Chapter Text
She should’ve gotten up to see what all that commotion outside was about. But honestly? She couldn’t give a single fuck. Somewhere along the way, she’d caught a miserable cold-and-flu combo she definitely hadn’t ordered. Her throat burned, her head throbbed, and her nose was clogged tighter than a backed-up drain. Perfect punishment, she thought. Karma, probably, for all the little wrongs she’d racked up over the years.
She prayed it’d be over soon so she could breathe through her nose again. Deep down, she knew the truth: once she felt human again, she’d be back to her usual bullshit.
From the fog of her fever-addled brain, sounds trickled in from outside, screams, cries, gunshots, tires screeching, glass shattering. Sounds of people panicking. She knew she should care. Maybe even investigate. But the universe was going to have to wait. She’d found the perfect sleeping position, and better yet, she didn’t have to pee. If the apocalypse wanted her attention, it’d have to wait until her bladder forced her out of bed.
Before sleep fully claimed her, she mentally double-checked that all doors and windows were locked. Satisfied, she closed her eyes. At least whatever was happening out there would have a hard time getting to her. And if it did? Well, she hoped it’d be quick. Pain was annoying.
Until it hit her: she really, really had to pee.
Groaning, she rolled onto her side, swung her legs over the fluffy purple mat, and planted her feet on the floor. Her body protested with every creak and pop as she stood. For a moment, she wobbled there, hands on her hips, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Finally, she stretched, smacking her dry lips, and shuffled to the bathroom. Relief came swiftly and sweetly. After washing her hands and splashing cold water on her face, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Tired, worn-out, frizzed-to-hell hair. She grimaced. “That’s it,” she muttered, grabbing her toothbrush. “You’re coming out today.”
Teeth brushed, she snipped away at the tangled weave with bright pink scissors, the soft snips echoing in the quiet room. Freed hair bouncing, she grabbed her shower caddy and stepped under the hot water. The quiet was unnerving. Her neighborhood had never been this silent, no kids screaming, no cars, no music, no arguments. Just the hum of the water heater and a soft drip.
She shut off the shower and listened. Nothing. The silence pressed against her chest like a weight. Whatever had caused all that earlier chaos wasn’t over; it had just changed.
Careful, she retrieved her clothes, dressing quietly in a bright yellow sundress. If she was going to die, she thought, she might as well look good. She skipped the hair dryer, wrung her hair with a towel, and grabbed a can of pepper spray. Not exactly a gun, but it’d have to do.
Heart pounding, she crept downstairs. Every squeaky step she’d fixed last year now worked in her favor.
When she reached the living room, she froze. The front door and windows were boarded up, thick planks nailed firmly into place. She hadn’t done that.
Someone was in the house.
Her breath hitched. A faint noise drifted from the dining area: a plate set gently on the table.
Barefoot, she edged closer, pepper spray clenched in her sweaty palm. Peeking around the corner, she saw a boy, dark brown hair, calm, quietly eating breakfast. Familiar.
“Brandon?” she whispered.
He looked up, brown eyes locking with hers. A warm smile tugged at his lips. “Yup,” he said, popping the “p” with a playful smirk.
Her fear melted slightly. She stepped into the kitchen, ruffling his messy hair. “How are you? And what are you doing here?”
He sighed, turning back to his meal, slower now, almost melancholic. “I’m good, all things considered. And… well, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Her chest tightened as she processed him. He was twelve, maybe a little odd, but she’d been there for him before, babysitting when no one else understood him. Now he was here, alone, trusting her.
Then came the groan. Low. Guttural. Dragging across the quiet.
Her stomach dropped. “What the fuck was that?” she whispered.
Brandon didn’t even flinch. He speared another bite of food, chewed, swallowed. “Oh, that?” He finally glanced at her, voice flat, like it was nothing. “Those are the dead outside.”
Her laugh came out sharp and shaky. “Dead? Brandon, sweetie, don’t joke like that.”
Crossing the room, she snatched up the remote and jabbed the power button. The TV blinked on, static. She flipped channels, faster and faster, but every station was the same white hiss. No cartoons, no emergency broadcasts, nothing.
Her stomach dipped. “Okay. Okay, fine.” She dropped the remote and marched to the window, yanking at the blinds. The wood resisted, nailed in tight. Someone had hammered them into place. Not her. She swallowed hard. “This is ridiculous. You’re just trying to scare me.”
Then it came again. Louder this time, deeper, layered with voices. Groans. Wet, dragging, hungry sounds rolling in from the street like a wave.
Her hands froze on the blinds. The house suddenly felt too small, too fragile.
When she turned back, Brandon was still calmly eating, cutting into his eggs as if this were just another quiet morning. He chewed, swallowed, then glanced at her with that same mild smile.
“Told you,” he murmured.
ꕥ
She left the kitchen and collapsed onto the couch in the living room, the springs creaking under her weight. For a long moment she just sat there, hands clenched in her lap, trying to breathe evenly while her chest hammered like it was trying to escape. Her mind refused to focus, skipping uselessly from thought to thought, work tomorrow, her phone bill, the groceries still molding in the fridge. All of it is suddenly meaningless. She pressed her palms over her eyes, willing herself to calm down, but the silence pressed harder, broken only by the slow scrape of Brandon’s fork against his plate.
