Apr 10th, 2026
Brenda lay wrapped in a plush comforter, a fortuitous find she'd salvaged from a crashed vermilion 2024 Renault Zoe she'd stumbled upon down an embankment. The trek paralleling the A1 to Kreuzlingen had been arduous, and while the comforter was cumbersome to carry, the sporadic temperature swings—ranging from scorching to teeth-chattering with the fickleness of the wind—made it an indispensable shield against the elements.
Until now, Brenda had avoided the cores of cities, but crossing the Rhine required her to venture into the heart of Konstanz. She sought refuge beneath the stark, utilitarian expanse of the Bicycle Bridge, nestled between two dense hedges. Here, Brenda watched the river's dance – her silent observance of her triumph—65 kilometers covered. Her expected four-day sojourn had morphed into a three-week slog through urban fringes, choosing punishing brambles over the allure of asphalt, scaling hills that relentlessly tested her resolve. At last, she stood on the cusp of her first objective.
Only a brisk half-kilometer dash across the bridge remained to mark the end of the beginning of her odyssey.
From her vantage point by the Rhine, Brenda contemplated the waters that churned below. Five days had passed since the power grid's fall, and as she edged closer to the border, the horizon's lights dissolved into obscurity. Solar-powered light posts studding public spaces became her beacons, their outlets a lifeline for her devices amidst the darkness. The stifling odor of decay and human waste hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the catastrophe that had befallen humanity.
Brenda's current spot by the river had presented a rare solace, her phone plugged into a lamppost's pocket of power. Resting on her makeshift bed, she acknowledged the toll that urban navigation had exacted on her body—muscles aching in protest from the unfamiliar demands of sneaking door to door, jarring against the routine of long strides on open roads.
Scattered around were the remnants of lives abruptly ceased—the occasional corpse lay hunched in grotesque repose, its presence a stark reminder of how quickly life could be snuffed out in this new world.
On the month's first day, Brenda had stumbled upon a momentary brush with forgotten luxury. Protected by a tall fence, an abandoned house offered sanctuary. Its backyard held a pristine hot tub, an oasis amidst despair. Brenda set about lighting a fire and filling the tub, her anticipation of warmth momentarily displacing caution. The steamy waters embraced her in a once-familiar comfort—a vestige of normalcy forever altered by societal collapse. Now, as she reminisced, just yards from the Rhine's biting cold, the memory of that bath became both a cherished encounter and a ghost of sorrow.
Inside the house, she had discovered a bar of soap—a commonplace item now as valuable as gold for one striving to remain clean in a world where sanitation seemed a luxury of the past. Although stripped of nourishment, the house yielded matches—a small yet significant find. Each tiny grace along Brenda's path sparked moments of hope against a backdrop of desolation, even as her scalp itched from too many days without the solace of soap and water.
Her path had led her to the Zollamt Emmishofer Tor border crossing—a ghostly shell of its former bustling self. A nearby grocery store's bare shelves told of panic and pilfered goods. Yet amongst the emptiness, she found nourishment: cans of Spam lined the shelf, shunned by some past looter's finicky taste.
Initially amused, Brenda quickly shifted to pragmatic survival—those cans equaled sustenance. Space constraints limited her hoarding, leading her to pack five cans into her backpack, with an extra two bulging awkwardly in her coat pockets—the discomfort a small price for the sense of security they provided.
Brenda now sat recharging as her phone did the same, devouring the penultimate can of Spam set aside for immediate consumption, its metallic zest blending with the salty pork. Here she fortified herself, ignoring the imposing bridge and the weight of fear it stirred within her.
Having climbed jagged cliffs and lofty peaks since girlhood, Brenda had never known fear of heights until now. Peering over the bridge, the water below incited an irrational, yet gripping phobia. She evaluated her hesitation—was it a stalling tactic, or did her bones genuinely plead for respite?
Under the bridge's skeletal shadow, Brenda mapped her route. The center strip promised the sanctuary of solar-powered Night Lights, yet the bridge bore no true shady refuge. Logic might suggest the edge, but the raw fear it instilled was paralyzing.
Since leaving the school, Brenda had been entangled in a sequence of fear-fraught encounters. Despite the draining effect, the alternative—death or worse, capture—was enough to spur a visceral will to survive. Reason had its place, but in the face of primal fear, she was unmistakably human.
While Brenda's phone recharged, she settled into the silence, occasionally interrupted by distant wails and the sound of water lapping nearby. She didn't want to venture outside her hiding spot, so she waited for what she believed was long enough for the phone to reach full charge. However, when she finally checked, the reading was only at 88%. She reluctantly accepted it as sufficient.
Gathering her gear, she secured the comforter and scaled the embankment to the bridge. Her resolve solidified into defiance as she grasped the outer railing—shrouded in relative darkness, it offered insufficient cover but better obscurity than the glaring center—and began her inching advance.
As the bridge’s apex came into view, a lone, hooded silhouette materialized on the opposite side, a shadow moving at a deliberate pace. The figure vaulted the rail, drifting into the illuminated thoroughfare, an apparent gesture of peace. She pressed on, her senses sharpened, her attention toggling between the stranger and her path. When they crossed, maintaining a wide berth to calm her instincts, everything seemed uneventful until a visceral urge impelled her to flee.
