Chapter Text
October 31, 2548
She crouched in the shadows, pressed against the frosted metal shelves, the cold leeching through her thin summer clothes like ice-water sinking into her skin. Her breath came in shallow, controlled gasps. This had been a routine trip, no different than the countless others. But she had been careless, too distracted for just a moment, and that moment was enough. She had let herself imagine something normal, something safe—shopping with her mother, picking out new school clothes, the scent of fabric softener thick in the air.
And then the crash.
Just a single shelf nudged by her shoulder. It should have been nothing, should have been silent. But of course, something had to fall. One heel—just one. It lay there now, tipped on its side, useless and mocking in its irrelevance. Her chest tightened. That was it. That was all it took.
A voice broke through the silence—a low, rasping, almost guttural "Hello?" The word dragged itself out, echoing off the sterile walls of the department store, and Dahlia’s blood froze in her veins. She knew that voice. She knew that tone.
It wasn’t a greeting.
It was a hunter’s call.
Please, don’t come closer.
Her lips clamped shut. She wasn’t stupid enough to answer, to reveal herself. She knew that voice wasn’t asking—it was demanding. Hunger laced every syllable, a need that clawed at the air, a presence too foul to ignore.
“I... I only need something to eat..." the voice whispered again, soft as a breath but sharp as broken glass. The words seeped through the darkness, crawling toward her. A scrape of dragging feet, uneven, as if the thing was stumbling or perhaps purposefully limping closer. Each step was deliberate, predatory.
Dahlia held her breath, her chest constricting. Please, please turn away.
But the creature didn’t turn. It continued, its footsteps drawing nearer, scraping over the cracked tile floor, almost methodical. It stopped just before the heel.
She knew it was there, just beyond the shelves, waiting, sniffing, listening.
“I’m so hungry… please?” The voice was now a pained, desperate whine, almost unrecognizable in its need. A twisted plea. Dahlia’s pulse thundered in her ears. She held so still, she feared the very act of breathing would betray her.
And then, a shriek. A sharp, high-pitched sound came from the front of the store. The door? A glass pane shattering? Dahlia couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.
The thing’s head snapped to the side with an unnatural speed, and in that instant, Dahlia surged into motion. She darted toward the back of the store, the only exit she could reach. Her heart hammered, blood rushing in her ears. She crashed through the curtains leading to the changing rooms and skidded to a halt, gasping for air. Her lungs burned as if they'd been filled with broken glass.
The air smelled of dust and old fabric, stale and musty. Her legs shook, but she forced herself to remain silent. For one brief, fleeting moment, there was quiet.
But the peace didn’t last. A soft sob broke the stillness, fragile and trembling, like a bird caught in a trap. It came from one of the changing rooms.
Dahlia’s breath hitched. She quickly glanced over her shoulder, ensuring the thing had gone in the other direction. With every step, she felt like an animal—vulnerable, exposed. She crept toward the sound, the cold metal of her knife digging into her palm, her grip tightening.
The curtain in front of her shifted ever so slightly, and Dahlia hesitated. The sob echoed in the confined space. It was raw, painful, not the sound of a survivor.
She didn’t want to know what she’d find, but her feet moved, pulling her forward despite the warning bells ringing in her head.
Slowly, her fingers found the edge of the curtain. She pulled it aside—just enough to see inside.
And there she was.
Blonde hair matted with sweat and dirt, falling in clumps over a pale, terrified face. Green eyes, wide with terror, locked onto hers. Charlotte.
The recognition hit her like a slap to the face, a jolt of disbelief. It couldn’t be. Not her.
Charlotte Edwards—the golden girl of high school. The captain of the softball team. The one who had ruled the bleachers with a cruel smile and sharp words.
But now... now, she was nothing like that.
Charlotte clutched a bat in her hands, her knuckles white, her arms shaking as though the weapon were her last lifeline. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. She was curled into a corner, her back pressed against the wall, cradling the bat like a shield.
And Dahlia—Dahlia, who had once sat in the bleachers, watching Charlotte bark orders, leading her team to victory—stared down at her. This version of Charlotte was a ghost of the past.
“How—how are you here?” Dahlia’s voice trembled, thick with disbelief. The question slipped from her lips before she could stop it. She had thought of a hundred other scenarios, but not this one. Never this one.
Charlotte’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her eyes flickered, panic rising in them, before she gave a slight shake of her head, unable—or unwilling—to speak.
