Pretty Much Dead Already, page 9
“I know,” he says. “But you’re not there anymore.”
The words are simple, but they wedge somewhere behind my ribs and refuse to leave.
“Can I tell you a secret?” He says, voice dropping.
I nod, feeling the first trickle of curiosity.
“I used to work with survivors. After the first big breach, I mean. Most of them never got to talk about it, because everyone wanted them to ‘move on’ or ‘get over it.’ The ones who could talk usually did better. The ones who didn’t…well.”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
I look at the mug on the floor, the faint ring of tea on the inside. I realize I want to pick it up again, if only to have something to do with my hands.
He sees the glance, and slides it toward me with a little nudge of his foot.
“I’m not here to fix you,” he says. “I’m here to listen.”
I take the mug, and this time the warmth feels good. I sip, and the taste is bitter, but not in a way that bothers me.
He watches me, patient, as if he’s got all the time in the world. Maybe he does. Maybe, in this place, time is a privilege instead of a curse.
“Is that what you did before?” I ask. “Counseling?”
He nods. “School teacher actually. Then, after the outbreaks, trauma work. It was that or security detail, and I don’t have the hands for guns.”
I laugh, for real this time. “You have the hands for tea, though.”
He glances down at his hands, a bit embarrassed. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
For a while we just sit. The silence is comfortable, not heavy. It feels almost normal, which is the weirdest thing of all.
After a minute, I ask, “Do you like it? Helping people?”
He considers, then shrugs. “I like that it matters.”
I roll the answer around in my head. It’s not the kind of thing I would have said, but I like the way it sounds.
He checks his notebook, then closes it. “No more questions for today. Unless you have some for me.”
I want to ask a hundred things. What’s the point of any of this? Do the guards talk about us after hours? Is there a way out that doesn’t involve running or dying? But what comes out is, “Why me?”
Jace tilts his head again, the way a dog does when it hears a sound it likes. “Why not you?”
I shake my head. “I mean, you said I was more together than most. But I’m not. I’m just… I’m just good at following instructions.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You survived. That counts for something.”
There’s a conviction in his voice that makes me believe it, even if I don’t want to.
He stands, stretches, and looks down at me with the same gentle seriousness as before. “I’ll be back later. If you need anything before then, just ask the nurse.”
He starts for the door, then pauses.
“For the record,” he says, “you can pause as long as you need. I’ll wait.”
He leaves before I can reply.
I finish the tea, cold now but still oddly comforting. The aftertaste lingers, floral and faintly medicinal.
I set the mug on the table and realize my hands aren’t shaking at all. For the first time in as long as I can remember, the silence in my head is almost peaceful.
I sit there a long time, thinking about all the pauses I’ve been too scared to take.
He comes back just before dinner, when the hallways outside are thick with the clatter of boots and the smell of whatever the kitchen managed to un-can. I’ve been counting the ticks of the vent fan for an hour, rehearsing conversations I know will never happen, when the door opens and Jace stands there with his mug and a blue folder.
He looks less formal this time. Jacket off, sleeves rolled. The muscles in his forearm are lean, corded, like he’s spent years lifting things that don’t want to be moved. The tea is different, too: darker, sharper, astringent. I catch the scent of it before he even sits down.
“Evening,” he says, settling into his chair. He sets the folder on the end of the cot, careful to keep it from touching my leg.
“Evening,” I echo, not sure why it feels so loaded.
He gives me a smile that could light up the darkest of nights, “I thought we’d do a quick orientation,” he says. “Basic layout, meal schedule, stuff like that.”
“Okay.” My smile is less bright, more like the light of a cat toy laser.
He opens the folder and slides out a single page. It’s a hand-drawn map of the compound—lines and arrows, buildings labeled in block letters. The gym, the dorms, the mess, the med bay. Nothing about it looks official, but I can tell it’s the version people actually use.
“Here’s us,” he says, tapping the Omega dorm with a finger. “Meals are here. Medical’s here. Higher ups normally stay in their pretty tower.”
He runs through the daily routine. Curfew at nine. Mess hall open three times a day. Showers every other, unless there’s an outbreak, then none. Jobs are assigned by colored armband; Omegas wear blue, Betas white, Alphas red. Most people do whatever needs doing, regardless.
He waits for me to ask a question. I can see it in the way he holds his breath, in the slight tensing of his hand. But I just nod, taking it all in.
He seems almost disappointed.
He clears his throat. “If you need anything, you can ask the nurses. Or me. I’m around.”
I want to say, What if I just need someone to talk to? But the words stick, thick and stupid, in my chest.
He senses it, I think. He glances at my hands, which are curled so tightly around the blanket I could wring water from it. Then back at my face.
“Do you have any questions?” He asks.
I shake my head, then say, “No. Thank you.” I hate how flat it sounds.
He stands, smooth and easy. He picks up the folder, tucks it under his arm, but doesn’t leave right away. He just stands there, hand on the door, like he’s waiting for me to say something he can’t.
Our eyes meet. It’s just a second, but it’s enough. Something shifts in the air, like a wire pulled taut between us. I look away first, suddenly aware of the flush crawling up my neck.
“I’ll check in tomorrow,” he says, voice pitched lower. “Same time.”
He opens the door, then pauses, looking back at me with an expression I can’t name. For a split second, I think he might actually come back, sit down again, say what’s really on his mind.
But he doesn’t. He just nods and disappears into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind him.
I listen to his footsteps fade down the corridor, then silence. My heartbeat is loud in my ears, an insistent drumroll I can’t quiet. I slide off the cot and pace the room, two steps one way, three the other. The window is streaked with dust, the view just a strip of asphalt and fence, but I watch anyway, pretending I can see more than I do.
