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As the sun set, the long, blue shadows of evacuated buildings and abandoned boats grew darker. Smith pulled his coat further around himself and quickened his walking pace. In every shadow - every building, every alley and corner and side street - hung the sickness. He passed beneath unlit streetlamps. The tall pillars, once a comforting presence, only served as a reminder that they'd been forgotten and all hope was lost for them.
If memory served, the final shred of faith had disappeared six months ago when the power had shut off. Three months before, the last of the boats had departed. And a day after that, they'd returned from a trip on the last plane to England.
The virus came from nowhere. It crept up on people, unnoticed, tearing families - and family members - apart. Those who weren't infected lived in fear. All trust was lost, relationships strained, families scattered, friendships severed: 'Will I be next? Will you?'
Smith couldn't remember how it started. Some American scientist who went too far. He'd been lucky in that he hadn't seen the full extent of it. He'd not yet seen how it progressed, how an infected person went from a normal human to a stumbling, grotesque husk of themselves; no personality, all distinguishing features dissolved.
A twig snapped. Smith shuddered.
The streets were disturbingly quiet: at this time they should be bustling with cars and buses, the beginnings of nightlife starting to congregate outside pubs in skimpy leopard print and pink lipstick. Smith dreaded to think of the kind of nightlife that would start to come out if he was out here for much longer. Again, he quickened his pace.
The cold blew in from over the water, bringing with it a whispy, disorienting fog. Smith could just make out the shell of light that was their home in the distance. Each step toward it only amplified the anxiety humming in his veins. What was it like inside? Had they been fighting again? Was the light he saw from candles or had someone lit a fire? Was someone making food? Would that responsibility fall to him again, sparking yet another argument? He almost halted at the door, but his fear got the better of him.
The hinges squeaked. In the corner, he saw Trott wince.
"Alright?" he said levelly. Neither of them replied.
Ross sat against the back wall, almost at the entire opposite end of the cabin to Trott, narrowed eyes avoiding them both. Smith sat between them and stared at the fire, which he noted had a pot simmering atop it. The flames danced lowly, casting long shadows on the wall. They unsettled him. The silence felt deadly.
Trott was looking at him. He could feel it. Smith avoided his eyes, trying to figure out what he was feeling. As was seemingly more and more common these days, he was unreadable.
"Penny for your thoughts, sunshine?" Smith murmured gently, gaze grazing Trott's for just a moment.
"I'm scared," Trott said bluntly, voice barely above a whisper. Smith sensed more than heard or saw Ross stand up. There was a short, charged silence. He wanted to ask more, wanted to know why, wanted to help. Trott cleared his throat.
"No luck with the bread then?" he asked, changing the subject. Smith shook his head.
"All gone. Or stale. No good." He realised he was speaking in two-word sentences. He wondered how long he could carry on doing so before anyone noticed.
"It was worth a try," Ross' voice interrupted his thoughts. He sounded almost defensive. Smith looked up at him. He was standing behind the fire now, spooning a thick, murky liquid out of the pot and into three chipped bowls with slightly shaky hands. Suddenly Smith didn't feel like eating.
"I suppose. Still, sorry."
Ross handed him a bowl without meeting his eyes. Something about him didn't feel right tonight.
Trott shuffled closer to them both and took his own bowl, looking less than impressed. Ross sat on Smith's other side, eyes fixed on something just beyond the flames.
None of them ate. None of them spoke.
The cabin was quiet.
Smith wanted to start a conversation, but he was terrified of breaking the pristinely crafted silence.
He didn't want to be scared anymore. Fear was what had gotten them into this mess, it sure as hell wasn't going to get them out of it too.
The contents of his bowl steamed.
"What's this?" he asked, looking at Ross.
"It's two different kinds of soup mixed together," Trott answered before Ross could open his mouth, and his voice held a note of annoyance. "From cans that we stole and opened with knives."
Ross prickled. Smith sensed he'd hit a nerve and didn't press further.
He ate as much as he could stomach - which these days wasn't much - and gave the rest to Trott, who clearly wasn't interested. He faced the wall as he washed the bowls in cold water, trying to sort his thoughts into some semblance of organisation. When he went to pour the water away, he could hear words exchanged in harsh voices inside. He hated this.
They slept in shifts, one person always keeping watch. Ross took first shift, then Smith, then Trott, then rinse and repeat.
Tonight, Smith wasn't tired.
He lay awake and listened to the noises of the night. Trees shifted. The cabin settled. The fire cracked. Trott breathed heavily in his sleep.
Somewhere, far in the distance, something crumbled and crashed to the ground. He wondered if there were others, or if they were the only ones. Had every other person in the country seriously got onto a boat and just left? Where had they gone? Was it like this elsewhere? America? Africa? Australia? Where was everyone going?