Her eyes darted toward the door, then back to Dahlia. She wasn’t just scared; she was broken. And Dahlia... Dahlia didn’t know what to do. The world had twisted, and in this moment, the high school years felt like something out of a lifetime ago. She had wanted to forget Charlotte, to forget that life, but now here she was, crouched in front of a girl who had once been untouchable, now a shell of the person she used to be.
It was all wrong.
Dahlia stepped back, her eyes never leaving Charlotte. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in as the weight of her own questions began to crush her.
But the worst part? The thing she would never forget, no matter what came next:
She wasn’t alone in this store anymore.
November 6, 2548
Sunlight filtered through the thin, moth-eaten curtain, bleeding pale gold across the icy floor of the classroom. It cast fractured beams on the old linoleum, catching the frost that laced the cracked windowpane. The light crept across Dahlia’s face, tugging her slowly out of sleep. Her eyes fluttered open to a cold world washed in quiet and dust.
Six days.
It had been six days since she found Charlotte in that abandoned department store, half-starved, trembling in a dilapidated dressing room like a ghost of the life they used to know. Every day since, Dahlia had remembered just how maddening she was—how she hovered when Dahlia tried to coax life from damp kindling, how she never quite pulled her weight on scavenging runs. A fragile girl with perfectly arched brows and a mouth full of complaints. Useless. Infuriating.
Beautiful.
Dahlia pushed the thought away before it could settle. It was always like that—Charlotte got under her skin in ways she couldn’t explain. She didn’t want her here. And yet… she hadn’t left.
The door slammed open, jolting her upright.
Charlotte stood in the doorway, cheeks pink from the cold, blonde hair disheveled, eyes flashing with indignation.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dahlia snapped, voice sharp and reflexive.
“If you didn’t insist on hoarding all the food in your damn room, I wouldn’t have to,” Charlotte bit back, stepping inside like she owned the place.
“Well, maybe if you stopped bumming off me all the time—”
Charlotte froze mid-step. Her face didn’t change much, but her posture did—just the subtlest shift, like something inside her had recoiled. Dahlia saw it. She heard her own words echoed back, cruel and ugly in the silence that followed.
Charlotte said nothing. She simply turned, stiffly, and walked back out the door. Her footsteps were quiet, like even they had nothing more to say.
Dahlia stared at the empty doorway, the room suddenly too quiet. Too hollow.
Damn it.
She dragged a hand down her face, then through her tangled hair, the guilt curling slowly, bitterly in her chest. She hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. She knew what it felt like to be told you were a burden—to be left behind when you couldn’t keep up. And she had done it anyway. Thrown that weight at Charlotte like it was nothing. Just another scar to add to the pile.
Her mother used to tell her, “Kindness is strength, not softness. Don’t let the world make you hard.”
But it had. It had turned her sharp, brittle. Mean.
And now she’d hurt the only person who still chose to sit beside her at the end of the world.
By nightfall, the guilt was unbearable. She slipped out of her makeshift room and into the darkened halls of the school. Her boots made soft sounds against the cracked tiles, echoing through the cold corridors. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, most of them long dead. She checked the locker room first, then the weight room, then the stairwell. Nothing.
The second floor was mostly forgotten—math classrooms, science labs. Dust and decay. But as she reached the top step, a memory flickered through her mind like an old photograph: Charlotte laughing under the flicker of lab lights, trying to hide her horror as yet another beaker slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor. The way they had bickered, even then—but how the edge always dulled when it was just the two of them and the quiet hum of science class around them.
Lab 217.
She opened the door carefully, the hinges creaking.
There, in the far back of the room, Charlotte sat at their old station—her head buried in her folded arms, shoulders rising and falling with each slow breath. She looked small there, swallowed by memory and silence.
Dahlia approached like something might break—either Charlotte, or herself—and slid onto the stool beside her.
“I know I shouldn’t have said that,” she murmured.
Charlotte didn’t move at first. Then slowly, she lifted her head. Her eyes were tired, rimmed red—not from crying, probably, but from holding it back.
“No, I get it,” she said. “You took a chance on me. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”
Dahlia shook her head. “You’re not a burden,” she said quietly. Her shoulder brushed Charlotte’s as she leaned in, just slightly, drawn by some thread she refused to name. “It’s actually been… nice. Having you here.”
