Chapter Text
I wake up when the world finally stops trying to cook me alive.
Late evening. Maybe early night? Hard to tell anymore… My house is still radiating heat from the day, every wall warm enough to fry an egg on. I peel myself off the mattress like a sticker that’s lost half its glue, groaning as the sweat dries cold on my skin. Another day survived by sleeping straight through it. Another night where I pretend that makes me smart instead of just desperate.
I shuffle to the kitchen, crack open the faucet, and let the water run until it stops sputtering brown. One sip. Two. Doesn’t taste like rust tonight, probably a good omen. I grab the last can of beans I’ve been avoiding and stare at it like maybe if I look hard enough, it’ll magically turn into something that isn’t beans… but, it doesn’t.
Fine. Whatever. Dinner is dinner.
I eat leaning against the counter, listening to the house creak and pop as it exhales the day’s heat. I’m thinking about maybe stepping outside for a breath of cooler air, just for a second, just to not feel like I’m trapped in a slow cooker, when something nudges at the back of my skull.
A sensation. A pull.
Three loud and frantic knocks. I didn’t hear footsteps, didn’t even hear the boards on the porch complain—and they complain about everything these days.
I freeze. Spoon halfway to my mouth. Something feels… off. Heavy. Expectant. I set the bowl down and drift toward the front door, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, trying to convince myself it’s nothing. Just nerves. Just heat. Just the usual cocktail of being alive when everyone else is ash.
I unlock the door, crack it open—
—and stop.
There’s something on my porch. Right in the center of the boards, placed gently like it’s a little offering at a shrine:
A can of peaches.
Clean. Untouched. Almost glowing under the moonlight. It’s sitting right in the center of the porch, placed so neatly and innocently, it looks… staged. Like somebody set it down with both hands. Like it mattered. My pulse catches. Because nobody leaves canned fruit out here unless they want something. I step onto the porch, look around—nothing but empty fields, shadows, and the distant orange glow of the town still smoldering like an old bruise.
No footsteps. No drag marks. No sound.
Just the can.
Waiting for me.
I crouch down. Pick it up. It's cool to the touch—too cool. Like it wasn’t sitting out here long. Like whoever dropped it off was here minutes ago. Watching. My stomach twists. Not with hunger. With dread. Because gifts don’t just appear on porches out here.
Not for free.
And definitely not for me. Gifts don’t show up in apocalypse country unless someone wants something.
I bring it inside anyway. Because I’m starving. Because I’m stupid. Because I’m alone.
I turn the can over in my hands, thumb brushing the label. The print’s faded, the colors sun-bleached and peeling, but I recognized the brand instantly—hell, everyone who grew up anywhere near here would. Bright little picture of syrup-dripping wedges, the kind of design they slapped on everything in the late 90s to convince you life was getting better even when it absolutely wasn’t.
“Сочные Доли.”
Juicy Slices.
God. I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid.
Peaches were… special back then. A treat you either found by miracle or stole by necessity. Half the time the cans tasted like tin and disappointment—but every once in a while, you’d get one that actually tasted like summer. My chest tightens. I swallow around it. How long has it been since I’ve had peaches?
Months? Years? A lifetime?
The can’s heavier than I remember. Cold, too. Like it just came out of a working fridge—something almost nobody has anymore unless they’ve hoarded a generator or made pacts with devils.
Or Visitors.
My stomach growls at the thought of actual sweetness—of something that isn’t beans, stale bread, or whatever mystery ration I choke down on a good night. I didn’t even realize I missed fruit until this exact moment, standing barefoot on the porch with a can of nostalgia cradled in my hands.
“…What—” I mutter under my breath. “the fuck..?" The longer I stand there, the more the sweetness curdles into something sour in the back of my mind.
Why peaches?
Why now?
The night air shifts, brushing the back of my neck like cold fingertips. I look out across the yard. Nothing moves. The fields are empty. The burned horizon glows its usual dying-orange. But something… something is wrong.
This can isn’t just food.
It’s familiar.
Personal.
Intentional.
Like someone knew what would make me pause. Like someone remembered something about me. I step back inside, locking the door behind me even though I know it won’t stop anything determined. The can of peaches stays in my hand while I flip off the lights and scan the windows, the corners, the dark outside.
Quiet. Still. Too still.
My pulse thuds in my ears.
I haven't had peaches in years. And suddenly someone’s dropping fruit on my porch like it’s a love letter?