Beside him, Trott stirred and opened a sleepy eye.
"Penny for your thoughts, sunshine?" he whispered, voice thick with sleep. Smith offered a small smile in return.
"Just wondering. What happened? Everyone else. So many. You know?" His thoughts were more clouded by fatigue than he'd first anticipated: he couldn't articulate his point properly. He supposed two-word sentences made it harder.
"Gone," Trott offered in response, and Smith shrugged.
"All of them?" That sentence had three words. Oh well.
"Yeah, maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? Not me. I'm tired."
Trott had adopted his two-word policy. He pressed his face into Smith's chest. Smith smiled and pressed a kiss into his hair.
"What's got you so happy?"
"Just you. Love you."
There was a long, long pause. Smith felt that he'd made a mistake.
"Oh. Love you too."
They didn't talk any more after that, and Smith must have fallen asleep at one point because the next thing he knew, Ross was shaking him awake and it was his turn to stand watch.
The moon cast a dull, cold light over the city. Inside the cabin, the floorboards creaked. The wind blew gently: the leaves rustled. If it hadn't been for the sound of ragged, gurgling breath getting closer, Smith would almost have felt relaxed.
His grip tightened around the gun in his hand - something they owned thanks to Ross 'knowing where to look'. Neither of them had dared question him. So far, they hadn't needed to use it. Now, Smith feared, things might change.
He tried to remember exactly how you were meant to kill these things: was it a bullet to the head or the chest? Though, he doubted the knowledge would prove useful at all even if he did know: his hands were shaking so violently that he couldn't aim even if he had to. For now, his strategy was to shoot wildly and make sure Ross and Trott got away before the creatures were finished feasting on his flesh. That was all that mattered now.
Smith stood up. He could hear the thing, but he couldn't see it. Where was it coming from? Had it crawled up from the water or in from the city? Was it heading for the cabin, or something beyond it? Was there a group of them or just one on its own? If he killed one, would others come to find it, like ants?
He took a deep breath. No use panicking, he thought. No use making it worse than it needed to be.
Inside the cabin, something shifted, and Smith wheeled around, ready to shoot. He fixed his eyes on the figure moving in the dark, and was about to pull the trigger, when-
"Calm down," Ross muttered lowly, moving toward the door with a stumbling, tired gait. His face was a mask of emotionless fatigue. Smith guessed he hadn't slept. "It's just me."
Smith let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Oh. Hi."
Ross sat down on the doorstep and sighed heavily. His skin looked ghostly white in the moonlight, and Smith shuddered. It was as if he was already dead.
"Go back inside," Smith said into the darkness, and it came out much more forcefully than he intended it to. "There's one around here."
"I know," Ross seemed unchanged, and Smith bit back a comment about self-preservation. "Come sit down."
Instead of replying, Smith listened.
There was a long silence.
Again, Ross spoke. "I don't think it's coming back, sunshine. Come sit down."
Smith relented and perched beside him on the doorstep. Almost instinctively, Ross put an arm around his shoulders. Smith shrugged it off, but then felt bad, so held out a hand. Ross laced their fingers together. He wasn't warm. It was as if he was already dead.
Smith shook his head and swallowed thickly. Don't think like that, he reprimanded himself.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Ross caught him by surprise.
"Why do we even say that? Where did that come from? Who invented that phrase?" Smith questioned, avoiding giving Ross an answer.
"Don't know. Where did anything come from? Who invented words? I don't know. Does anyone?" His voice was low and steady, but flat. Smith missed the way he used to be: bouncy, enthusiastic. It was as if something in him had snapped. As if, somehow, he was becoming less and less himself. Smith knew what that could mean, but he refused to let himself believe it.
"Can you worry less loudly? I can hear you stressing from here."
The corner of Smith's mouth twitched in the threat of a smile, but nothing more. Ross squeezed his hand. They were quiet for a long time. Smith closed his eyes and tried to capture this moment in his head forever.
Ross' hand was cold. The moon was full. The wind was gentle.
He opened his eyes and took a deep breath.
And that was when he saw it.
No more than six feet away, the creature tripped over its own feet as it moved, shambling like a drunk man. It looked human, or as human as something like that could. Its face bore a striking familiarity, though Smith wasn't sure. He wondered with a pang of horror if he'd known this person. There'd never been one this close to the cabin before. He scrambled to stand up, grasping for the pistol. He could hear Ross' voice but couldn't make out the words he was saying - it was like he was underwater, far away.
