Apocalypse Rewound: Saving Hana

Chapter 8: The Supply Run Gone Wrong

"Well," Herman quipped, trying to lighten the mood, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "That was an interesting way to ruin the moment."

Hana let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob, wiping a streak of black, oily Creeper blood from her forehead. "You have a real knack for timing, Herman. Honestly, it’s a talent."

"I try," Herman said, though his eyes remained sharp, scanning the ceiling for any more cracks. He stepped over the twitching remains of a segmented limb and held out a hand to her. "You okay? Nothing bit you? Those things carry stuff that makes your blood turn into sludge."

Hana took his hand, her grip still trembling slightly from the adrenaline. "I think I’m intact. Just... a little shook. And I’m pretty sure I ruined this sweater. It was my favorite."

"Hey! What about me?" Lando piped up from the door, still holding his baseball bat like a holy relic. "I just performed a literal exorcism on a giant spider-thing with a piece of wood. My heart is beating so fast I think I’m legally a hummingbird. Do I get a status check?"

Herman glanced at his roommate, then at the black goo staining Lando’s sneakers. "You’re alive, Lando. That’s your status check. Now, help me look at the bags. We used a lot of our supplies just trying to stay conscious during that."

Herman knelt by their gear, his face hardening as he zipped open the medical kit. He sighed, the sound echoing in the small, dusty room. "It’s worse than I thought. The antiseptic leaked when you dropped the bag earlier, and we’re down to two rolls of gauze. If one of us gets a real wound—not just a scratch—we’re in trouble."

"We can't stay here," Hana said, her voice regaining its steady edge. "If there are Creepers in the walls, this house is a sieve. We’re basically just canned tuna waiting to be opened."

"She’s right," Herman muttered. He stood up, looking out the window at the violet horizon. The light was changing, becoming a bruised, sickly orange. "There’s a pharmacy about six blocks from here. A Rite-Aid. In the old timeline, it was a death trap, but everything is moving faster now. If we go now, we might beat the big crowds."

"The 'big crowds' being the monsters or the people?" Lando asked, wiping sweat from his eyes.

"Both," Herman said. "But mostly the people. Desperate people are louder than Ravagers and twice as mean."

"I'm going with you," Hana said immediately.

Herman turned to her, his brow furrowing. "Hana, it’s broad daylight out there. Well, as daylight as it gets now. The Stalkers will be hunting. I need you to stay with Lando and keep a lookout."

"No way," Hana countered, stepping into his space. "Lando is currently vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass. You need someone to watch your back while you’re looting, and I’m faster than he is. Besides, I'm the one who noticed the canal was clear. My 'feelings' are hitting a hundred percent right now, Herman."

Herman looked at her for a long beat. The barista he’d tried to save out of a sense of guilt was gone. In her place stood someone who had just smashed a monster’s head with a lamp. "Fine. But we move fast. No lingering. We grab the antibiotics, the bandages, and any painkillers we can find. We’re in and out in five minutes."

"I'll stay here and... uh... guard the perimeter?" Lando suggested, looking hopeful.

"Barricade the bedroom door, Lando," Herman ordered, tossing him a heavy screwdriver. "If we’re not back in an hour, don't come looking for us. Just head toward the warehouse district."

"Don't say stuff like that! That’s how people die in movies!" Lando hissed, but he was already moving toward the door. "Just hurry back. I don't like the way the shadows are looking at me."

*

The air outside felt like it was charged with static. Herman and Hana moved along the line of overgrown hedges, staying low. The silence of the suburbs was unnatural. No birds, no wind—just the distant, low-frequency hum of the monoliths.

"Herman," Hana whispered as they darted behind a rusted SUV. "Why are you looking at the rooftops instead of the street?"

"Stalkers," Herman replied, his voice a mere breath. "They like the height. They drop down like stones. If you see a shadow that doesn't match the building, you hit the dirt."

"You’re doing it again," she noted.

"Doing what?"

"Talking like a soldier. Where did you actually learn all this? You told me you were a nerd, but nerds usually hide under the bed, they don't lead tactical raids on pharmacies."

Herman tightened his grip on his machete. "I told you, I had a dream. A very long, very vivid dream where I failed everyone. I’m just trying to get a passing grade this time."

"You’re doing better than a passing grade," she said, her hand briefly brushing his arm. "Look. There it is."

The Rite-Aid stood at the corner, its large glass windows shattered. Shards of glass glittered like violet diamonds on the pavement. The sliding doors were jammed open, half-covered by a fallen display of seasonal candy.

"Stay close," Herman said.

They slipped inside. The interior was a chaotic graveyard of consumerism. Shelves were toppled, and the floor was a slurry of spilled soda and crushed pill bottles. The smell of medicinal alcohol and rot was overwhelming.

"Over there," Hana pointed toward the back. "The pharmacy counter. It looks like the gate is still down."

"Good," Herman muttered. "That means the quick-and-dirty looters couldn't get into the back stock."

They scrambled over the counter. Herman used the butt of his machete to smash the lock on the heavy metal cabinet. It groaned and gave way.

