction. I should’ve killed them. Because they’re going to come after me. And I might not get a second chance, but for now, I need to get my shit together.
After a quick tour around the perimeter, I realized that the staff bathroom, hidden behind a partition was big enough for all of us to squeeze in. And it had a lock on the inside.
I shooed Freya and Atlas in there and the sound of a locking door never sounded sweeter.
We were plunged into complete darkness but I sat cross-legged on the floor, feeling around in my backpack for the flashlight. Thank you Sweet Baby Jesus I put it in the bag instead of the cart.
It flickered when I turned it on but held a steady light.
I checked my wounds.
My shoulder is fucked. Not deep enough to kill me, but deep enough to make life hell.
My ribs are bruised, maybe cracked.
Everything else? It hurts, but I’ll live.
I checked over the animals and leaned back against the wall with relief.
Freya rolled over onto her side with a huff. Atlas finally sank down beside her, ears twitching. Bastet curled into a tight ball.
They were settling in.
Which meant I had to do the thing I’d been avoiding.
I had to stop moving.
You know what’s funny, Finn?
I should be dead.
By every possible measure—by every survival statistic, every logical conclusion—I should not be sitting in a laundromat at the end of the world, eating stale granola and hoping the lighter doesn’t run out of fluid.
I’m not the fastest.
I’m not the strongest.
I’m not the kind of person who should win in the apocalypse.
But here I am.
Control is an illusion. I’ve always known it, deep down, but I still tried to cling to the scraps of it. My rules. My routines. My careful, methodical way of navigating this broken world.
I had a plan. I followed the rules. I kept my head down, measured the risks, did everything right.
And then today happened.
And I survived anyway. Not because of strategy. Not because I deserved to.
It was luck.
Or maybe, it’s about being too fucking stubborn to die.
I clicked the flashlight off, plunging the room into thick, absolute darkness. For a second, I just listened—to my own breathing, to the slow rise and fall of the others. To the silence pressing in around us like a second skin.
The flashlight sat heavy in my hand, the plastic warm from use. A fragile little thing. Batteries wouldn’t last forever.
But then again, neither would I.
So I closed my eyes and let the dark come.
Updated Ration Log:
1 can of peaches(my reward for surviving)1 water bottle (sadly, empty)
2 granola bars (not good, but trustworthy)
1 can of spam (ugh)
1 can of sardines(gave to the animals, finally)