Dahlia turned to her, not quite smiling. Her voice was barely audible. “Why here?”
Charlotte blinked. “Huh?”
“Out of all the places I thought you’d look, this would’ve been the last. So… why here?”
The corners of Charlotte’s mouth curved faintly, and she looked out toward the dark window, where snow flurried like ash against the glass.
“This was the only place that ever felt normal,” she said. “Even if we fought like hell back then, it was simple. Predictable. Safety goggles, formulas, bad lab partners. That was… comforting, in its own way.”
Dahlia let out a soft breath, her laugh barely more than an exhale. “You broke something in almost every single lab. Like clockwork.”
Charlotte’s lips twitched. “Those beakers were flimsy and you know it.”
She leaned her head to the side, resting her cheek against her arm. For a heartbeat, Dahlia let her gaze linger. On her lashes. The way her hair fell into her eyes. The slope of her jaw in the soft shadows.
She didn’t know what it was. Maybe just the silence. The shared memory. The way Charlotte had looked at her like she meant something.
Whatever it was, it caught in Dahlia’s throat.
“I don’t want to fight with you anymore,” Charlotte whispered.
The words hung there like mist. Fragile. Honest.
“If we’re stuck in this mess of a world,” she added, “I’d rather be stuck in it with you.”
Dahlia swallowed the ache in her chest and nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”
And in that quiet, broken lab—surrounded by dust, frost, and old memories—Dahlia let the silence settle between them. Not cold this time. Not empty. But soft. Shared.
And for just a moment, she let herself feel the warmth of Charlotte’s shoulder against her own. Just a little longer than she needed to.
Just long enough to wonder.
January 12, 2549
The world had begun to thaw.
The air no longer stung quite so sharply in their lungs. Snow still dusted the edges of rooftops and car hoods, but the streets whispered with early spring—wet earth, wind slipping through cracked windows, and vines inching their way deeper into the city, reclaiming it inch by inch.
Dahlia stood by the window of their shelter, watching that slow transformation. Beyond the dead buildings and overgrown streets, the hospital still loomed in the distance like a half-swallowed memory—its silhouette broken, leaning slightly, as though it, too, had grown tired of surviving.
They needed to go back.
She didn’t want to. She hated that place. But Charlotte had twisted her ankle two nights ago on loose rubble, and Dahlia had already used most of their decent medical supplies last time she got sick. If either of them got hurt again, and they weren’t prepared… well, that wasn’t a risk she was willing to take.
She only knew the hospital because of her sister. The same one she lost when everything fell apart. And stepping back inside that place would mean opening doors that should’ve stayed closed.
“Are you ready to go?” Charlotte asked gently, her hand settling on Dahlia’s shoulder.
Dahlia flinched at the contact—not because she didn’t like it, but because she almost did. And that was dangerous.
“Yeah,” she said quickly, stepping away. “We should go now if we want to beat sundown.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder, shoved her knife into its place on her hip, and didn’t wait for Charlotte to follow.
They walked for ten minutes without speaking. The city stretched out around them like a ruinous painting—vines crawling up broken signs, rust creeping along broken trolleys. The hospital grew clearer with every step, casting a long shadow over the past.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Charlotte asked softly, her voice nearly lost to the wind.
Dahlia didn’t look at her. “I’ve been trying not to.”
They stepped over a toppled shopping cart, its wheels tangled with ivy.
“But it’s hard,” she continued. “Coming back here. This was the last place things felt… real.”
Charlotte nodded silently. She didn’t press. That was the thing about her—she always seemed to know exactly how far Dahlia could go before she'd snap.
As they approached, the hospital came into full view. The EMERGENCY sign hung askew, the red letters faded to a soft brown. Moss had grown thick along the stairs, and the front doors—what remained of them—were cracked wide open like a mouth mid-scream.
Inside, it was worse.
The air was still. Heavy. Cold in a way that sank into the bone. Dahlia hesitated at the doorway, fingers brushing the threshold like they were waiting for something—someone—to stop her.
Charlotte touched her hand lightly, not holding it, just grounding her. “You don’t have to be strong all the time,” she whispered.
Dahlia’s throat tightened. She gave the smallest nod. “Thanks. I don’t think I can be.”
They moved through the ruined corridors slowly, collecting supplies—gauze, painkillers, antibiotics, anything worth salvaging. Every drawer opened sent a puff of dust into the air, and every step echoed like a dare.
