Supremacy In Apocalypse

Chapter 8

Owen followed the road towards Haven 3, occasionally moving aside for the people hurrying past him with bags and cartons in their arms.

The closer he got, the more crowded the street became. Small groups stood beside the buildings, arguing over supplies or searching through the things they had brought back from the city. A few people glanced at him as he passed, but most quickly returned to whatever they were doing.

By the time he reached the registration building, his injured thigh had begun aching again. He slowed his steps, allowing a woman carrying a basket to pass before making his way through the entrance.

Several rows of benches occupied the hall, with counters arranged along the opposite wall. People sat with bags between their feet, while others stood together, speaking loudly enough that Owen could barely hear the worker addressing someone at the far end.

He glanced across the counters until he found the one marked for territory registration.

Fortunately, there was nobody standing before it.

Owen had barely taken another step when a man sitting near the entrance looked up at him. His gaze moved from Owen's face to the dried blood covering his clothes, and almost immediately, he pulled his bag closer.

"What's he doing here?"

The man shifted towards the other end of the bench, nearly knocking into the woman seated beside him. She frowned and pushed his elbow away, but the complaint on her lips disappeared when she followed his gaze.

Her eyes settled on Owen's torn sleeve.

"Goodness, what happened to him?"

"Does it look like I asked?" the man returned, pulling the hem of his shirt over his nose. "Just don't let him come near me."

Owen looked down at his clothes before returning his attention to the counter. He had become so accustomed to the blood that he had almost forgotten how he must look to everyone else.

The woman gathered the bag resting beside her and placed it on her lap as he approached. Owen continued past without looking at her, but that didn't stop her from leaning farther away.

"Should he even be walking around like that?" she asked.

"I am sure he's one of the reasons the disease started spreading to begin with," the man replied. "Look at him. He probably crawled out of some abandoned building and came straight here."

A few people turned towards Owen. One of them lowered the cup he had been drinking from, while another quickly moved his belongings from the edge of a bench.

Soon, people who hadn't noticed his arrival were following the others' gazes.

Owen adjusted the torn fabric over his shoulder and continued towards the registration counter. The worker behind it had already looked up, although his eyes were fixed on Owen's clothes rather than his face.

"Someone should tell him where the washing area is," a woman muttered.

"Would washing even help at this point?"

A few people laughed, and the man near the entrance lowered his shirt long enough to join them.

Owen's fingers tightened briefly around his sleeve. He released it before the fabric could pull against the wound beneath and stepped around a bag lying in the aisle.

The man had risen from the bench by then, still clutching his belongings. In his attempt to put more distance between them, he had positioned himself directly in Owen's path.

"Don't come this way," he warned, raising his free hand. "There's enough space over there."

Owen stopped before him.

The man pointed towards the other side of the hall, where several people were standing between the benches. Owen glanced in that direction before looking back at the clear path behind him.

"Get out of my way," he said coldly.

The man's hand remained in the air for a moment.

"Are you talking to me?"

"You're the one standing in front of me."

A woman seated nearby pulled her feet beneath her bench. The man glanced at her, then towards the others watching them, his grip tightening around the handle of his bag.

"Then keep your distance when you pass," he muttered, stepping aside. "Some of us are trying to stay alive here."

Owen walked past him and headed straight towards the counter.

Behind him, the man was still speaking, although Owen paid little attention to what he was saying. His thigh hurt, his clothes were sticking to his wounds, and the empty space before the registration desk was beginning to look considerably more inviting than the rest of the hall.

The worker watched him approach with a frown.

A pen rested between his fingers, suspended above an open register. His gaze dropped to Owen's hands when he stopped before the counter, then moved towards the bloodstains on his sleeve.

Owen kept his hands by his sides while the worker glanced past him towards the entrance. After a few moments, the man's attention returned to him, his frown deepening.

"What do you want?"

His voice carried across the nearest benches. The man who had moved out of Owen's way turned towards them, still holding his bag against his chest.

Owen met the worker's gaze.

"I want to register a haven in my name."

The pen stopped moving beneath the worker's fingers. Behind Owen, someone broke off in the middle of a sentence, and the laughter near the benches died away.

Within moments, the entire hall had fallen silent.