MC POV - Interactive Story - 7

Continued from scene 6

You check the street again, then nod toward the back door. Jessica’s right behind you, revolver in hand now, her grip is steadier than before.

“We should sweep the houses nearby,” you say. “Start south. Check for supplies. Maybe see who’s still around.”

Jessica exhales through her nose, giving a quick nod. “I know this sounds weird, but being out here like this? I kinda feel better. Like...at least I’m doin’ somethin’.”

You both step out, weapons at the ready. The sun is starting to set. A few wind chimes rattle in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm bleats once, then cuts off.

You move south, hugging the edges of yards and keeping low. The street is quiet. Four homes sit within sight—each one different, each with its own risks.

The first house you approach is a faded yellow shotgun-style, long and narrow with the front steps sinking slightly on one side. A screen door swings on one hinge, tapping against the frame. Inside, it’s dark. The main door stands open just enough to see the hallway beyond—straight shot from front to back, like most houses of its kind. The windows are mostly intact, but there’s a crack through one pane like something tapped it just a little too hard. Mail litters the steps, some of it washed out by recent rain. You pause at the edge of the porch, listening. Nothing moves inside.

A few doors down sits a white brick two-story with a clean front yard and solar panels angled along the roof. The curtains are drawn tight. A child's bike lies tipped over near the driveway, its front wheel slowly turning in the breeze. The house looks sealed up, windows unbroken, door shut and bolted.

Across the street, a single-story ranch-style house sits behind overgrown hedges. The lawn hasn’t been cut in weeks. A slatted wooden fence leans hard to one side, broken near the gate where the latch used to be. Through the gaps, you spot the back door partially open, the screen pulled off and crumpled in the corner of the stoop. The structure sags near the kitchen vent, like water damage or maybe something worse. It looks quiet, but the overgrowth and peeling paint give it the kind of silence that feels less empty and more abandoned.

At the corner, a brick duplex catches your attention. Two doors, side by side, one taped with a half-torn city notice fluttering in the breeze, the other padlocked, though the lock dangles loose like someone tried to pry it. Spray paint tags cover the garage door, old ones, faded and layered. Trash bags sit piled near the curb. The kind of place that probably cycled through tenants fast, maybe squatters lately. The front steps are chipped but dry, and both mailboxes are stuffed full. You watch it for a minute before glancing at Jessica.

She tilts her head slightly and murmurs, “So…which one you thinkin’?”

Continue to scene 8