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People had stockpiled supplies in the days before it all happened, stuffing their basements and rooms and closets with as much food as they could. The shelves are mostly empty, save for a few things here and there.
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His footsteps echo like ghosts as he strolls the aisles, trolley rattling in hand. He throws on a sweatshirt and walks down to the corner store. After yesterday, I deserve to splurge a little, he thinks. The next day, he decides he deserves a good meal for brunch. That night, for the first time in years, he dreams of the ocean. Or rather, that he has become something else. But he cannot shake the feeling that something has changed in him. He looks exactly the same as he did the day before, the day before that, and the day before that. He sits back down in bed, face in his hands. Brooding and mysterious, some had said in a past life. A mess of curly dark hair hangs over his brow. In the mirror, a young man stares back at him. But his fingers feel nothing out of the ordinary. Half-expecting to feel a strange bump, some tumor, something to explain the dogged sense of malaise buried beneath his skin.
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Over his neck and shoulders down his navel to his feet. He throws off the sheets and sprints to the bathroom, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He flexes his fingers, wiggles them around, mimics a finger gun and shoots. On his left hand, a faint scar runs from the top of his index finger to his wrist, curling around the middle of his palm.
#Unravel two how to get past rusty wheel skin
The skin is tanned from years spent by the sea. He sits up frantically and stares at his hands. On the 10th day, he wakes up and his body does not feel right. He waits until the inevitable silence is too much, and only then does he go in. In the moments of silence following every rap of his knuckles, his heart jumps. He feels silly doing it, but he does it anyway. Wherever he goes, he knocks before he enters. He grabs a shopping cart from the nearby mart and starts going around his block, door by door. What he has in the house won’t last the week. On the 2nd day, he starts building something of a food supply. The cashier had laughed and said, The city stays vibrant even through all this talk of the calamity, eh? Just yesterday, he had complained to the cashier about how noisy the city got at night, even under martial law. Checking, desperately, for some sign of life. Gusts of ash and dust spiral in the air as his bike crosses gravel, pavement, gutter and grass. He spends the morning pedaling through the streets. He leans across the bed and peeks through the bedroom curtains. Nothing, save the occasional rustling of trees. He sits in bed, waiting to hear something. On the first day, he wakes up and everything is quiet.