There was no time to think: the thing had seen them now. It was heading straight for them in a cloud of acrid breath and oozing, rotting flesh. If he didn't act now, one of them would get hurt, or worse.
Smith closed his eyes and shot.
The creature stumbled backwards and then fell, pitching to the ground with a cry that was far too human for Smith's liking.
And just like that, the world was still. Smith leant against the wall and retched.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, staring at his own vomit on the floor. Trott's hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality. They sat on the step. Smith stared at his hands because he couldn't bear to watch Ross drag the body down to the road.
They didn't talk.
He didn't sleep. Even pressed close to Ross' warm, comforting form, with the constant rhythm of his breath to calm him, Smith didn't sleep. He couldn't get the image of that face - that familiar, ruined face - out of his mind. Was it a colleague? A friend? Or was he seeing things? Just making things up? Was he going crazy? Was this what the virus did to you: made you see things, made you feel like you were going insane?
He shook his head. Don't think about that. He tried to remember anything else; to think of anything but the creature.
He'd killed it. Once, that thing was human. And really, it still was: just a sick person. They couldn't help it, it wasn't their choice to be infected. And he'd killed them.
He'd killed a person.
Tears fell silently down his face. He made no move to wipe them away.
The early morning sun steeped the cabin in yellow light. Smith sat with his back against the doorframe, looking out of the open door into the empty, still city. It had snowed in the night. He could see his breath.
A bird alighted on a nearby tree branch and sent snow falling to the ground, fixing him with a beady, quizzical stare. He only stared back. It trilled a low song. Smith closed his eyes and listened.
"You're up early."
Trott's voice snapped him out of his daze. Smith smiled up at him.
"Morning, sunshine," he drawled. Trott sat beside him silently and leant his head against Smith's shoulder. They were quiet for a long time. Trott was warm, still heavy with sleep.
Smith's gaze shifted from the unsettling calm of the city. He watched the clouds pass. He watched seagulls in the far, far distance, flying away. He didn't blame them. He watched the shadows move on the walls as the wind disturbed the trees.
And then his eyes were drawn to Ross.
He was still sleeping, back to the wall, face half-obscured in the crook of his elbow. Smith smiled. He looked at peace.
Smith knew that Ross and Trott weren't exactly getting along great at the moment, which he chalked up to the stress of just barely scraping by in this new world. He couldn't blame them: he'd had his fair share of moments of doubt: why were they even doing this? Nobody was coming to rescue them. They'd moved into the cabin by the water in the hopes that a lone, passing boater might find them and take them to the others. With each passing day, that delusion seemed to float further and further away. It was reasonable that Ross' hopes were wearing thin.
Smith's were too.
But Ross really wasn't himself recently. Smith dreaded to think why. It wasn't the virus. It wasn't. It couldn't be. Could it?
Trott yawned and reached for his hand, pulling him out of his thoughts. Smith held his cold fingers tentatively. They were silent. Still. Calm.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Smith said, so suddenly that he surprised himself. Trott's head lifted from his shoulder.
"What's going to happen if we don't get out of here?" His voice was small and scared, like a child's.
Smith was silent. He didn't know.
"We will," he said after a while, and his voice was much less steady than he'd anticipated it being. Trott just nodded. Smith squeezed his hand gently.
"What if we don't? What if nobody comes for us? What if- Look out there. It's cold. There's no 'just popping the radiator on', Alex. What happens now?"
Smith sighed. Trott was always the most reasonable of the three of them, and now was no exception.
"I don't know."
The cabin was deadly silent after that. Smith looked fixedly outwards. There was stillness for a long time. Then, Trott let go of his hand and said, "We need more water."
And just like that, the moment was over. Smith felt it being wrenched from his grasp and thrown to the ground to shatter. The quiet, the intimacy, the peace - all of it gone.
And in its place, just a cold, harsh loneliness, and the blunt assertion that 'we need more water.'
He felt sick.
Trott was right. They did need more water.
The atmosphere in the cabin was staticky, tense - like the air after a lightning strike. Smith hated it. He sat for a long while and stared at the fire. His hands were shaking, though from cold or something else, he wasn't sure.
He had to get out, had to be free of the cabin for just a moment so he could breathe.
"We need more water," he said, though he wasn't sure to whom.
Trott looked at him. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I'll come with you," he said too quickly. Something felt wrong. Smith couldn't place what, and it irritated him.
He stood up, shaking the life back into his hands.
"Ross?" Smith murmured, only glancing at where he sat in the corner, poring over something that Smith couldn't see.
"Hm?" Ross looked at him, and his eyes were gentle. Smith felt bad but didn't know why.
"Coming?"
There was a tense, electric silence.
Ross stood up and dusted himself off.
"Let's go."
