Someone Planned to Live

The sound that woke Lily wasn’t thunder or the groaning of the old church walls—it was the raucous, sharp cawing of crows. At first it twisted into her dream, part of the ruins she stumbled through in her sleep, but the noise sharpened, grew louder, until it became impossible to ignore.

She sat bolt upright on the pew, her hand immediately going to the knife at her belt.

Hep stirred nearby, muttering under his breath, half-dreaming still. The horse, sleepy and slack-jawed just moments ago, tossed its head nervously, snorting at the air.

“They’re circling,” Lily muttered, scanning the ceiling like she might see through the boards.

Hep blinked blearily. “Circling? What’s circling?”

“Crows,” she said, her voice tight. “A lot of them.”

The world outside had changed after the Fall, in ways even scientists hadn't predicted. A rare avian disease, aggressive and brutal, had wiped out hawks, eagles, owls—anything larger, anything that once kept balance in the skies. Only the crows had survived, and they hadn't just survived—they'd thrived.

They had taken the place of vultures, but worse, smarter. They could recognize human faces. They knew how to open latches, how to use rocks as tools, how to pass messages from one of their kind to another. In the old world, it had been a curiosity, a fascination. Here, it was a goddamn horror story.

They hadn’t fallen to the avian sickness, but they had become carriers of it. And now, rumor said they could carry the sickness to humans too.

“Pack,” Lily said, shoving her few belongings into her battered pack with frantic hands. “Now. We can’t stay here.”

Hep was already moving, grim-faced. He pulled the saddle bags together, lashed them in quick knots, and helped Lily lift the horse’s lead rope.

They led the horse toward the front door, but Lily hesitated. She crept toward the window, where the warped pages of a torn-apart Bible had been glued and nailed across the glass, a sad attempt at privacy—or prayer. She peeled back a corner and peered through.

Her stomach dropped.

The ground outside looked alive with crows. Black shapes hopping and fluttering, pecking at the dirt, clambering over each other, dozens upon dozens. And overhead, the sky churned black with more.

“There’s too many,” she said, voice hoarse.

Hep joined her at the window and hissed through his teeth. “Jesus.”

“We can't go out there.”

They wheeled the horse around sharply, the poor creature stumbling in its confusion. Lily yanked the rope hard and pulled it toward one of the empty rooms down the narrow hall, somewhere they could hide, somewhere with a door. They wrestled it through the too-small doorway. The horse balked at the threshold, hooves clattering against the splintered wood, until finally it shoved through.

The floor groaned under its weight—and then came a hollow thunk, almost like knocking on a coffin lid.

Both Lily and Hep froze.

They exchanged a look. Hep’s eyes widened a fraction.

Slowly, gently, they coaxed the horse two steps backward into the hall. Lily knelt and rapped her knuckles against the floorboards.

Hollow.

She pried at the loose plank with the tip of her knife. With a soft crack, it lifted, and stale, dry air rushed up to meet her.

A hidden door.

She and Hep worked quickly, pulling up boards until a rough rectangle yawned open beneath them. A ladder—old, iron, and pitted with rust—led down into the dark.

Lily lowered herself slowly into the shelter, the iron rungs slick against her calloused palms. A thick musty smell rose to meet her—earth, mildew, and the faint metallic bite of old canned food. She wrinkled her nose but kept moving until her boots hit the packed dirt floor with a muted thud.

A single dangling bulb swung gently overhead, its cord frayed and useless now, but when Lily's eyes adjusted to the gloom, her breath hitched.

“Holy hell,” she muttered, reaching out to touch the nearest stack.

Plastic crates towered around her, piled with the frantic desperation of someone who had seen the end coming and tried—tried so hard—to beat it. Clear cases of bottled water gleamed in the dim light, dust-covered but intact. Beneath them, tubs of dried grains—rice, lentils, something that looked like barley—sat neatly labeled in black marker: COOK BEFORE EATING.

On a splintering shelf along the wall, cans were lined up like soldiers, label after label of beans, corn, potatoes, peaches, soups thick enough to stand a spoon in. A crate nearby had been upturned, its contents spilling out across the floor—vacuum-sealed bags of jerky, crumbling protein bars, packets of powdered milk.

