Sherry: Apocalypse Schoolgirl Pack 1 P Mature

She stood, adjusted her red bow, and helped the other two to their feet. Three schoolgirls in a dead church. The last pack of a broken world.

She was seventeen, though the mirror in the ruined department store told her she looked forty. Her uniform was no longer a symbol of youth, but a tool. The pleated skirt, hemmed with fishing line and razor blades, allowed her to run. The white blouse, stained rust-brown and charcoal, was stuffed with Kevlar scraps from a shattered police drone. The red bow at her collar? That was for her. A last piece of the girl she’d been before the Siren went off.

The Sweetness of Rust Series: Sherry Apocalypse: Schoolgirl Pack 1 P Mature Content Warning: Mature themes, psychological tension, survival horror.

No one said “okay.” Words were precious. Sherry Apocalypse Schoolgirl Pack 1 P Mature

Outside, the Rustlung wind moaned through the broken steeple.

The dog sensed Yuki a half-second too late. A silenced .22 round entered its ear. It dropped without a whimper. The shotgunner never even raised his barrel.

“Mei, the left one has a gas mask. Take his air. Yuki, the dog first—then the man with the shotgun. I’ll take the leader.” She stood, adjusted her red bow, and helped

Sherry smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “All we have left.”

Sherry pressed her back against a fallen pillar. The church smelled of mildew and old incense. Through a gap in the stained glass—a serene Mary now missing her face—she watched the men argue over a broken vending machine.

And somewhere deep in The Hollow, the Siren began to wail again. But for once, Sherry didn’t run. She just listened. Then she walked toward the sound. She was seventeen, though the mirror in the

Sherry sat on the floor, back against the pod, and took out a piece of hard candy she’d been saving for two months. Butterscotch. She broke it into three pieces with the pommel of her knife.

The rain over the dead city tasted like tin and old pennies. Sherry had stopped trying to remember its real name three winters ago. Now, it was simply The Hollow—a graveyard of shattered highways and glass-toothed towers that clawed at a sky the color of a bruise.

Her training, if you could call it that, kicked in. She’d learned from a dying soldier in the first year. Don’t hesitate. Hesitation is a hole they bury you in.