Three magpies peered scrutinisingly down at them from a tree. Smith was immediately uncomfortable.
They were all silent. The only sounds were the gurgle of the river and the harsh chatter of the birds overhead. Smith tried to remember the rhyme to distract himself: One for sorrow, two for mirth. Three for... something.
He shook his head and hauled the bottle he was filling out of the water.
He watched as Trott and Ross leant over the water in turn and each filled a container from just under the surface. None of them spoke. Visions of one of them toppling over into the freezing river - spluttering and gasping for breath, fighting to stay above the surface as the current pulled them under and dragged them away - rose in his mind. He willed them away.
When they both came back safe, his anxiety eased somewhat, but he couldn't shake the general feeling of unease. He struggled to screw the cap back onto the bottle, his fingers clumsy with cold.
They walked back to the cabin single file, still in silence. It all seemed far too official. Smith ached to speak, but no words would come. He stared at the back of Ross' head and willed him to start a conversation. He did not. Each step made his legs hurt: he guessed he'd slept funny. When they got back he'd have to sit down.
Smith hit the floor before he even knew he was falling. He stuck out his hands to break his fall, sending the water bottle - and the water - hurtling down the hill into the bracken. He cursed under his breath, struggling to stand up on the ice.
Smith wasn't even on his feet before he heard the gunshot. Pain blossomed in his stomach. Someone was shouting, words he couldn't make out nor make sense of. His ears were ringing. He didn't connect any of it until he put his fingers to his stomach and they came away red.
Ross stood in the middle of the path, face unreadable. Hanging loosely in his hand was the pistol. There, in the snow in front of him, was a splattering of blood - Smith's blood. Panic and confusion mingled in the depths of his stomach. He felt like he might pass out.
"What the fuck was that for?" Trott was shouting, holding onto him too tight. Smith looked between him and Ross, waiting for a response that never came. He felt sick.
Trott was looking at him now, holding onto him like a mother holds her child.
"Alex, Alex, sunshine- Look at me? Look at me, it's okay."
Smith wasn't sure that was true. He looked up into Trott's eyes regardless, and they were gentle. Not calm, but gentle. He found that having something to focus on made it hurt less.
"Oh God, okay- shit, Alex. Alex, Alex, Alex," Trott repeated his name like a mantra. He was warm. Smith struggled to breathe. "Can you walk, sunshine?"
Trott wasn't looking at him anymore. Instead, he was staring off into the distance, thoughts whirring by at a million miles an hour.
"I can try," Smith said, and his voice cracked. He knew he wouldn't get far.
Standing up on its own was a task which made him want to vomit and burst into tears. He gritted his teeth. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He could see his own blood staining his clothes. Tears sprung to his eyes with each step. Ross was nowhere to be seen. This was wrong.
Trott did his best to hold him up, but he still stumbled on almost every step. His stomach turned. The bullet didn't help. He felt dizzy.
They hadn't moved far, but Smith couldn't take another step. He tried to say it, but the words wouldn't come, so he slowed to a stop and effectively collapsed against Trott's side until they were on the ground again. He was half-sat and the angle only amplified the pain, but he could breathe somewhat easier. His heart pounded in his chest. The blood roared in his ears.
Trott held him close, as best he could, and if Smith could form a sentence he would say how it was appreciated. As it was, he pressed his face into Trott's chest to hide the tears forming in his eyes and hoped it was enough.
Trott stroked the back of his head gently. "Can you hear my heartbeat?" he murmured, so softly that Smith almost didn't catch it. He nodded minutely. "Good. Good, okay. Good. Focus on that."
For a time, he did, but it unsettled him. It was too fast, too frantic and worried. Trott was meant to be the level-headed one. This was wrong.
Smith looked out into the bright, cold air again. Trott smiled weakly at him.
"Hey," he said gently, stroking a sweaty lock of hair away from Smith's forehead. "It's going to be okay.". He was talking too fast and his voice wavered; Smith could tell he was trying not to cry. "It's going to be okay, alright? We- we're going to get out of here and you're going to be fine and-"
"Chris," Smith cut him off, and his voice was too raspy. He wanted to cry, but he had to put on a brave face. He couldn't let Trott know how much it hurt. It would only make things worse.
"Don't," Trott urged, avoiding his eyes.
They were quiet for a time: no words, just the wind and Smith's laboured breathing.
"I'm going to die."
Trott sighed shakily. He didn't look at Smith.
"I know. And I'm sorry. I knew something was going on with him, and I didn't say anything, and-" He took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm sorry."
Smith shook his head, which hurt. He closed his eyes because the white sky hurt to look at.
"It's okay."
"No, it's not. He thought you had it."
