Pretty Much Dead Already, page 5
“Anyone else make it out?”
“Not that I saw.” I want to add, “Grayson left me,” but I can’t say it, not here, not now.
Rhett nods, accepting the answer.
The air grows heavy again, weighted with the things we aren’t saying. I focus on the towel, on the tiny loops of fabric and the way it holds the last shreds of warmth. My skin is tingling, raw and exposed, but for once it doesn’t feel like a liability.
Rhett stands, stretches, and offers me his hand. “Ready for the grand tour?”
I hesitate, then take his hand. His grip is firm, but not possessive.
We stand there, not letting go, for a beat longer than necessary.
The room feels smaller, the air brighter, as if we’ve stepped into a different world. He lets go first, turning to open the door, but not before giving me a look that sends a flush down to the tips of my toes.
I follow him out, towel clutched to my chest, and for the first time since the city fell, I feel something like safety.
Or maybe it’s just hope, chemically unstable and ready to combust.
The compound is a marvel of repurposed desperation. The main quad, once lush with ornamental trees and benches etched with donor names, is now a parade ground for triage. Tents stretch in military-perfect rows from the library to the gymnasium, each labeled with blocky numbers and patched with tarps of every color. The sight is both breathtaking and suffocating, like someone tried to compress an entire city into a single, endless camping trip.
Rhett walks me through it with the efficiency of a field surgeon. He’s changed—softened, maybe, or just more alive now that he’s on his own ground. He points out the boundaries: “Medical over there, behind the old science building. Mess tent’s in the old cafeteria. Sleep quarters are in the gym or wherever you can find a free cot. Don’t leave the quad without an escort, especially at night.”
It sounds simple enough, but the looks from the other survivors say otherwise. They stare openly at my hair, at the dress, at the way I try to disappear inside the standard-issue blanket Rhett presses into my arms. Some look away the second I catch their gaze; others stare longer, their hunger not for food but for some sign that I’m as breakable as I look.
He leads me to the gym, its glass double doors half-covered in plywood and handwritten signs. Inside, the air is a stew of sweat, bleach, and the faint, clinging sweetness of whatever chemicals they use to clean up blood. The floor is divided into rectangles of cots, every bed filled. Some people sleep in tight fetal balls, faces burrowed into filthy towels; others sit upright, eyes wide and searching, even in rest.
Rhett scans the room, then points to a free cot near the wall. “That one’s yours, for now. Keep your stuff under the pillow, if you can. It’ll go missing otherwise.”
I nod, clutching the blanket and towel, and shuffle to the cot. The springs groan under my weight, but the feel of something soft beneath me is a shock. I almost collapse right then and there.
He stands over me, hands on hips, as if unsure what to do next. “You’ll get a meal ticket in the morning,” he says. “For now, I brought you this.” He pulls a brownish protein bar from his pocket, still wrapped, and sets it on the cot beside me.
My stomach aches at the thought of food, but I resist the urge to wolf it down. Instead, I smooth the fabric of the blanket, tracing the institutional stitching with a finger.
He lingers, and I realize he’s waiting for permission to go.
“Thank you,” I say. It comes out softer than I mean, almost childlike.
Rhett nods. “If you need anything—anything—you find me. Or ask for me by name. Someone will know.”
There’s a pause, heavy as the sky before a thunderstorm.
“I’m glad you made it,” he says finally, and leaves.
The world contracts to the space around me, the drone of the generator, the distant gunfire that punctuates the night in irregular intervals. The noise is constant but not threatening, a reminder that for all its horrors, the outside world is still kept at bay by a fence, a gun, and a rotation of guards with nothing left to lose.
I lie down, pulling the blanket tight to my chin. The dress underneath is still damp, but I don’t care. I let my eyes drift over the gym ceiling, watching the flicker of emergency lights as they pulse along the rafters. Every now and then, a shout rises from the quad, or a burst of laughter, or a baby’s sharp, unfiltered wail. Life persists, mutated and urgent.