“Brandon, what the fuck happened?” she asked.
Her voice cracked at the edges, rough from fever and nerves. The silence after was suffocating; her heartbeat thudded in her ears like a drum.
Brandon didn’t answer right away. He kept chewing, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the last bite in the world. When he finally looked up, his face was calm, too calm for a twelve-year-old.
“You remember when they said that a flu-like virus was going around?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She rubbed her temple, forcing her fuzzy memories to line up. “It… came from China, right?”
“Yup,” Brandon said. He set his fork down, eyes steady on hers. “Turns out catching the flu wasn’t the worst part. Getting the vaccine they rushed out? That’s what did it.”
Her stomach flipped. “Wait… are you saying the vaccine caused all this?”
Brandon shrugged, casual as if they were talking about breakfast instead of the apocalypse. “The flu killed billions. They stayed dead. But once the shots went out… that’s when they got back up.”
Her hands twisted in the hem of her bright yellow sundress, picking at a loose thread until it curled and snapped. Her mind raced. If the flu killed, and the vaccine brought the dead back… then how the hell was she still alive?
By all rights, she should be one of them.
She sighed and leaned back against the couch, letting the information settle like a weight on her chest. Eyes closed, she tried to clear her mind. Pressing her hands to the top of the couch, she shifted until she was comfortable. With her right hand, she tapped the cushion lightly. “Come here,” she murmured, still keeping her eyes shut.
Moments later, she felt the soft scrape of movement as Brandon padded quietly toward her. He slid onto the couch, curling against her side. A small warmth spread through her chest, and she opened her eyes, tilting her arm to wrap around him. His pale face turned up to hers, and for a heartbeat, the world outside didn’t exist.
“What the fuck are we gonna do?” she asked, eyes squeezing shut as she drew a few deep, shaky breaths, trying not to break down over the chaos outside. “By the sounds out there… and the size of this suburb, I know for a fact we’re most likely surrounded. Secondly, how does anyone survive this?”
Brandon stayed calm, curling up closer. His arm slid around her waist, grounding her. “It’s simple,” he said, meeting her brown eyes. “Just try to stay calm. We’ll figure it out, one day at a time.”
She peeked open an eye, glancing at the quiet street through the curtains. Not exactly the peaceful neighborhood watch I imagined, she thought dryly. She let out a shaky laugh, trying not to descend into hysterics. “Huh… calm. Okay. I can do that,” she whispered, the tiniest smile tugging at her lips. “One day at a time… unless they start banging on the door. Then all bets are off.”
ꕥ
She didn’t know who she was trying to fool, but she was not calm.
Now that she knew the dead were outside, roaming, groaning, eating people, her hands itched for a gun, just to end it all before things got worse. Because really, who in their right mind wanted to live in a world where corpses walked and fed on flesh? Certainly not her.
Her eyes kept flicking toward Brandon. He was busy quietly doing rotations on the food she has, far too calm for a boy his age, like what was happening outside was just another Tuesday. Worse, he hadn’t shown a hint of grief for his parents. He hadn’t even mentioned them, and she was too afraid to ask what happened, or what kind of hell he’d been through before reaching her house.
For her own sanity, she didn’t want to know.
Every now and then, she peeked through the gaps between the boards over her windows, pushing the curtain aside just enough to glimpse what used to be her picture-perfect neighborhood. Bodies crawled everywhere, some still in their lingerie, some naked, some in work uniforms, others in everyday clothes. Her stomach twisted when her gaze landed on one dressed as a clown.
Her skin prickled.
She backed away from the window slowly, heart thudding, trying to breathe through the nausea.
Just imagine a giant dead clown chasing you… she thought bitterly, shivering.
She needed to focus. There was no point standing there waiting for her sanity to slip. She’d help Brandon figure out how to ration their supplies instead. She had a stocked fridge, snacks in the pantry, and six full cases of drinks, sodas, juice, water. Thankfully, she’d gone grocery shopping a few days before the outbreak, wanting to get it over with before her flu got worse.
For once, her bad luck had paid off.
She turned from the window, ready to leave her little “neighborhood watch,” when a scream froze her in place.
Her breath caught. She rushed back to the window, pressing her forehead to the rough wood as she peered through a narrow gap.
Mr. Lang, the man who lived across the street, was sprinting across his lawn, arms flailing, screaming for help. His voice cracked with raw panic, desperation scraping at every word. Relief flickered inside her chest, someone was alive, but it didn’t last.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement.
Two of the shambling figures, slow, staggering things moments ago, suddenly lunged forward with inhuman speed. In seconds, they were on Mr. Lang, dragging him to the ground.
She froze. The world slowed as his screams ripped through the air, ragged and primal.
Then came the wet, gurgling sounds.
Mr.Lang continued screaming, then—
silence.