"I know. He- He does. Doesn't he?"
Trott was quiet for a long time.
"I don't know. He might. Oh my God, you're right. He- How did I never- I'm so stupid. I'm so sorry, I never even thought." Trott was crying in earnest now, tears rolling down his face and getting lost in his beard. Smith wanted to sit up and pull him into a hug, but it hurt to move. "Alex - oh God, Alex. You're dying."
Smith opened his eyes. He smiled slightly. "I know. It's okay, though. You'll be okay."
Trott didn't respond. They both knew it was a lie. They were quiet. There was a harsh ringing in Smith's ears.
"Is there anything- can I do anything? Anything at all?"
"Don't miss me too much," Smith tried, but he knew it was fruitless.
"Come on, sunshine," Trott smiled at him through tears. "Be reasonable."
Smith forced a laugh. It hurt. Everything hurt.
He was quiet for longer than he realised, eyes having drifted closed.
"Alex?"
"Still here," he rasped.
Trott chuckled, but it wasn't genuine.
Again, Smith fell quiet.
"Please, sunshine, I can't just sit here and do nothing, please-"
"Sing that song to me," he said, grasping at something to make this feel better, and Trott blinked away tears to look at him.
"What?"
"That song, the one about sunshine, sing me that song."
"Why?"
Smith didn't answer for a long time. "Just- please?"
Trott cleared his throat.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,"
They were in Germany and the sun was shining on them. Smith was eating ice cream. Ross leaned over his arm and stole the flake. They laughed. The sun was shining and they were in love.
"You make me happy, when skies are grey,"
They were in England and everyone was gone. It was all a laugh. They moved into a cabin by the river. They sat outside every evening and made jokes as the sun set. They had to steal to live. Trott felt bad. Smith kissed the smile back onto his face.
"You'll never know dear, how much I love you,"
The weather was getting cold and Smith had just killed a man. Ross took the body and dragged it away so they didn't get swarmed. Trott and Smith sat far apart on the step and didn't talk. By all accounts, everything was okay, but something between them had snapped.
"Please don't take my sunshine away."
There was snow on the ground and Smith lay in it, bleeding slowly into the frost. He held onto the front of Trott's jacket with hot, eager fingers like a child's. Slowly, his grip weakened, until it wasn't there at all. Trott's voice trailed into silence. Harsh, white light faded into darkness.
Please don't take my sunshine away.
Ross watched out of the corner of his eye as Smith stood up and shook the life back into his hands.
"Ross?"
"Hm?" He lifted his head and looked at Smith, putting on a gentle, sympathetic face and pretending that he wasn't smiling at a monster. An accident waiting to happen, a ticking time bomb ready to explode: that was Smith.
"Coming?"
He didn't talk for a long time.
He had to weigh up his options. This could be his chance to find out for sure if his friend really was infected, but it could also be the death of him if he made a wrong move. The virus changed people; it made them violent, callous, cold.
Trott was coming. If Smith were to turn on them, he wouldn't attack them both. Regardless, Ross found the cool, smooth metal of the handgun behind him. He always kept it close, just in case. It made him sick to think about using it.
He tucked it into his pocket and hoped his jacket would hide it. Hopefully, he wouldn't need it.
Ross stood up and dusted himself off, hoping to look composed.
"Let's go."
Three magpies watched over them from a high-up tree branch. Three for a funeral, Ross thought, but hoped it wouldn't come to that.
He watched as Smith filled a bottle from the river. He looked so put-together, so calm, so normal. He was good at pretending.
Ross filled his own bottle, the whole time keeping a close eye on Smith. He looked distant, withdrawn. It put Ross on edge. He noted Smith's struggle to replace the cap on his bottle. Motor control was one of the first things to deteriorate in the infected; they stumbled, they fell, they dropped things, they struggled. It wasn't enough, he told himself. Fear settled around him like an icy blanket. Smith was okay. It was all going to be okay.
They walked back to the cabin single file, silent. The atmosphere was suffocating. Ross stared straight ahead and tried to slow his racing thoughts. The gun felt heavy in his pocket. He almost wished he hadn't brought it.
Something was wrong with this picture. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Smith fall. The water bottle flew from his grasp and rolled down the hill, irretrievable in the undergrowth. He tried to stand and fell again, and certainty settled in Ross' stomach like a knife. For one sudden, horrifying beat, he saw Smith differently: flesh half-dissolved, clothes in tatters, eyes wild and crazed. And then he blinked, and it was gone.
At that moment, he knew it was true. Smith was infected. Smith had the virus. He was dangerous. Ross couldn't let this pass him by: all his suspicions, all his doubts, all his fears, everything had just come true.
