The world ended not with a bang, but with a long
, slow, gasping wheeze.
By the time the dust settled, the only thing lef
t standing was the hunger.
Jace "The Hammer" Harlow didn’t play
football an
ymore. Not since the bombs. Not since the vampir
es rose from the ashes of the old world and clai
med what was left.
He walked alone through what used to be Nebraska
. Now it was just dirt and death.
“Human,” a voice hissed from the shadows.
He stopped. Raised his rifle.
“You're trespassing.”
The figure stepped into the moonlight. A woman.
Tall, sharp cheekbones, eyes like burning coals.
And teeth.
"Didn't know the wasteland had
property lines,"
Jace said.
She smiled. “It does now.”
Her name was Lysandra. She was old, she said, th
ough she looked no older than thirty. She claime
d she used to own half of Chicago before the war
. Before the bloodlines rose.
“You're still wearing a jersey,” she said, eyein
g the tattered fabric under his armor.
“I still remember how to throw a punch,” he said
.
She laughed. Cold. Sharp.
"You're not like the others," she said.
"You mean the ones who scream when I feed them t
o the wraiths?"
He didn’t flinch. “I’ve seen worse.”
She tilted her head. Studied him. Like a puzzle
she hadn’t solved yet.
“You fought in the war,” she said.
“Before it ended us.”
“And now?”
“Now I survive.”
She offered him a choice. Serve her, or die.
Simple. Efficient. Ruthless.
He didn’t trust her. But trust was dead, like ev
erything else.
He took the deal.
They walked together through the ruins of small
towns, cities now graveyards.
“You used to be someone,” she said.
“I used to be a quarterback.”
She smirked. “You’re faster now.”
He was. The virus had changed him. Made him some
thing else. Something almost like her.
Almost.
They found a camp outside what used to be Lincol
n. Survivors. Children. Old people.
Lysandra’s kind didn’t tolerate weakness.
“They’re not yours,” Jace said.
“They’re not mine yet,” she corrected.
“You're going to drain them.”
“Unless you stop me.”
He stared at her. “Why would you let me?”
She stepped close. “Because I want to see what y
ou’re made of.”
He didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Not since the change.
But he dreamed. Blood. Screams. The smell of bur
nt rubber and ash.
He dreamed of her, too.
She haunted him. In the way she moved. The way s
he spoke. The way she watched him like she was w
aiting for something.
“Why me?” he asked one night.
She didn’t answer. Just touched his face. Her fi
ngers were cold.
“You’re different,” she said.
“So are you.”
He found out why when the others came.
Rival vampires. Warlords from the east. They wan
ted her head.
Said she was a traitor. Said she was hiding some
thing.
“You made a deal with the enemy,” their leader s
pat.
Jace stood beside her. Rifle in hand. Gun at the
ready.
“She’s not the enemy,” he said.
“You don’t know what she is.”
He looked at her. “Tell me.”
She didn’t flinch.
“I’m the first,” she said.
“The first what?”
“The first vampire… who doesn’t want this war.”
The leader laughed. “Liar.”
Jace fired.
Chaos erupted.
Guns. Fangs. Fire.
He fought like he used to on the field. Precisio
n. Power. Ruthlessness.
And he saved her.
Later, bleeding and broken, she whispered, “Why?
”
He looked at her. “Maybe I’m different too.”
She kissed him. Blood on her lips. Ash in the ai
r.
Not a romance from the old world. Not soft. Not
sweet.
But real.
They walked away from the battlefield together.
Behind them, the war still raged.
But for the first time, there was a chance—just
a chance—it could end.