“Lily?” Hep called down from above, voice tense.

“You need to get down here. Now.” Her words echoed up the shaft.

Hep clambered down awkwardly, favoring his bad knee, landing with a grunt. He straightened, wiped the sweat and rain from his forehead with his sleeve, and took one look around.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The storm outside rattled the windows of the house, and the crows screamed against the rain, but down here there was only a heavy, waiting silence.

"This...this is months’ worth," Hep finally breathed. His voice was reverent, like he’d stepped into a shrine.

“Maybe longer if we stretch it," Lily said, running her hand along a sack of oats, the fabric brittle with age but holding. "If rats didn’t get to it."

She moved deeper into the small room, boots crunching over loose dirt and a scattering of broken glass from something long ago. She found another corner, this one set with what looked like medical supplies—several basic first-aid kits, stacks of gauze, antiseptic wipes hardened into useless bricks but a few sealed alcohol bottles still looking clean. There was even a dusty canister marked ANTIBIOTICS in a neat, precise hand. She couldn’t tell yet if they were expired, but it was more hope than she’d had in a long time.

And then—Lily knelt to pull at a wooden crate half-hidden under a tarp. With a grunt, she slid it out into the middle of the floor and pried it open with the blade of her knife.

Inside sat a small arsenal. A few old bolt-action rifles, lovingly cleaned and wrapped in oiled cloth. Two battered revolvers with boxes of ammunition sealed in thick plastic to keep out the damp. A stack of hunting knives, their blades wrapped in leather sheaths, still sharp when she tested one with a thumb.

She let out a slow, shaky laugh.

"Someone planned to live through it," Hep said, voice low. “And they meant to fight if they had to.”

Lily nodded grimly. She wondered what had happened to them. The thought of the man in the back room flashed through her mind—the smell of rot, the Bible pages nailed over the windows. Maybe he had been the one who stockpiled all this. Maybe it had never been enough to save him in the end.

Or maybe he just lost the will to keep fighting.

“Doesn’t matter now," Lily said aloud. "We make it matter."

Together, they started handing supplies up through the hatch carefully, listening with half an ear for any hint that the crows might have broken through a weak window or battered open a rotten shutter. Every few minutes, Hep would glance nervously at the door, but the house, though fragile, held.

They stashed the goods in the empty bedroom where they could block the door if needed: water, grains, canned food, and a small pile of weapons tucked into a corner, wrapped back up tightly against prying eyes.

By the time they finished, both were trembling with exhaustion, muscles weak from adrenaline and relief. Lily slumped against the doorframe, her hair damp with sweat, staring at the bounty they had found like she couldn't quite believe it was real.

"Two days," Hep said finally. "Maybe three if we're careful."

Lily nodded, feeling the thrum of hunger in her bones, but less desperate now.

"And then we move," she said. "Before the crows find a way in. Or before something worse does."

The horse nickered softly from the hall where it stood, shifting its weight, as if sensing the tension crackling in the air.

They still had the mountain range ahead—the Grencord Mountains, Marcus's clue etched into the heart of the map he’d left behind. Lily could almost see them now, rising jagged and dark in the distance, a promise and a threat all at once.

But first, they'd survive the night. One night at a time. One step at a time. That was all they could do.

Above them, the horse snorted, uneasy. Somewhere in the distance, the crows shrieked and battered their wings against the sides of the house, angry and impatient.

“They won’t get in,” Lily said, more to herself than to Hep. “Not if we stay quiet. Not if we’re smart.”

Hep grunted in agreement. The horse settled in the hall, ears flicking at every noise, but mercifully it stayed calm.

Night came heavy and wet again, the rain hammering against the Bible-patched windows, the crows retreating only slightly with the dying light. Lily and Hep curled up on the floor of the empty room, stomachs finally full for once, and tried to pretend the world beyond the walls was not waiting to eat them alive.

They had time now. At least a little more time. And sometimes, that was enough.

Part 17 of a series