Ross glanced quickly at Trott. He couldn't bear to let this happen; couldn't let this infected man put them at risk any longer. He loved both Smith and Trott immensely, they knew that, and he'd vowed to himself that he'd protect either of them before anything else.
And that only meant one thing.
That meant he had to do the unthinkable.
He had to shoot Smith.
Somehow, his hands moved faster than his brain, and he'd pulled the trigger before he even knew he was holding the gun.
Time seemed to slow. Smith fell to his knees in the snow, looking at him with a mix of confusion and hurt. Ross knew he'd never be able to explain what he'd done. He held the cold pistol tight. This was bad. This was wrong.
"What the fuck was that for?" Trott dropped to the ground beside Smith, holding him tight, and he was shouting. Trott didn't shout, it wasn't in his nature. Ross looked between Trott and Smith, waiting for a response to emerge, but one never came. He felt wrong, dirty.
Trott wasn't looking at him anymore. Instead, he was entirely focused on Smith, talking to him softly, holding onto him like a mother holds her child.
Ross felt a harsh tug in his stomach, like his insides were being pulled loose. Tears were rising in his eyes; bile was rising in his throat; panic was rising in his chest. He'd done a bad thing. He had to get out of here fast. This was wrong. He'd done the wrong thing. This was bad. He was bad. He'd done a bad, bad thing. He couldn't be here any longer.
He turned on his heel and ran off into the forest.
Each breath of the cold, harsh air sent knives through his ribcage, but he had to keep running. With every step, the cabin drew closer into view, and Ross hoped with an ever-growing sense of despair that he would burst through the door and Smith and Trott would be there, sat by the fire, and that they would hold him and tell him it was all a bad dream.
He pushed the door open in a frantic haze, but nobody was there. The fire was lit, which was strange because he was sure they'd put it out.
Behind the fire, lurked a man. He was tall; taller than Ross, at least. He stood with his back to the flames, staring at the wall.
"Hello?"
The man wheeled around to reveal his face. It was Smith. Ross jumped back. He was ruined: decayed and rotten. Ross backed against the wall. The creature walked through the flames and stared him down. It seemed to grow in size with every breath.
"Why?" It seemed to be asking, "Why me? What happened to getting out of here? You used to love me!"
Its voice was slurred and almost unintelligible. It spoke in a cloud of acrid breath. Ross tried to turn away from it, but it was everywhere. It made him retch. He screwed his eyes shut against the creature, begging it not to be true. It screamed at him and beat him with its fists. He was hopeless against it. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks.
"You killed me, you killed me, you killed me! You're a murderer! Murderer! Murderer!" It screamed at him, blind to his wish for it to all just be a bad dream. It was right. He was a murderer. He'd killed Smith, one of the people he loved most in the world.
Again, the creature screamed. Again, Ross shrank against the wall and screwed his eyes shut. He was crying in earnest now, tears falling down his face. He might have been sobbing, but he couldn't tell over the sound of the creature's screams.
Silence fell so abruptly that Ross didn't register it for a moment. When he dared to open his eyes, the creature was gone. The fire was unlit. He reached out and touched the charcoal. It was cold.
He sat up a little, tried his best to steady his breathing. Nausea bubbled in his stomach. He wanted to question what had just happened, but it all seemed too unreal. He questioned if it was ever happening at all. He felt sick. The room spun. Still, he cried.
It was all he could do: cry for Smith and cry for Trott and himself; cry because he'd done a bad thing and because he was confused and because he'd just seen a monster; cry because he wasn't sure what was real and what was made up; all he could do now was sit there, helpless as a baby, and cry.
Crying wouldn't fix this. It wouldn't help anything. But it was all he could do. He tried to breathe deep. He couldn't.
Out of the corner of his eye, he kept catching glimpses of the creature. He kept catching it whispering maliciously at him from the rafters. It made him feel like he was going insane. His stomach lurched every time he caught sight of it. He stumbled outside and braced himself against the wall as he finally did what he'd wanted to do all morning: threw up all over himself and burst, once again, into tears.
"Sing that song to me," Smith said suddenly, and Trott blinked away tears to look at him. His face was pale. His eyes were missing that light.
"What?"
"That song, the one about sunshine, sing me that song."
Trott's stomach turned. His head was swimming. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. They were meant to be okay. They were meant to get away from here. They were meant to wake up one morning and find it had all been a bad dream.
"Why?"
Smith didn't answer for a long time. Trott felt bad for questioning him. "Just- please?"
Trott cleared his throat. He wasn't a good singer; he didn't have half the voice Smith did, but he had to try. He fought tears. His throat was tight. Singing was hard.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,"
His voice was shaky and kept cracking. He cursed his tears. Smith was looking just beyond him, eyes unfocused. Trott set his teeth and tried to carry on.