I close my eyes, and for the first time since the outbreak, I don’t dream of teeth or blood. Instead, I see the outline of the Fort—its impossible, ugly promise—and the shape of myself, battered and alive, inside it.
I fall asleep still clutching the blanket, standard issue and scratchy, but the best comfort I’ve ever owned.
And in the dark, I start to believe that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will come.
Chapter Four: A Familiar Scent
Rhett
The first time I see her again, I’m on perimeter duty, third watch, two hours into a shift that feels like chewing tinfoil. The air reeks of melting plastic and wet stone—a spring rain hissing on still-scorched concrete, the city’s bones trying to slough off last season’s dead. The chain link fence is slick with runoff; the guards are jumpy. On the radio, nothing but static and the tired voices of men and women who used to be dentists, teachers, day laborers, now all conscripted into the service of not dying.
The intake line is worse than usual: one hundred, maybe two, all pressed together, the collective scent of humanity so thick I can almost see it. Most of the refugees smell like they always do—strain, terror, and the medicinal undercoat of hope pried loose from the skull and smeared on the skin. But tonight, there’s something else. Something sharp and impossible, a living contradiction on the wind. I catch it at first as an afterthought, a trace layered under the rest. Smoke and ozone, crushed peonies, the burnt sugar of fear in heat. A phantom scent, and it stops me dead.
It happens just after midnight, in that hour when the world feels most likely to tip over, and the only light is the blue halogen wash from the security lamps rigged to the quad’s highest poles. The line’s been jammed for fifteen minutes, the last brawl resolved with a fist to the temple and a double shot of ketamine, but it isn’t the violence that draws my eye. It’s the color.
A streak of white, almost luminous under the lights, weaving through the mud and the shuffling black of the crowd. At first I think it’s a hallucination—a bad dream bleeding into the present, a seam in consciousness left unfinished. But then the shape resolves: woman, maybe five-five, clutching a navy coat like it’s body armor, bare legs streaked in what could be blood or wine or just city filth. Her hair is copper-bright, wild and wet, flames curling down her back. The dress is the kicker, though. Lace, silk, the ruins of a wedding gown filthened almost past recognition. Except I recognize it. Or rather, I recognize her.
Lira Vale.
The name ripples up my spine, electric and brutal. Back in the old world, she was a rumor, a whisper of privilege and scandal you never quite believed until you saw it in person. At the Westbrook offices, she’d been a wraith, always in some distant corridor, always with handlers, always perfect. And now, here, she looks like she’s been through every circle of Hell and did not make amends with the ferryman. Her hands shake as she plants her boots into the mud, shoulders cocked as if every ounce of her wants to vanish but knows there’s nowhere else to go.
I drop my post—protocol be damned—and advance toward the checkpoint. The corporal on duty clocks me, eyes going wide, probably thinking I’m about to haul someone out for quarantine. I mutter a rough “relieve me” and keep moving.
In close the scent is impossible to ignore: adrenaline-spiked, but tangled with something older, unprocessed and sick with longing. Two years ago, in the Westbrook panic-room audit, I’d gotten a lungful of her, just once, and it haunted my dreams for months. My wolf—call it what it is, call it the part of me the world will never housebreak—wakes like I flicked ammonia under its nose.
She doesn’t see me until I’m right in front of her. The jacket is so big on her frame it hides half her body; she’s hunched down, chin tucked, a pose I know from a thousand failed checkpoint interviews. I clear my throat—unnecessary, but the moment wants ceremony.
“Lira Vale,” I say, quiet enough that only she can hear it.
Her head snaps up so fast I see the vertebrae in her neck pop. Her eyes are ringed in bruised purple, the hazel so bright it looks touched up in post. At first there’s nothing—no recognition, just a defensive brute calculation—but then she remembers. I see her inhale, the scent of me registering, and for the briefest pulse the old world asserts itself. The girl who never looked at anyone long enough to be seen looks at me, and does not look away.