Running signaled weakness. She had transformed from an unknown to prey; the stranger took chase. His footsteps drummed an urgent cadence against the bridge as he quickly reduced the distance between them.
As he closed in, Brenda's instincts took over; she ducked and pivoted sharply, causing him to overshoot his approach. Her body moved with an involuntary urgency, propelling her back against her initial direction of escape. Without pausing to think, she shifted once more, now rushing toward him as he stumbled to reorient himself in confusion.
With a burst of might fueled by desperation, she hurled her last can of Spam at him from close quarters. Though it seemed destined to miss, his own ill-timed dodge sealed his fate—the can connected violently with his head as it jerked into its unyielding trajectory.
Between the quiet of the night emerged the awful certainty of a skull's surrender—a lone crack that heralded his downfall.
She approached with a predator's careful grace, vigilant for the faintest twitch or the hint of an ambush. There was a moment's silent relief when she realized he breathed no longer. Yet, she acknowledged the future specter of this relief, the specter that would haunt her in quieter hours. Clutched in his hand was a prize—a blade that felt right in her own, a saber stretching to a covetous 40cm—a boon beyond reckoning.
The can of Spam lay by his feet, bloody but miraculously undented. The thinness of the metal intrigued the scientific part of her brain, tempting her to ponder the precise geometry that allowed it to remain unscathed. However, with more pressing matters at hand, she reluctantly pocketed the tin and turned her attention to the lifeless body before her, the expanding pool of blood dampening the surroundings.
Her mind raced, grappling with a mix of curiosity and urgency. Thoughts of calculations and scientific conjectures were quickly overshadowed by the grim reality and the necessity of action. She knew she couldn't afford to be distracted by trivial wonders when there were far more important tasks demanding her focus.
A futile search for a scabbard left her empty-handed, but a belt, secured around his waist, was soon claimed hers. The scrutiny of his effects unveiled a half-filled canteen beside him, a bizarre companion for a journey like his. A swift scan painted a picture: this man was no wayfarer; this was no trail of pilgrimage. Either he had meant to cross to a nearby location, or the bridge had been his predatory perch.
Driven by urgency, she scavenged everything in haste and resumed her run, her previous fear drowned out by the drumming necessity of survival. Crosswater concerns abandoned, at last, she reached the far side—the 'real' Germany—and leapt over the railing. There, below the bridge, she found the secreted steps leading to the river's edge, her sanctuary. Entrenched in the recesses’ dark obscurity, she listened, attuned to every whisper of motion, every breath of the night.
Protection from the chilling winds brought a stillness heavy with the stench of decaying bodies mingled with the odors of unchecked sewage.
Calmer now, her heart gradually conceding to quiet, she filled her water bottles. Then, as she prepared to fill the canteen, a cautionary thought prompted her to sample its contents—a sharp tang of vodka stung her tongue. She scoffed at the imprudence—alcohol here, a dehydrating agent in survival's guise. Yet, the spirit's antiseptic potential stayed her hand; she couldn't waste it, not while it held some purpose, however grim.
Brenda found herself wandering through the silent city, barely encountering a soul along the way. The bitter cold seemed to ward off the living, while the presence of the decaying bodies served as haunting reminders of the abrupt halt that had befallen the world. It was an eerie and chilling contrast, providing a temporary respite from immediate threats, but also intensifying her desire to be back home before the weather shifted.
However, doubts plagued her mind as she contemplated the remaining 240-kilometer trek. Each step she took felt burdened by the enormity of the task ahead. If only she had learned how to drive, if only she could find a working car, if only the highways were passable, if only the world hadn't come to such a devastating end. In a different reality, reaching home would have been a mere 5.5-hour drive. She loosely calculated the time it had taken to cover the distance so far, realizing that the remaining distance could take as much as 12 weeks or even longer, especially considering the formidable obstacle that awaited her—the Alps.
The thought of the journey ahead weighed heavily on Brenda's mind. She understood the challenges she would face, the physical and emotional toll it would take. Yet, she had no choice but to continue, hoping for a safe passage through the desolation that now enveloped her world. As she prepared to embark on this arduous path, Brenda carried with her a delicate balance of hope and uncertainty, knowing that her resolve would be tested at every step.
Shaking off the creeping despair, Brenda wound her way through the city's alleys and over its obstacles, ensuring no gaze or footstep could detect her passage. She lugged her way up eight floors to find a small windowless room that offered the seclusion she so desperately needed.
In her newfound shelter, Brenda created a simple alarm system by arranging scattered items in front of the door—an early warning for any intruders. Clad in clothes now akin to a second skin, tainted by her journey's filth, Brenda felt a comforting warmth as she wrapped herself in the comforter. The outside world had turned bitterly cold with the shifting winds, but within her makeshift haven, she was insulated from the chill.
Clutching the blade she had named "Adlerkralle" close to her chest, Brenda allowed herself to drift towards the vulnerable state of sleep. This dilapidated room, within a landscape of ruin, was a meaningful milestone—she had made it back to her homeland. Despite the destruction that surrounded her, she lay in the quiet resolve that she had achieved her first objective. She had returned to her homeland; her initial goal was complete, amidst a landscape she hoped one day to help repair.
As her defenses weakened for sleep, the ghostly gaze of the man she had taken the life of started to torment her, and tears welled up, not just for him, but for the looming certainty of those who would surely follow.