"You make me happy, when skies are grey,"
His eyes were drawn to the blood pooling on the ground, all of it Smith's. Trott took a deep breath, sobs desperately trying to break in his chest. He wouldn't let them: he had to look strong, for Smith and for himself. He didn't think he could forgive himself if, in his last moments, Smith thought he was giving up.
"You'll never know dear, how much I love you,"
Smith was shaking now, and Trott convinced himself it was from cold. He was holding the front of Trott's jacket tight, face buried in his chest. It felt wrong. This was all wrong. This shouldn't be happening. This was wrong!
"Please don't take my sunshine away."
Trott held onto Smith's shaky form as if he'd disappear if he let go. Slowly, the grip on Trott's jacket weakened, until it wasn't there at all, and Smith's hand fell limply into the snow.
"Alex?" Trott whispered, voice hoarse.
No response.
"Alex- Smith? Alex? Come on. Talk to me. Look at me."
Trott turned him onto his back so his pale, frightened face pointed to the sky. His eyes were closed. He was still breathing, still only just alive.
Still no response.
"Oh God, Alex. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I let this happen to us, fuck. I'm sorry-" He cut himself off with a choked sob. Smith lay still. This was wrong, this was wrong, this was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
For a long time, he sat there in the snow. He cried, not caring if the noise drew the monsters near. Let them come, he thought. Let them have us. Let them leave him all alone.
A twig snapped. Trott turned around. He looked into the growing darkness for a long time. Nothing was there.
The sun had set by the time he convinced himself to stand up. He couldn't stay here. Smith was dead. He would draw the creatures to him like wasps to honey. Trott accepted it bittersweetly: he had to go.
He held Smith's cold hand up to his lips and kissed his knuckles gently. Fresh tears rose in his eyes. The air was still. Not even a branch shifted. The setting sun made the snow shine like gold.
How was this happening? How was this real? Just this morning they'd sat in the cabin and talked in hushed voices, all still unbroken and unscathed - all still trusting and alright and utterly in love. But, Trott supposed. that wasn't true. He'd just been looking through the rose-coloured glasses this whole time. They hadn't been alright in a long time.
It was over now.
He had to go.
"Goodbye, sunshine," he said softly, and his words fell dead in the snow.
And then, knowing that he wasn't going to achieve anything more by sitting here and freezing himself to death, he stood up and started to walk back to the cabin, not turning around once to look at where Smith lay.
He had to go now. It was over.
Ross pulled off his jacket and left it outside. He shivered as he dragged the door closed, cold, lifeless fingers fumbling on the latch. He tried to wake up a fire, but he kept dropping the matches. Eventually, he just gave up.
The sun was setting, and the light in the cabin was disappearing quick. He felt vulnerable. He wished he wasn't alone.
The walls echoed his thoughts.
Alone, alone, alone.
"Shut up!" He snapped, glaring at the walls. They did not answer him. Twice, he thought he saw the creature from earlier in the form of Smith, just in the corners of his vision, but when he turned his head, it was never there. The darkness grew.
He didn't know what was real. He felt hands, hundreds of hands on his skin. They grabbed at him and pulled him backwards, backwards, backwards, till he felt like he was falling into nothingness forever and ever. He heard crunching, fast footsteps in the snow, like someone was running. Were they coming to save him? Were they coming to kill him? Were they coming at all? From the blackness, more than once, he saw things lurching at him. When he flinched, they disappeared. His mouth tasted of blood.
The footsteps got louder until they rang in his ears. He wanted to scream. Nothing felt real anymore. He was confused. His head was pounding. He felt sick. This was wrong.
Someone was shouting his name. He couldn't see them, but they were there. A tiny dot of light in the darkness. He screwed his eyes shut tight and shook his head until he felt dizzy. When he opened them again, he saw the cabin, drenched in warm light. He saw his body; his arms and legs and torso, still curled tightly in on itself on the floor. And, pointed right between his eyes, he saw the barrel of a gun.
There was a long, drawn out silence. Trott's hands shook. He hoped Ross didn't notice.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. It was still. It was quiet. The fire crackled and spat. The blood roared in Trott's ears. They regarded each other coldly. Trott swallowed thickly. He backed off a few steps. Ross visibly relaxed.
After a long time, he spoke, avoiding Ross' eyes.
"Just- tell me- why, Ross?" His voice was hoarse and scratchy. Not for the first time, he cursed his tears. Ross looked up at him, unreadable.
