Food Wish, as it was named, was a corner bodega of sorts. It had opened its doors in 1998 and had not been closed a day aside from holidays for the past twenty-two years of its existence. It was constant in the neighborhood, with strong ties to the local Roman-Catholic community that bolstered it. And now? It was being pillaged.

There was no power. No lighting. Louis himself was standing at the back of the store, in front of the service desk. Within his hands lay a cold, metallic baseball bat.

At first, all that he heard was the crunching of glass under toe. 

Then, the voice.

It was enough to guide him in the right direction. Sooner rather than later, there he was a couple steps in front of her, moonlight filtering through the ruined windows enough to illuminate his unwavering gaze. 

There was nothing to write home about when it came to Louis’ appearance. He donned a set of worn out, steel-toed construction boots, blue denim jeans, a plaid button up and a brown corduroy jacket. Most poignant: he was wearing a military styled gas mask, which was also fine at masking his expression with only a slight viewing window for the eyes. 

“Got some nerve comin’ back here without yer friends, ya ain’t on yer way I got half’a mind ta start takin’ swings.” His tone was flat and gave no room for bluffing, his voice also obscured by the mask.