"Jackpot," Herman whispered, pulling out boxes of amoxicillin and bottles of medical-grade iodine. "Hana, grab the gauze. All of it. Don't worry about the brand."

"I’m on it," she said, her hands moving with frantic efficiency.

They were halfway through filling their bags when a sharp clack echoed from the front of the store. It wasn't a monster. It was the sound of a boot hitting a piece of metal.

"Freeze," a voice rasped.

Herman slowly stood up, keeping his hands visible but his fingers inches from his blade. Three men stood in the aisle. They were disheveled, their eyes bloodshot and wide with a frantic, hollow hunger. The one in the middle held a double-barreled shotgun, the barrels shaking slightly.

"Put the bags down," the man said. His voice was thin, on the verge of breaking. "We need the meds. My brother is... he’s sick. We need everything."

"We’re all sick, man," Herman said, his voice dropping into that cold, terrifyingly calm register he’d used at the Stop-N-Go. "But taking our bag won't save your brother. It’ll just get you killed."

"Shut up! You think I won't use this?" The man stepped forward, the shotgun leveling at Herman’s chest. "Give us the bags or I’ll blast you right here!"

"Herman, just give it to them," Hana whispered, her face pale.

Herman didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on the man with the gun. "You fire that thing, and every Ravager in three blocks is going to hear the dinner bell. You’ll have about thirty seconds to enjoy those pills before your head is ripped off your shoulders. Is that the plan?"

"We don't care!" one of the other men shouted, brandishing a rusted crowbar. "We're dying anyway! Might as well take someone with us!"

"Look at me," Herman said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. He didn't look scared; he looked bored. "I’ve seen what happens when that gun goes off. I’ve seen the way the monsters peel the skin back. You don't want that. You want to live."

"I want the medicine!" the leader screamed.

"Tell you what," Herman said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a single, large bottle of high-strength painkillers and a box of basic bandages. He tossed them onto the floor between them. "Take those. They’ll help the pain. But the antibiotics and the surgical kit stay with us. If you try for the bag, I’ll kill you before you can pull the trigger. I’ve killed things much faster than you today."

The man with the shotgun hesitated. He looked at the bottle on the floor, then at Herman’s eyes. Herman didn't blink. He stood like a statue made of ice and old trauma.

"He’s crazy," the man with the crowbar whispered. "Look at his face. He’s not even blinking."

"Take the bottle and go," Herman said. "This is the only 'nice' I have left today. Don't waste it."

The leader looked at his companions, his chest heaving. With a shaky hand, he reached down and snatched the bottle of painkillers. "This isn't enough."

"It’s more than you had a minute ago," Herman replied. "Now, back away. Slowly."

The three men retreated, their eyes darting toward the shadows of the store. They vanished through the shattered front doors, disappearing into the violet haze of the street.

Herman let out a long, shuddering breath, leaning his weight against the pharmacy counter. His knuckles were white where he gripped his machete.

"That was... insane," Hana whispered, her hand over her heart. "You were going to let him shoot you?"

"He wasn't going to shoot," Herman said, though his voice was rough. "He was terrified. Terrified people wait for someone to tell them what to do. I just gave him an order."

"And if he had pulled the trigger?"

Herman finally looked at her. "Then I’d be dead, and you’d be running. But we’re still here. Let’s move. They might come back with friends, or the noise might have drawn something else."

They finished packing and sprinted out of the pharmacy, taking a zigzagging route back toward the house. Herman kept glancing back, his paranoia spiking with every rustle of a dead leaf.

"You okay?" Hana asked as they reached the safety of the hedges near their temporary home.

"I’m fine," Herman said shortly.

"You don't look fine. You look... disgusted."

Herman stopped, looking back toward the pharmacy. The sky was darkening now, the violet turning into a deep, bruising indigo. "The monsters are dangerous, Hana. They follow rules. They’re hungry, they kill. It’s simple. But desperate people? They’re unpredictable. They’ll look you in the eye and kill you for a bottle of aspirin they don't even know how to use."

"They were just scared, Herman," she said softly.

"Being scared doesn't make you a saint," Herman snapped, then softened his tone as he saw her flinch. "In the world that’s coming, the monsters are the easy part. It’s the humans we have to worry about. We can’t keep being 'polite'."

Hana looked at him, a flicker of sadness in her eyes that made Herman want to look away. "Is that what happened in your dream? You stopped being polite?"

Herman didn't answer. He turned and started walking toward the house, his bag heavy with the weight of things that shouldn't be so hard to get.

"Herman?" she called out.

"Let’s just get inside," he said. "Lando is probably having a heart attack by now."

As they climbed the porch, Herman took one last look at the empty street. The memory of the man’s shaking shotgun haunted him—not because of the danger, but because of the realization that his 'map' was becoming more useless by the hour. You could map a monster's nest, but you couldn't map the darkness in a man's heart when the world stopped making sense.

"Focus, Herman," he whispered to himself. "Focus on the gauze. Forget the people."

But as he pushed the door open to find a frantic Lando waiting with a frying pan, Herman knew it was a lie. The real war hadn't even started yet.