"He was dangerous," Ross defended in a murmur, and Trott lowered the gun. Ross sounded utterly sincere, like he genuinely believed that. He wasn't in denial, or trying to be malicious, he believed it. Trott looked at him for some sign of an ulterior motive, but found none.
"I'm sorry," Ross continued, tears pricking his eyes. "I didn't want to kill him, honestly I didn't! But I couldn't let him hurt you. I couldn't let him put us both at risk, and so I just- I just- I-" A sob broke in Ross' chest. Trott felt a pang of guilt.
"Ross," He said levelly, voice low and soft. "Smith didn't have it."
"Yes, he did! He had it," Ross cried, a sob breaking in his chest like a wave on the shore. "I know he had it, I know the symptoms! They were in a paper, I- I read them. He had it, Chris, I-" He leaned forward, holding a hand out to Trott, who flinched away.
Ross looked hurt. Trott steeled himself and told himself not to care.
"What are the symptoms, Ross?" Trott asked, remaining as level and calm as he could. His head was spinning, stomach turning. His face was burning. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to run and run until he couldn't go any further.
"You feel unwell, to- to start with, at least." Ross took a shaky breath - pulling Trott back to reality - and wiped his eyes. "Then your motor control goes. Then your personality. You get delusions, p-paranoia... see things, imagine things that aren't really there. You get... aggressive. Detached. You- You become- Something else."
A fresh, harsh anger rose in Trott's chest. He felt it bubbling under his skin; taking the grief he had and forming it into something new. All remorse melted way, he let himself get frustrated and heated. Fresh tears formed in his eyes, but they weren't of sadness anymore.
"Oh, his personality was different? He was deluded? He was paranoid? He was something else? Look at yourself! Just as I came in here, you were mumbling to yourself about some kind of creature, just sitting here in the dark. And Smith had the virus? Smith was dangerous? What is there to stop me shooting you in the fucking head right here and now?"
The cabin was silent. Trott raised the gun again.
"Please!" Ross begged, lurching forward on his knees till he was close enough to wrap his arms around Trott's legs like a toddler. He looked up at him, face teary and blotchy, mouth still stained with vomit. He looked remarkably vulnerable. Trott refused to feel sorry for him. "Please don't kill me. I- I don't want to die, I- Please. Please- Please, Trott. I'm begging you, sunshine, I don't want to-"
"Do not call me sunshine," Trott snarled at him, backing off harshly. Ross stammered an excuse, but Trott cut him off. He felt reinvigorated by the anger that had settled in his stomach by now, taking the sadness and burning it to a crisp. "If you move one inch closer to me, I swear I will kill you."
Ross shrank back, but his eyes held defiance.
"You won't do this. You're too good. You're a good person. You won't."
Trott felt a special kind of angry at that. Too good? Maybe once, he was too good. But this was different. Now, he was bad. Now, he was avenging. Now, he was new.
An eye for an eye, he thought, aiming right between Ross'.
Strangely, though, Ross was silent. He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, nodding minutely.
Trott watched his hands shake. The silence was deafening. Ross opened his eyes. They were full of tears. For a moment, Trott's resolve crumbled slightly, and he wondered if Ross was right: maybe he was too good. But then, he remembered the way Smith's grip had loosened on his jacket as he'd died, and the walls shot up once more. Anger kindled afresh in his core, burning harsh and bright, devouring all in its path.
Without even thinking, he cocked the gun and pulled the trigger.
The bang echoed in the cabin and made his ears ring. Ross slumped over, hands falling limp. His blood painted the back wall. Trott stared at it all as if in a dream.
How was this real? He'd done this. He'd done this. Why had he done this? What was going on?
The gun dropped from his hand and onto the floor. He left it there.
He ran.
He ran and ran until black spots danced across his vision. His stomach turned. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears. He didn't know where he was; somewhere in the city. There were probably infected people here. He didn't care. Let them come. Let them have him. The last man alive.
He collapsed on the pavement in a heap. The dam broke: sobs burst in his chest, echoing off the concrete, tears cut rivets down the blood and dirt and sweat on his face. He must have looked a mess.
There were no noises: no passing cars or chattering people like there should have been, not even the electric hum of a streetlamp to keep him company. He remembered six months ago, when there was still hope. He wished to turn back time and live in that moment again. Everything was wrong with this picture. Everything was wrong. Everything was gone. He was alone
.
After a long while of pathetic, childlike wailing, he ran out of tears. He sat up and hunched against a wall, sniffling pitifully. He pulled his jacket around himself against the cold, though he still shivered. The abandoned buildings mocked him.
He stared up at the stars and bit his tongue. Regret settled in his stomach like a heavy, unmovable stone.
An eye for an eye, he thought, and the world goes blind.