“Do you remember me?” I ask.
She shakes her head, of course she doesn’t.
I smile, just barely. “It’s Rhett. Rhett Morrison. We met once, at the Westbrook offices. Security review, two years ago.” I watch her eyes widen, as if recalling a long lost dream.
There’s blood dried at her lip, a split that’s been licked clean and reopened a dozen times. The effect is not attractive—there’s nothing in this version of her that would have sold a perfume ad—but every cell in my body wants to reach for her, to drag her into the present and tell her it’s over, she’s safe.
She’s here.
“You made it,” I say, the words leaving me quieter than I mean them. Like it’s a small miracle—and maybe it is.
Her eyes glint with something I don’t name, but I see her throat working like she wants to laugh. Or cry. Or both.
I jerk my chin toward the room behind me. “You’ll be safer here. For now, at least.” It’s the best I can offer, and we both know it’s not much.
She nods, but doesn’t speak. Tension still coils around her shoulders like she’s waiting for the next strike.
I hesitate. Then I reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder. It’s awkward, unsure. I don’t do this often—not since the world burned months ago—but it feels like she needs it. Hell, maybe I do too.
“You did good,” I tell her, voice low, steady. “Not everyone makes it this far.”
I feel her flinch under the contact. Not because it’s me—but because it’s real. Skin to skin. Not rubber. Not rage. Just a hand that means she’s still human. Still here.
I let go before the moment stretches too long. Step back and pull open the door.
“Come on,” I say.
She follows. Not because she trusts me—I can see it in her gait, the edge to her every breath—but because she’s out of options.
As I shut the door behind us, I catch a glimpse of the woman from earlier—the one whose husband was dragged off. She’s still watching, her eyes heavy with questions she’s too afraid to ask.
The decontamination chamber is as grim as ever—small, tight, and slick with condensation. The air’s soaked in that sterile, sour hospital tang that clings to your clothes long after you leave.
I seal the door. The outside noise dies instantly. Feels like dropping into a freezer.
“Sit,” I say, motioning to the plastic bench bolted to the wall. My tone’s softer this time. Not a command. Just... a suggestion. An offering.
She doesn’t argue. Perches on the edge like she’s ready to bolt. Her jacket is a crumpled thing in her lap. Her dress—white, stained—looks like it’s screaming everything she’s had to survive.
She wraps her arms around herself, trying to disappear into her own body.
I stand in front of the door, hands behind my back, watching her. Guarding her. Maybe guarding the world from what she had to walk through to get here. I don’t know.
She looks fragile. But not weak. Never weak.
“Did they check you for bites?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
She nods. “Twice.”
I just nod back. Relief isn’t something I show anymore. But I feel it anyway.
I grunt, noncommittal, and head for the cabinet in the corner, already knowing what I’ll need. Gloves. Disinfectant. Paper towels. The basics. Everything in here is secondhand and barely stocked, but it’ll do.
She watches me—quiet, still—as I set the supplies on the bench beside her. Her shoulders are tense, her fingers curled into the hem of her dress like she’s trying to hold herself together. I don’t rush.
“Hold out your arms,” I say.
She obeys, and I snap on the gloves with practiced ease. Left arm first. Her skin is warm, clammy under the light. Bruises bloom across her forearms in angry purples and sick greens, cuts crusted with dirt and dried blood. I trace over each one, slow and steady, stopping when I reach the worst—a jagged gash along the inside of her wrist.
I don’t flinch. I don’t ask how she got it. I just work.
Gauze. Spray. Clean. The antiseptic hisses against her skin.
She hisses back, yanking slightly, but I keep her steady. My fingers curl gently around her wrist, firm but not cruel.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “It’s better if it hurts.”
She looks up, expecting a joke, I think. But I mean it. Pain’s a sign she’s still here. Still alive.
I move to her other arm. Same method, same silence. This close, I can smell the coppery tang of old blood, the sweat, the fear she’s trying to swallow. She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t complain. Just watches me with eyes too tired to be young.