Memories clung to Dahlia like spiderwebs. Her sister’s tiny hand wrapped around her finger. That hallway with the cartoon murals. The nursery, bright and sterile and full of promises the world didn’t keep.
She shook her head, forcing the memories down.
Charlotte had wandered ahead, stepping over debris at the far end of the corridor. Dahlia turned to an old cabinet and began searching through drawers—battered kits, empty boxes, dried blood.
Then the crash.
She whipped around.
Charlotte was on the ground, struggling beneath one of them. Its bones jutted out like splinters, its face slack and mottled. It clawed at her shoulders, teeth snapping just inches from her face.
The bat skidded out of Charlotte’s reach.
Dahlia ran.
She didn’t think. Didn’t breathe. Just ran.
She snatched up the bat, gripped it so tightly her knuckles turned white, and swung with everything she had. It connected with the creature’s head—crack. Blood sprayed in a sick arc across Charlotte’s cheek and lips.
The thing barely moved.
Charlotte choked, her face twisted in panic as her trembling arms barely kept its jaw from sinking into her.
Dahlia screamed and swung again. This time it rolled off, but not down. She followed, standing over it, swinging again and again, blood hitting her coat, her arms, the wall—until its head was nothing but ruin. The body twitched once, then stilled.
She dropped the bat with a hollow clatter and scrambled back to Charlotte’s side.
“Are you okay? Talk to me! No bites? No scratches?”
Her hands moved fast over Charlotte’s arms, her neck, lifting the edge of her jacket to check beneath. Her breath was frantic.
Charlotte shook her head. “No—no, it didn’t bite me, I swear—”
Dahlia cupped her face, tilting it up, brushing hair out of her eyes. “But the blood—it got in your mouth.”
Charlotte froze. Her lips parted, then closed again. Slowly, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve.
“Just a little,” she said. Too calm. Too fast. “I think. It wasn’t much.”
Dahlia’s heart crashed in her chest. Her hands trembled as she checked again, as if looking harder would make it untrue. “You’re sure? You didn’t swallow any?”
“I’m sure,” Charlotte said, though her voice had a slight shake to it now. “I spit it out. I didn’t swallow.”
Dahlia didn’t move for a moment. Then she let out a shaky breath and pressed her forehead to Charlotte’s, eyes closed. Her voice came out cracked.
“God, you scared me.”
Charlotte didn't say anything. She didn’t have to. Dahlia was touching her like she could anchor her in place—hands still on her cheeks, fingers brushing down to her jaw, thumb lingering at the corner of her mouth to wipe away one last smear of blood.
Finally, Dahlia pulled back.
She reached behind her, grabbed the blood-slicked bat, and rose to her feet. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Without letting go of Charlotte’s hand, she bolted toward the exit, dragging her with her through the halls they’d only just searched. She didn’t look back, didn’t stop until they were past the ivy-covered steps and back into the gray light of day.
As they ran, Dahlia’s only thought was to get her home. Keep her safe.
But Charlotte couldn’t stop thinking about the taste of blood in her mouth.
Or the feel of Dahlia’s hands on her face.
And the ache in her stomach wasn’t fear.
It was something she didn’t have the words for yet.
January 17, 4549
A week had passed, but the attack still lived beneath Charlotte’s skin—and it was eating her.
She tried to hide it. The way her hands trembled when she thought no one was looking, how her eyes darted toward shadows that weren’t there. But Dahlia saw it. How could she not? They’d been sharing the same room since that night—breathing the same stale air, sleeping beneath the same cracked ceiling, lying in separate cots while a quiet dread bloomed between them.
The change was slow. Like rot. It crept in quietly and small. At first, it was just the nightmares. Then came the shaking. Then the silence.
And now, something worse.
That night was meant to be still. Cold. Empty.
Instead, Dahlia awoke to the sound of Charlotte choking on her breath.
She blinked sleep from her eyes and turned, heart catching in her throat when she saw her—Charlotte curled in on herself, face buried in her arms, body twitching with effort.
“Lotte?” Dahlia whispered, sitting up slowly. “Hey… are you okay?”
No answer.
Just the sound of teeth grinding and shallow breaths clawing their way out of her lungs.
Dahlia reached out, fingers ghosting over Charlotte’s shoulder. The blonde flinched—sharp, instinctive—and for a second, Dahlia hesitated.