ᓚᘏᗢ
I don’t sleep.
Not really.
I do that thing where you lie down, close your eyes, and pretend you’re resting even though your brain’s sprinting marathons in the dark. I keep the can of peaches on the nightstand, because apparently I’m sentimental and stupid. When the sun finally burns its way up, I drag myself to bed. Too hot to be awake. Too bright to exist. Curtains sealed, windows covered, fan rattling like it’s about to take flight—same routine as always.
But the whole day, even half-asleep, I feel watched. Like the house itself is holding its breath.
When the heat finally breaks and the sky goes purple, I roll out of bed, already knowing the first thing I’m going to do: Check the porch. It’s stupid—checking—but once you start living nights instead of days, your instincts get strange. You notice things without ever being told to. I tell myself I’m doing it to make sure nothing is out there. That the peaches were a fluke. That Pale Bastard has better things to do than stalk one lonely, underfed idiot.
Lies.
All lies.
But whatever.
I unlock the door, crack it an inch, and look down. A jar sits on the porch. I open the door a little wider and crouch.
It’s kombucha.
A glass jar, capped tight, cloudy with fermentation. Amber, almost gold. I know the smell even through the lid—vinegar, fruit, a little sweetness. The color is familiar enough that it hits me in the chest. Not centered neatly like the can was, but seemingly still placed with intention. Like whoever left it didn’t want to disturb a single piece of dust.
Another “gift”. Yesterday it was peaches.
Fine. Strange, but fine. Canned food shows up sometimes when scavengers drop a bag or lose things on the road.
But this?
This is specific… like an offering? My throat goes tight. I don’t touch it yet. I just crouch there, squinting at the jar like it might whisper something if I stare long enough.
Kombucha.
Real kombucha. The color’s dead-on — that warm amber shade my old SCOBY used to brew back when life still had routines and refrigerators and mornings. Stuff I’d drink slow, let it fizz on my tongue, pretend it made me enlightened or whatever. “Good for the gut,” I used to joke. “Good for the soul,” some days. When everything else was collapsing, it was the one thing that still reminded me I was a person. And now it’s sitting on my porch like a memory someone dug up just to see what face I’d make. The night air clings to me, heavy and wrong, like the humidity has fingers. I look out past the porch again. Nothing. No footsteps in the dirt. No tracks. No movement in the waist-high weeds. Just the jar, sweating faintly in the cool air like it was carried here. Recently.
Too recently.
I swallow hard.
This isn’t scavenger luck. This isn’t accident. This is someone watching me. Noticing me. Knowing things about me they shouldn’t.
My chest tightens, ribs squeezing around my breath like metal bands. I feel stupid suddenly, standing barefoot in the dark with my heart racing over fermented tea. But the fear is real… deep, crawling, instinct-level stuff. The kind that wakes animals before storms and pushes them into hiding. I reach for the jar anyway. Slow. Hesitant. The glass is cool. Not cold like the peaches…but cool enough that whoever brought it wasn’t far gone when I stepped onto the porch.
That thought alone cracks something jagged inside me. I yank the jar back like it burned me and slam the door shut, lock twisting fast beneath my fingers. My breath fogs the peephole as I stare out into the dark. Waiting for something to move. Waiting for something to stop pretending.
Silence.
Too much silence.
I set the jar down on the counter and pace, palms sweaty, mind buzzing. Kombucha. My favorite kombucha. Wrong brand, but the color’s perfect. The smell through the lid is perfect. The jar looks old, reused, but cleaned with care. Like someone wanted it right.
Like someone wanted me to want it.
A cold pulse crawls up my spine. I rub my arms, trying not to imagine eyes in the window. Trying not to think of every old story about things that leave gifts. Things that test boundaries. Things that don’t understand the difference between “favor” and “claim.” I shouldn’t drink it. I know I shouldn’t drink it. Only an idiot would drink weird apocalypse kombucha from a stranger.
My fingers hover over the lid.
And I hate how badly I want it. How thirsty I am for something that tastes like the past, like anything other than boiled water, stale beer and regret.
My reflection in the glass looks feral, wide-eyed, paranoid.
“This is bad,” I mutter. “This is—this is a problem.”
I step away from the counter.
Then a little more.
Then a little more, until my back hits the wall and I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing slow. Someone left this for me. Someone knows I sleep during the day. Someone knows my porch. Someone is coming closer.
And I don’t think the peaches were a just greeting.