When I finish, I strip off the gloves, toss them in the bin. My hands feel cold without them.
“You’re lucky,” I say before I can stop myself. It comes out too low, more to me than her. “A week ago, they’d have put you straight into isolation. No exceptions for anyone, not even…”
I catch myself. Too late.
She arches a brow, and something sharper flickers in her expression. “Not even a Vale?” She says, and for a breath, she’s someone else—someone rich, powerful, untouchable.
I meet her gaze. For a moment, I see the boardroom version of her—sharp heels, expensive perfume, clipped words and subtle games. I remember standing outside the office while her father barked orders. I remember pretending we weren’t worlds apart despite the way her scent called to me.
“Not even you,” I say. It’s not a dig. Just the truth.
I turn to the control panel, adjust the dials. The mist cycle is set for thirty seconds—longer than most would tolerate, but she needs it. I point to the faded circle of tape on the floor.
“Stand there,” I say. “Hands up. Eyes closed if you want.”
She steps forward. No protest, no hesitation.
The nozzles kick on with a sharp hiss, spraying her from every direction. She flinches, but doesn’t move. Just stands there, teeth clenched, enduring. The mist clings to her skin and soaks through her dress, outlining her like a watercolor silhouette. I look away—but not fast enough to miss the shape of her ribs or the way her knees wobble.
When it ends, she stays frozen for a second. Then slowly lowers her arms, dripping, shivering.
I cross to the towel rack and grab the cleanest one left. It’s thin, rough from too many washes. I hold it out, but pause.
“I can turn around,” I offer, voice quiet. “If you need—”
“It’s fine,” she says, and reaches for it.
Our fingers brush.
Something jolts between us—hot and sudden. Her skin is chilled, but my arm burns like I grabbed a live wire. She feels it too. I see it in the way her lips part, the way her collarbone flushes with color.
She dries off quick, face and arms first, then wraps the towel around her shoulders. Her dress clings to her like a second skin, and I force myself to look away again. Not because I don’t want to—but because I respect her too damn much to take advantage of a moment like this.
I stay standing, give her space, but the air between us buzzes with something neither of us names.
“You’re with the guards now?” She asks, breaking the silence.
I nod. “Contracted, not conscripted. I get more freedom that way.”
“Freedom,” she echoes, like she doesn’t believe in the word anymore.
I shrug. “Less oversight. More ability to help people who need it.”
I don’t say her name. Don’t say that’s why I pulled her from the line. But maybe she knows.
I sit on the far end of the bench, enough distance to be proper, but close enough to catch the faint heat rolling off her damp skin. I lace my fingers together, lean forward, elbows on my knees.
“What happened?” I ask.
Not cold. Not gentle. Just real.
She’s quiet a second too long. I wonder if she’s going to lie.
“Wedding massacre,” she says finally. Her voice is dry, brittle. “Started with the kitchen staff, ended with the bouquet toss.”
It’s a joke. A bad one. But I give her a ghost of a smile anyway. It’s all I have.
“Anyone else make it out?”
“Not that I saw.”
She hesitates. I see it. Something unsaid curled at the edges of her lips.
She doesn’t say it.
I nod. Accept it.
But I make a note. There’s more she’s not telling me. Not yet.
And I’m not going to push. Not tonight.
The air shifts again—thick with silence and everything we aren’t saying. She clutches that towel like it’s armor, skin still flushed and damp, but not from fear this time. There’s a kind of stillness in her now, like she’s finally letting her body feel the weight of surviving.
I don’t say anything. Just stand and stretch the tension from my back. Then I hold out my hand.
“Ready for the grand tour?”
She hesitates—not out of fear, I don’t think, but calculation. Trust is a dangerous currency here. But she takes my hand.
Her fingers slide into mine. Small, cold, strong.
We stay like that longer than we should. Long enough that I feel the press of her pulse against my skin. Long enough for the room to feel smaller. Warmer.
