Dawn broke slow.
The sky over Tacoma was a bruised orange-gray, the sun barely pushing through a ceiling of soot-stained clouds. It wasn't bright enough to cast shadows—just light enough to remind me I was still alive.
The wind came off the Sound today, wet and salt-heavy, bringing the scent of dead kelp and long-rotted sea freight. Somewhere out there, oil tankers had sunk in silence. Probably with their lights still on.
I slung the axe over my back, locked the chapel's inner gate, and stepped out through the narrow supply exit behind the vestry.
I had four goals for the day:
Confirm the mining path the stranger warned about.
Search the old radio relay tower near Broadway.
Recover antibiotics from the Walgreens off 11th Street.
Return before nightfall.
I had 11 hours, 3 ration strips, 1 full canteen, and no trust left to give.
The city had changed again.
Not visibly—not yet. But I could feel it.
Tacoma was quiet before, but now it was watching.
Buildings loomed differently. Alleys seemed deeper. Cars didn't just rust—they slumped, like they were sleeping. Even the crows had gone silent.
I stayed low, moving between wrecks and storefronts, avoiding wide streets. Every footstep was deliberate. Every sound measured.
At 19th and Ash, I found the path the man had marked.
He wasn't lying.
The road north was cratered. Homemade mines—pressure-triggered, with jagged steel rebar welded into the casing. Sloppy, but deadly.
Whoever set them wasn't aiming to trap beasts.
They were defending against people.
And that meant I was close to something important.
I turned east.
The radio relay stood atop an old municipal building, half-collapsed from a roof fire. Its steel tower was bent, but not broken. Antennas still clung to the upper latticework like rusted bones.
The front doors were chained shut. I didn't waste time cutting them—I climbed instead, up a fire escape slick with moss, past busted glass and water damage, into the fourth floor through a shattered office window.
The interior smelled like mildew, printer toner, and old blood.
I moved slow, clearing each room. Broken monitors. Upturned desks. A scorched whiteboard with the words "THEY'RE INSIDE US" written in looping red marker.
Not exactly reassuring.
The stairwell to the roof had partially collapsed. I navigated it by stepping between exposed metal ribs, testing each foothold with my weight.
When I reached the top, I saw it immediately: the antenna array had been rewired.
Clumsily.
Rushed.
Someone had stripped power cables and rerouted them into a jerry-rigged broadcast unit—military-grade, cracked open and welded into a rooftop junction box.
And it was on.
A small green light blinked faintly.
Pulsing once every six seconds.
Not a signal. A beacon.
I crouched beside it, twisted off the rusted panel, and found a battery still live, connected to a looped transmitter.
No sound. No static. Just signal cycling.
A breadcrumb.
Someone had tried to reach out.
Maybe someone still was.
I logged the coordinates on my map, snapped a photo with the cracked phone I used for notes, then shut the box and re-secured the wires.
Too risky to let that light keep blinking.
Not until I knew who might be watching it.
From the rooftop, I scanned the horizon.
Smoke curled from a distant rooftop west of the rail yard. A slow, steady column. Controlled. Not a fire. A signal.
Another trail.
Another survivor?
Or another trap?
I didn't know yet.
I descended carefully, marked the building on my journal as "Relay Site Alpha," and headed toward the Walgreens.
The pharmacy was only six blocks away, but every step felt like a story being told in tension. The sidewalks were cracked. Grass broke through the concrete. Vehicles rusted in place with shattered windows and claw marks across their doors.
At the entrance to the pharmacy, the automatic doors hung open like a yawn.
Inside, it was pitch black.
I lit my hand torch, keeping the beam low and wide.
Shelves were looted.
Ceiling tiles sagged.
And in the back corner, just past the pharmacy counter, I saw a figure crouched behind the shelves.
Still.
Silent.
Watching.
I didn't raise my weapon.
I didn't move.
I just spoke.
"I don't want trouble."
No response.
"Need antibiotics. I'll trade if you want."
The figure stirred.
Not quickly.
Not humanly.
Its head turned too slow, too smooth.
I saw eyes—glassy, gray, too wide. A jaw unhinged just enough to twitch unnaturally. Skin stretched too tight over bones.
No scent. No sound.
A mimic.
I backed away as quietly as I could.
It didn't follow.
Not right away.
But the moment I crossed the threshold back into daylight—it moved.
Fast.
I heard it before I saw it—scrabbling across the floor, claws on tile, limbs distorting to match human shape but wrong. Like it had learned how people moved, but not why.
I ran.
Not because I couldn't fight it.
Because I didn't know what else was nearby.
I sprinted down an alley, looped through a fire escape, climbed two floors, and dropped behind a billboard scaffold facing the pier.
The mimic didn't follow.
But I knew it hadn't given up.
Mimics don't give chase like dogs.
They wait.
They learn.
And then they wear your face.
I stayed still for fifteen minutes before moving again.
Avoided main roads. Circled back west.
Didn't get the antibiotics.
Didn't even grab painkillers.
But I made it out alive.
And that had to be enough.
When I returned to the church, the sun was dipping behind the skyline.
I reinforced the perimeter.
Checked the traps.
Lit three candles at the altar.
And sat down to write:
Day 12. Recon complete. Relay tower hijacked—beacon located. Unknown source. Antennas intact.Mimic spotted in Walgreens sector. No engagement. Behavior observed: silent, adaptive, non-aggressive unless approached.Path north confirmed mined. Tactical bridge route verified.Smoke seen west of rail yard—possible camp or signal fire. Will investigate later.Mental state: steady. Hunger: managed. Still alone. Still functional.Tacoma is dying. But it isn't empty.
I extinguished the candles one by one.
Darkness settled in.
But this time, I didn't mind it.
The city hadn't broken me yet.
And I was learning to speak its language.