Tears streamed down her face, hot and steady. Her hands trembled against the boards, nails digging deep into the wood as if she could hold herself, or reality, together. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to hide, to do something, but her body refused to move. The once empty street was now filled with the undead, mostlikey hearing Mr.Lang screaming for help, the still air, the quiet houses, they pressed in like a weight she couldn’t shake off.
Then Brandon’s voice cut through the ringing in her ears. Calm. Too calm.
“Don’t make a sound,” he said quietly. “They can hear you. Just stay low. Breathe.”
She swallowed hard, nodding even though he couldn’t see her. Her body shook, but she forced herself to breathe, slow, shallow, deliberate. The cries outside faded into distant echoes as she clung to Brandon’s voice, the one calm thing in a world gone violently insane.
Her heart pounded, each beat reminding her she was still alive. Somehow.
For now.
ꕥ
Her vision was blurry. Warm liquid ran down her face, and her chest felt tight, each breath a battle. She should be gathering supplies, packing everything they might need to survive, when the time comes to leave this place, her home. But she couldn’t summon a single fuck.
Her gaze kept drifting to the revolver on the ground, a gift to herself on her eighteenth birthday, meant to protect against other humans. Never in a million years had she imagined it would be used against the dead coming back to eat people.
Her eyes squeezed shut, her fist clenching. Her head throbbed under the weight of the decision she desperately wanted to make. She had always known that if she ended up in a situation like this, no matter how absorbed it was at the time, she wouldn’t want to survive. Who would?
Survival meant waking up every day and thanking God she had somehow made it through the night. It meant being constantly wary of other humans, never knowing whom to trust. It meant hunting for food, if there was anything left, learning to trap animals, planting crops and praying they didn’t die, and hoping she didn’t fall sick because there would be no doctor, no medicine, no help at all.
Being alive in a world where the dead roams didn’t make sense.
And yet, she couldn’t leave Brandon behind. The guilt gnawed at her, sharp and relentless. He had come all the way to her house and protected her, a sick, weak, useless shell of herself, until she had regained some semblance of strength. She was the only person he had left.
Her head thudded against the wall as she sank into the corner of the walk-in closet, hiding from the world and from herself. Tears streamed freely as she pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her hands. She could hear Brandon moving silently downstairs, clearing, gathering, preparing, and the faint reassurance made her sob even harder.
A drawn-out groan escaped her, a mixture of exhaustion, despair, and the overwhelming urge to give up. To leave Brandon to fend for himself. To let the dead reclaim her. The temptation was fierce. Almost tangible.
But memories of Brandon as a boy anchored her. The boy who had once terrified every babysitter, except her. She remembered the day their eyes had met, his brown eyes locking with her brown, and something in that gaze had sealed her fate. He had given her no trouble, no mischief she couldn’t handle. Over the years, she had learned to ignore the strange, inexplicable things he sometimes did in front of her.
He seemed to watch her reactions, testing her, yet each time she had only smiled, told him he was awesome, and warned him to save the weird antics for private moments. Others might not understand, might even punish him. His answer had always been the same: he already knew.
She exhaled slowly, letting those memories anchor her. Her eyes closed. For the first time in hours, she took a deep, shuddering breath. She made a decision.
She would live.
She would see what this dead world had to offer, even if it was cruel and unforgiving. If things went to hell, and she silently acknowledged they might, she would try to convince Brandon to make a death pact with her. If he refused… she would do what she believed necessary for his own good, taking him with her into the void, and she would follow willingly after.
For now, though, she pulled herself together, pressing her back against the closet wall and steadying her trembling hands. The world outside was broken, but she still had a reason to fight. And as much as it scared her, as much as the darkness threatened to swallow her, she knew she would face it.
Because survival wasn’t just about her. It was about him. The fragile thread of life they still clung to together.
The air felt heavy again, pressing close in the dark. For a moment, she thought she heard whispering from the street below. Then—
“You okay?” Brandon’s voice cut through her thoughts, soft but firm. She flinched and looked up, seeing him crouched nearby, knife still in hand. His brown eyes, calm and steady, anchored her even as fear threatened to spiral. And the most concerning part? She hadn’t even heard him approach.
“I’m still breathing,” she whispered.
A small smile graced his face. “That’s good. As long as you’re breathing, everything’s fine,” he said warmly, his gaze never leaving hers.
Suddenly, he stopped and studied her for a moment, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. “You weren’t thinking about offing yourself, were you?” he asked, glancing at the gun in the corner, his raised eyebrow tracking her reaction.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” she snapped defensively, pushing him slightly away as she rose. “If I wanted to, I would’ve done it before you even thought to check on me.”
Shoving aside her previous despair, her mind shifted to practical matters, what else they needed for the journey ahead. Just as she reached for the gun, Brandon was already there, his hand on it.
“What—?” she began, confused.
“If you’re not suicidal, as you said,” he said calmly, “you wouldn’t mind if I keep the gun, right?”
Honestly, she wasn’t in the mood to argue. Rolling her eyes, she walked away, feeling his piercing gaze linger on her back.
✎……