Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) by Harry Manners

brained birds whenever he stopped to rest. He was moving north, never once diverting from an arrow-straight course, following the roads.
    At the end of the third day, while he was hopelessly lost in an area devoid of landmarks or signs of habitation, the sky grew dark and mist scaled the hills. Then the heavens opened, and rain began to hammer down over the carcass of the Old World.

V

     
    Sunlight streamed through the curtains, bathing the bed in an orange glow.
    Norman stirred slowly, his body cocooned in the sheets. It was some time before he could bring himself to move, listening to the din of the waking city.
    The room grew brighter, and the shifting shadows danced to the birds’ morning chorus. Against the far wall a chintzy sofa lay strewn with his muddied, half-rotten clothing. Surrounding it was a sea of trinkets and half-remembered trophies he’d liberated from countless ruined homes.
    As the fog of sleep waned, he found himself disoriented. He could only distantly recall returning home, and had no memory of going to bed whatsoever. The previous day seemed far away and unreal, but the dirt of the wilderness still clung to his skin, matting his hair, and he could smell its concentrated stink high up in the fleshy parts of his nose.
    They relied on a cacophony of hastily repaired knickknacks for power. Lighting the city at night commandeered what little they managed to store. Hot water was for daylight hours only, and so he had been forced to slouch away to bed after only a cold, cursory flannel wash.
    As wakefulness set in and he hauled his aching body free of the bed, his stomach rumbled to the sound of thunderous growling.
    They needed more food. What they had brought back wouldn’t last more than a day or two, even with all the cooks’ tricks and the pitiful portion sizes they had all grown used to.
    Rubbing his gut and pulling on fresh clothes, he found his gaze drawn to the walls. Whenever they returned from the wilds, it all seemed more unreal—the fact that endless crowds of people, real people, had once walked the streets outside filled him with unease.
    Before the End, his house had belonged to an elderly couple. Their personals spoke of a quiet, contented lifestyle, filling the house with a quaint and wholesome atmosphere that had outlasted not only them, but the entire world. He’d kept it all exactly as it’d been left, every picture and furnishing. It was a comfort to act as custodian to something so undeniably homely. Sometimes it felt almost as though the oldies had simply gone away on a trip, leaving him as housekeep.
    Little fantasies like that made the lonelier days bearable.
    He crossed the room to crack open the window, shivering as a frosty breeze brushed his cheeks, carrying with it the distant clink of cutlery upon plates and the chattering of sleep-addled voices. Those on field duty were having breakfast in the hall. He suspected that Lucian would be there too, watching for slackers like a hawk as usual—and waiting for Norman to show his face.
    But there would be enough time for a shower. He was grimed enough to be stiff as a board. He’d make time. As he grabbed a towel and headed into the hallway, floorboards creaking in his wake, his stomach rumbled once more.
    *
    Lucian was staring at him as they sat down, his brow furrowed into its signature pockmarked streak—a wrinkled, vertical canyon between his eyes. Norman averted his gaze, intent on quelling the ache in his belly before the day’s run of trouble began in earnest.
    There were around three dozen people in the kitchen, all eating ravenously. Breakfast was eggs and toast, courtesy of their own chickens. Despite the menu’s bold claim, the disappointment wrought by the sight of what actually lay on each plate—half a boiled egg and a single wedge of bread from the Mill’s brittle loaves—pervaded the room.
    The building was low and wide, with windows large enough to permit thick shafts of soft dawn light to splash down