Erik Torreon grunted as he heaved the Coke machine door open. The machine had been kicked in, tipped over, and cannibalized so Erik had little hope it held anything valuable, but you never knew. A rat's nest was in one of the drink slots but Erik wasn't about to go rooting through it with his hand. It would be a hell of a thing to survive in the city for so long only to be killed by contracting some vermin disease. Erik let the door fall shut with a crash.

His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten anything since yesterday morning. He was hungry and running low on food. He finished the last of his jerky a day earlier but it had been dry and unsatisfying, like eating tree bark. He had been toting an unlabeled can for weeks. Did he open it now? It could contain anything: fruit, beans, some sort of vegetable. Paint.

As he thought about whether he should or shouldn't break open the can, he noticed something short and narrow against the wall. He'd searched through all the shelves and drawers in the old convenience store and must have walked right past it a half-dozen times. It was a homemade machete propped against the wall, as though its owner would be right back for it. A bolt of fear ran through him, but he hadn't seen any signs that any had been squatting there. Just as likely that someone had used it to beat the hell out of the machine then set it aside. Maybe they needed to leave in a hurry and forgot it. Erik had been in that situation before.

And it sounded like he might be in that situation again. He heard a dog barking on the street nearby. It sounded like a playful bark, followed by clapping. Erik snatched the machete up and gave a few practice chops. The fashioned blade was dull but it had heft to it, should he need to use it. In that way.

He heard voices from the street now, both male and female, but couldn't make out any words. He slipped behind the counter and through a door into a back office so small he could touch both walls. It was crowded with too many filing cabinets and an oversized desk. He swung the door shut as best he could but two hinges were broken. A small window provided the room with daylight. He might be able to squeeze through that window, if it opened.

The voices from the street grew louder. He didn't like their shrill laughs. Sounded manic. Rundown had that effect on people. He pushed on the window sash but it wouldn't budge and a closer look revealed it had been painted shut. As quietly as he could, Erik worked the blunted edge of the machete against the jamb. Sweat dripped onto the back of his hand.

The dog's bark echoed in the empty store. He could hear it panting, its nails clicking on the tiles. Erik raked the machete blade across the sill and thudded the sash with the heel of his palm. He heard a woman's voice now, and more shrill laughter that echoed in the skeletonized store. "Hellooooo?" a voice called. "Anyone home?"

The window finally budged. Erik wriggled it three-quarters open, half and inch at a time, wincing every time it shrieked. He might just be able to squeeze through it now, he though. He darted back to peek through the door crack. Three grubby people, two men and a woman, milled around the store, kicking through rubble piles as the dog dodged around their . One man a large rusty pipe. Erik didn't know the breed of dog, but it was big, probably 60 pounds or more. Large dogs had large teeth and powerful jaws, and that's all he needed to know. A fourth voice called from the street.

"Nothing so far," one of the men called. "Haven't checked the back yet."

Erik's heart hammered in his chest. He could hear the dog sniffing just outside the door. He needed to move. He needed to move now. Erik put his hip against the heavy desk and dragged it a foot, wedging it against the door. The dog's snout shot through gap in the frame and snapped at his hand.

"Someone's in there!" one of the voices shouted. There was that shrill, terrible laughter again. Erik felt panic close around his throat like a hand. The door jumped and rattled on its one good hinge. The dog's claws scratched the metal.

"Bring the gun!" the woman shouted. "Bring the gun!"

"Go around the alley," a man's voice yelled from just outside. The door danced on its last hinge. Erik's ears rang with the strident tone of the pipe striking metal. "The alley!" the man repeated.

The next instant his head was outside the window and for one heart-stopping moment he didn't think he would fit. Then he cursed his stupidity, shrugged off his backpack, and threw it outside. He turned his shoulders and reached with both arms. He kicked his foot off the corner of the desk and wriggled through the window. He smashed his face on the pavement as he came falling out the other side, but he was outside. And then he was scrambling to his feet and running.

"Stop!" he heard someone shout. The same instant he heard the shot ring out he felt a stinging pain on the top of his shoulder, but he kept sprinting, breathless.

He crossed the main street and into another alley, buzzing past someone digging through the carcass of long dead car. Erik didn't pause and, with a tinge of guilt, hoped that unlucky soul would buy him a second or two to escape.

In the alley he saw a busted window on the second story beneath a fire escape. He dragged himself onto a dumpster and, with a huge leap, he clattered onto the metal ladder. He swung his legs over the side and dove through the open window, gashing his elbow on a fang of broken glass.

He was clambering to his feet when he heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked. Erik looked up into two barrels leveled an inch before his face. "Now what the hell do we have here?" a haggard voice asked.