“Lotte?” she said again, softer this time.
She tilted Charlotte’s shoulder gently—and met her eyes.
Bloodshot. Wild. Drenched in something feral and glassy, as if whatever had once lived behind them was now watching from a distance.
Then Charlotte’s voice, low and broken, barely a whisper.
“I love you.”
It came out cracked. Half a growl. Like something primal was dragging the words from her throat and Charlotte was barely clinging to them.
Dahlia froze.
Her breath caught.
No. Please, not yet.
And then she was on her.
Charlotte lunged—too fast, too strong—and the two of them went crashing to the floor. Dahlia hit the ground with a gasp, her chest caving under Charlotte’s weight, her wrists pinned above her head.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte sobbed. The sound of it is barely human. Her mouth opened, teeth bared, and blood—thick, dark—dripped from her eyes onto Dahlia’s face, her lips, the inside of her mouth.
It tasted like rust and guilt and something Dahlia would never be able to forget.
“I’m so hungry,” Charlotte whimpered, her voice fraying into nothing.
Dahlia struggled beneath her, feet scrambling against the floor, but Charlotte’s strength was inhuman now. Her grip turned brutal. Dahlia could feel the bruises already blooming.
“Please—Charlotte—please don’t,” she gasped, trying to wedge her hands between them, desperate to hold her off.
But Charlotte didn’t stop.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t hear her.
And Dahlia knew.
Knew there was no saving her. No pulling her back from the edge.
The girl she loved was already slipping away—had slipped away—and what was left would tear her to pieces.
Her hand moved fast. The knife from her belt. Unsheathed in one breathless second. She aimed low—not the heart. Not the throat.
Just enough to stop her.
“I’m sorry,” Dahlia whispered.
Then she drove the blade into Charlotte’s side.
Charlotte screamed—high and guttural—and her body flew backward from the force of Dahlia’s kick, slamming into the far wall.
Dahlia scrambled to her feet, half-crawling backward, her hand smacking into the bat leaning by the wall. She gripped it, hard, her eyes locked on Charlotte, who now lay crumpled and bleeding across the floor.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then Charlotte looked up.
Her face was a ruin of blood and tears, eyes glassy and wet, and for a second—a single second—Dahlia thought she saw her again. The girl she kissed under the stars. The girl who whispered promises with shaking hands and lips that trembled.
Then Charlotte bared her teeth and screamed.
She lunged.
Dahlia didn’t think.
The bat moved on instinct.
The first hit cracked across Charlotte’s temple. Her body folded sideways.
But Dahlia didn’t stop.
She couldn’t.
She swung again. And again. Her breath ragged, her chest heaving. The sound of bone meeting metal echoed in the room like thunder, over and over, until there was nothing left but blood and silence.
Until the thing that once was Charlotte lay still.
Only then did Dahlia stop.
The bat slipped from her fingers and clattered to the ground. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, her body shaking. Blood soaked her hands, her face, her mouth. She could still taste it—Charlotte—like a curse she’d swallowed and couldn’t spit out.
She stared at the body.
At the girl she’d loved.
The girl who’d whispered I love you before turning into something Dahlia couldn’t save.
Her heart felt like it was collapsing inward.
Like there was nothing left of it.
She didn’t know how long she sat there. Minutes. Hours. Time didn’t feel real anymore.
Eventually, her body moved on its own.
She rose, limbs heavy, joints aching, and walked.
Down the hall.
Up the stairs.
Through the rusted door to the rooftop.
The wind howled around her. Sharp. Bitter. Biting through her clothes and skin like knives. But she didn’t flinch.
Blood coated her hands like gloves. Her jaw was clenched, her throat raw, her eyes dry even though everything inside her was screaming.
She walked to the edge.
Looked up.
The stars hung in the black sky, glittering like glass.
These were the same stars they had stared up at, just three months ago. When Charlotte leaned against her and whispered that she wanted more time. That they’d get out of here together. That they’d survive.
Dahlia had promised.
If one of us turns…
She kept her side of the deal.
But the girl who needed saving had died before she could ever really hold her. And Dahlia was the one left behind—heart hollowed out, guilt carved into her ribs like scripture.
She should’ve told her sooner.
Should’ve kissed her when she had the chance.
Should’ve died in her place.
Dahlia stared at the sky. Her breath curled in the air like smoke.
Then she stepped forward, and let the stars take her.