18 Floors Above the Apocalypse

The leader of the pack was feeling pretty smug, thinking he'd slash the tires for an easy win. But as he got closer, he realized this car was something else sturdy, tough, and looking almost brand new. No way this baby had been through multiple natural disasters. "Must be some rich guy's ride," he thought. "No way it stays this pristine otherwise."

The windows were tinted, making it impossible to see inside. Circling the car, he found a tiny crack in one of the windows, just enough to peek through. Pressing his eye to the gap, he caught sight of a woman inside, alone. His blood started pumping faster. He couldn't make out her face, but from what he could see, she was living the good life.

Stella sensed something was off. Squinting through the privacy glass, she observed the figures outside. No rush. She noted the five men were armed with crude weapons only: a blood-stained baseball bat with nails, a sharpened steel pipe, a hefty iron rod, and a butcher's knife. No guns.

Braving the sandstorm for a heist meant they were likely local thugs, preying on refugees and survivors.

Three of them had faces pockmarked with scars, probably from acid rain, making them look even more menacing.

Seeing she wasn't armed with a gun, they visibly relaxed. One of them, showing off his rotten teeth, kicked the door and leered, "Morning, beautiful. Time to rise and shine."

Stella, confident they had no guns, slowly rolled down her window, feigning fear. "What do you want? My husband went out to scavenge for food, he'll be back any minute now."

"Husband? In this storm? He's probably a goner," one of them chuckled, eyeing her fair and delicate face. Their words grew more lewd, "But don't worry, we can take care of you from now on."

A bloodied knife tapped against the glass, "Open up, darling, let's have a little chat inside!"

Their jeering grew louder as Stella, still playing dumb, shook her head fearfully. "My husband will be back soon, he's a tough guy. You better leave while you can."

"Tough guy?" they laughed uproariously. "Where's this tough guy? Don't worry, he's nothing compared to us."

Despite their taunts, Stella refused to open the door. Seeing her frightened, deer-in-headlights look only emboldened them further, itching to drag her out and have their way.

One, unable to contain his menacing gaze, threatened, "Don't push your luck, lady. Either let us in, or come out yourself, or we'll finish you off."

Left with no choice, Stella timidly opened the door and stepped out.

The car's interior was stuffy; her coat hung open, revealing her shapely figure.

"Wow, haven't seen curves like that in years," they murmured among themselves.

As Stella moved to a more sheltered spot, the men closed in around her, their eyes alight with predatory hunger.

They ranged from middle-aged to young brutes, their weapons a testament to their criminal pasts, hands stained with countless victims' blood. One of the men, too eager, reached out to touch Stella's face.

She sidestepped, and in a swift motion, drew a submachine gun from behind her back.

Her movements were swift, decisive.

She mowed down the ones in front, then spun to target those behind her.

One of them, shot but not down, stumbled away into the storm.

Stella didn't chase after him, deeming it a waste of bullets. Instead, she pulled out her samurai sword and methodically began to finish the job.

The leader, a bullet in his chest, crawled backward, his face ashen, begging, "Mercy, miss, mercy..."

"Mercy?" Stella pressed the sword's tip into his wound, slowly pushing deeper, "Hasn't anyone ever told you, in all these years, never to mess with a woman who's still got her shine in times like these?" The blade plunged in, the man's screams cut short, and soon he was silent, without a chance to plead further.

Looking into the fading storm, Stella donned her wind goggles and pursued the remaining man.

His blood gushed out as he fell, watching her approach with terror in his eyes.

He had been right behind her, witnessing her conjure a weapon out of thin air.

Panicking, he pleaded, "Don't come any closer."

"Scared?" Stella smiled, waving her bloodied samurai sword, "You seemed pretty tough just a moment ago."

"You-you've got Arcadia," he blurted out in his fright.

Why didn't he have it? All these years, living worse than a dog-it wasn't fair!

If he had Arcadia, he'd be the one standing victoriously today.

Stella's smile softened, her voice gentle, "I was only going to give you a quick end, but it seems that won't suffice."

With that, she drove the sword straight into his heart, several more times for good measure.

For those who sought death, Stella had no mercy.

The man died thoroughly, eyes wide open in the final shock.

The encounter was a lesson for Stella. The storm was dying down, and the likelihood of encountering others was increasing.

She couldn't just wait openly anymore. What if it wasn't Jasper who found her, but a pack of wolves instead?

Even ordinary folk could not be underestimated; desperate for water and food amidst the storm, the meekest lamb could turn into a demon. But without a marker, how could she signal to Jasper that she was waiting?

After some thought, Stella tore a long red strip from Arcadia and tied it to a conspicuous tree, letting it flutter in the dwindling storm.

Returning to her vehicle, her wrist, strained from the recoil of the gun and the force of wielding the sword, was swollen and throbbing with pain.

After treating the wound and gearing up, she stowed the car in Arcadia and, armed with a trekking pole, set out into the storm to search the surrounding forest.

In her previous life, Jasper had survived far worse; he wouldn't have perished before the cataclysm.

...

Rosie awoke groggily to find herself in a pitch-dark cave, the air thick with foul smells.

Her body was cold and stiff, and she couldn't move a muscle.

It took a while for her mind to clear, and she realized her emergency pack was gone, and her limbs were bound.

She'd been captured.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out the cave, a makeshift prison, where half a dozen ragged women sat or lay, each one gaunt and lifeless. They weren't tied up, but their bodies bore the marks of abuse, devoid of any spirit.

She tried to remember the recent days, her brows knitting together, her bright eyes clouding with worry. She wondered how her brother, sister-in-law, and Cooper were faring. Her brother had grabbed her hand, but the mountainous storm had swept her away.

Rosie was caught in the eye of the storm, her body whirling and ascending with the tempest's fury before being hurled skyward and then smashed back down to earth. When she came to, her body was nearly buried in the golden sand.

Every inch of her ached, battered and bruised from head to toe, her ribs throbbing so intensely that each breath was a battle against agony.

But the real kicker? She couldn't see a thing.