The stew was simple just roots, beans, and whatever dried meat Nana could find but to the children, it was a feast.
One of the boys said with his mouth full.
"This is the best one yet!"
"Is this rabbit?"
Nana chuckled as she sat down with her bowl. "
If it is, it sure ran slow."
Everyone laughed. Johnquis nudge Jiana with his elbow.
"I think Jiana put something special in it."
"Yeah, my secret ingredient—love and dirt."
The kids responded,
"Ew!"
"I washed the carrots!"
One of the older girls pointed at Johnquis's nearly empty bowl.
"Big Brother ate faster than anyone!"
"I'm always on patrol for seconds."
He said, holding his spoon like a sword.
"Can we have stew again tomorrow?"
Nana said gently,
"We'll see. Depends if the world gives us enough."
Jiana looked at her, then at Johnquis.
"We'll make it enough."
There was a beat of silence, a heavy but hopeful pause.
Then a clatter.
"Oops!"
One of the boys dropped his spoon.
Johnquis bent to pick it up.
"You gotta hold it like this—"
He froze.
His spoon. The broth.
It had turned deep red.
Blood.
Thick, oily, almost black.
The steam rising now smelled like iron.
The warmth of the room evaporated. The laughter warped.
Johnquis's hands began to shake.
He looked around.
All the kids were still eating but their mouths were smeared with red. Their bowls overflowed with blood. Their eyes were hollow. Empty.
"J-Jiana?"
He turned but she was staring at him, face pale, lips red, blood dribbling down her chin.
"I saved the last piece for you."
Johnquis screamed.
The bowl shattered. He fell back.
And—
Snap.
He jolted upright, breath ragged. Sunlight cut through broken windows, stabbing his eyes.
Dust swirled above him. The cathedral was gone.
Stone replaced with broken tile. Benches with rusted gym lockers. The sound of kids laughing replaced with the hum of dead silence.
He was back in the gym.
The Runner looked at him, crouched nearby. Head tilted. Concern in its glowing eyes.
Johnquis stared at the cracked ceiling, chest still rising and falling fast.
He wiped the sweat from his brow.
"It's always that. The same dream again and again… whenever I nearly die."
He sat up, spine aching, arms heavy.
"I still hope to go back to that."
His voice cracked.
"They were the only good thing I ever had."
The Runner sat beside him and placed one of its hands, clawed, not quite human on his shoulder. Gentle.
Johnquis exhaled. Slow.
"I hate waking up."
A long silence.
He looked sideways at the Runner.
"You ever dream?"
The Runner tilted its head again, unsure.
"No, probably not. Maybe it's better that way."
He looked toward the shattered windows. Afternoon light poured through. The warmth on his skin didn't feel like the cathedral, but it was something.
Their footsteps sounded loud over the broken asphalt as they walked. The buildings on both sides leaned inward, windows shattered, signs rusted.
Johnquis kept walking, eyes on the cracked ground ahead, but his mind was still trapped in the dream. The laughter. The stew. The blood.
The Runner walked beside him, steps light, always just a pace behind, as if tethered to his shadow. Neither spoke for a while. Just the wind. Just their breath.
Finally, Johnquis muttered,
"I didn't want to wake up. That place... it felt like home. For kids like us. Ones who lost everything."
A gust of wind rolled through the hollow buildings, rattling loose shutters. A paper fluttered by, too faded to read.
"Everyone there was family. Didn't matter where they came from or what they'd been through. We treated each other the same. We cared. We looked out for one another…"
His eyes were teary.
"I miss everyone. The kids. Nana. Father Jose. Jiana…"
He wiped at his face, but the tears still came.
"I remember how they laughed… even when there was nothing to laugh about. We were always hungry, always scared, but somehow… we felt safe. We had each other."
He looked away.
"Now they're all gone. And I'm still here."
The Runner bumped its head lightly against his shoulder. He let out a quiet chuckle.
"Yeah… right now, I've got you. Just last night, we almost had our best moment yet. Nearly getting flattened by a damn Tanker and somehow, we unlocked that HeartBond thing. Still thinking about that line… something about duo bonuses, right?"
He smiled.
"Argh, I miss the stew. I still remember the smell… how it filled our stomachs. Just whatever vegetables we could find, maybe a scrap of meat if you were lucky."
He glanced at the Runner.
"What? Not a crime to talk about food. Well, maybe it is for me. I'm half-Eater. If I eat too much, I might want more. Then more. And lose whatever's left of being human."
Suddenly, the conversation stopped.
Clink.
Clatter.
He stopped.
The Runner stopped too, head snapping toward the noise.
Another clang. This time sharper. A can bouncing off concrete.
Johnquis raised a hand slowly, signaling silence.
He crouched, pulling the cloak tighter around the Runner and motioning for it to stay back. He crept forward, keeping low as he approached the crumbling shell of a nearby convenience store.
The glass was mostly gone. A few bent bars of the security gate stuck out. Inside, shadows moved.
He stepped closer and he heard it.
Laughter. Human.
"Man, I forgot how good this stuff tastes even if it's, like, a hundred years past expired."
Another voice, deeper, chuckled.
"Bro, I'm pretty sure this expired in the old world. Look at this date. It's so old it's in a different calendar."
A woman joined in.
"So? We're half-Eater. Our guts can handle anything."
Johnquis eased to the edge of the doorway and peeked in.
Three figures. Eater Blades. One woman, two men.
Their armor was worn but intact, each with their colored stone embedded in the back of their right hand, all bronze rank.
The woman sat cross-legged on the dusty counter. The woman sat cross-legged on a dusty counter. She'd cracked open an old MRE, steam rising from gray paste.
"I don't care if it tastes like dead fungus. It's warm, and it's food. After a month of starving, this is a feast."
The guy near the door opened a dented can. No label, just thick red syrup and mush that might've once been cherries.
"Still sweet. Probably radioactive. Whatever. We're half-Eater. What's a little gut cancer?"
The last one dug behind the counter, tossing out old packets of noodles, crackers, anything salvageable. Then he checked a rusted fridge.
"Yo—found a treasure chest!"
He pulled out a stack of dusty cans, smiling like a kid, and raised them up like trophies.
"Alcohol! Real stuff! They say it gets better with age, right? So what does a 333-year-old vintage taste like?"
"Time to find out, let's toast!"
The woman laughed.
"I badly need this. After all those damn monsters? I'm drinking until I forget what they look like."
Johnquis exhaled slowly. His shoulders eased. Not Eaters. Just a squad on break.
"They don't watch what they eat... It'll catch up to them eventually. Half-Eaters with no discipline, might as well be monsters waiting to happen."
He turned to leave but the next words made him stop in his tracks.