Below, people filter into the mess hall—singles, pairs, a few in small groups. They walk like soldiers, heads down, arms close, always aware of the eyes on them. I spot a flash of red armband, then blue, then white. No one lingers. No one talks unless they have to.
I press my palm against the window, the glass cold and rough. This isn’t the life I was trained for. Everything here is improvisation, survival, making do with what you’re given. No one cares how you look, what you say, how precisely you fold a napkin or whether your shoes match. The old rules mean nothing.
And yet, for all the chaos, there’s an order to it. A rhythm. Even the undead learned to run in packs.
My hand slips from the window. I turn and face the door, suddenly aware of how much I want to open it, to chase after the sound of his footsteps, to ask Jace why he looked at me the way he did.
Instead, I cross to the door and rest my fingers on the handle. The metal is warm, a ghost of his touch lingering there.
I close my eyes and hold it, just for a second, as if I could somehow trace the pulse he left behind. When I let go, the imprint stays on my skin, a phantom ache I know won’t go away soon.
I back up, settle into the cot, and pull the blanket tight around my shoulders. The room is quiet again, but it doesn’t feel empty. Not exactly.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what this is.
Tonight, I let the silence have me, every heartbeat loud and reckless and new.
Chapter Nine: The Weight of Small Things
Jace
The door gives that same mechanical click—loud in the hush of the ward. I wait, hand on the knob a second longer than necessary. She’s inside. I know it the same way I know the smell of smoke before fire—instinctively, unreasonably. The clipboard feels heavier in my hand. The chipped mug in the other is still warm, herbal steam curling like breath against the sterile air.
I step in.
She flinches like she’s been shot. Real, visceral. The kind of movement that’s not about modesty, but survival. The blanket slips, and for a second I catch a glimpse of bruised skin and the soaked edge of a sports bra. She's already scrambling to cover up again—like modesty matters in the middle of an apocalypse. It’s not about the fabric. It’s about control.
Her file said her name was Lira Vale, but the woman in front of me isn’t paperwork. She’s tension coiled into a human shape, eyes too alert, too calculating. There’s a moment of silence between us where I don’t say anything—just take her in. Not in that way. I read her, like a soldier reads terrain before stepping into the unknown.
“Lira Vale?” I ask. My voice is quieter than usual. She's watching me like I'm here to pull her apart, not check her in.
“That’s me,” she says. Her tone’s dry. Deflection dressed as confirmation.
I pull the folding chair out from under the desk, sit. Mug at my feet. Clipboard in my lap. Standard protocol—but nothing about this girl feels standard. Her scent’s still clinging to the room. Sweet and chemical. It’s faint, but persistent. If I were less disciplined, I’d be on my knees with my nose buried in her throat already.
I clear my head. Triage first. Everything else can wait.
“I’m Jace. Mental health triage,” I say. “I do intake for new arrivals.”
She doesn’t relax, but she straightens—like posture can be armor. She clutches the blanket, her fingers worrying the fabric like it might answer the questions I haven’t asked yet.
“You can relax,” I try. “This is just a check-in. You’re not in trouble.”
“Did I do something wrong?” She snaps, fast, defensive. Instinct. I’ve heard it in a thousand variations from people too used to punishment.
I offer a half-smile, but don’t push it. “Not unless you count surviving.”
That gets her quiet. I flip to the page marked with her name—ink already smudged by someone else’s anxious hand. Scanning the notes, I ask the usual.
“How are you feeling?”
She hesitates. Not because she doesn’t know—but because there’s too much to say. Too many answers and none of them safe.
“Alive,” she says finally. “Tired. Hungry. Like a science fair project, maybe.”
That one makes me smile. “You got pretty banged up,” I say, nodding at the bruises, the bandaged wrist. “Anything hurting more than yesterday?”
“Just the usual… It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Lie. But I don’t call her on it. I just write it down.
“What’s the last thing you remember clearly?”
She blinks, slow. This is the part that’s harder for most of them—not because they don’t remember, but because they do.
“Running. Wet streets.” A beat. “I was supposed to get married. I think I told someone that already.”
“You did,” I say. “You’re consistent.”
She looks down, like she’s trying to shrink into the blanket. I give her the silence to do it. People talk more when you stop filling the air.
“Do you remember anything after you got here?” I ask.
She gives a partial list. Medical. Curtains. A doctor. No mention of how she actually got here—which means there’s more under the surface. There always is.
“You’re not sleeping well,” I say, reading the twitch in her eye, the slight sag of her shoulders.
“Didn’t get much practice before,” she shoots back. A joke, half-bitter.
I let a smile ghost over my face. She notices—I can tell. She notices everything. Probably had to.
“I’m supposed to ask how you’re adjusting,” I say, eyes on her blanket, her bare feet, the way her body doesn’t quite settle. “Is there anything you need, Lira?”
That name shifts something. I see it. The way it lands heavier than it should.
She shakes her head.
“More blankets?” I offer, gently.
“I have two. The other girl took hers.”
“She’s in quarantine. Precautionary. You’ll see her at meals.” I'm just repeating what I've been told, I have no real idea but it calms her and the others to think it's all just routine.
Another flicker crosses her face. Loneliness, maybe. Or relief that someone else made it too.
“So what’s next?” She says, dry and sarcastic. “Tests? Psychological batteries? Want me to recite the alphabet backwards?”
“Can you?” I'd be surprised, not even I can do that, and I had classes of nine year old's try to teach me for years.
“Not even before the world ended.” Her voice is bland.
That gets a laugh out of me. Real, short. Too rare these days.
“There’s nothing you have to prove to anyone here.” She absorbs the words but doesn't believe them.
We both know that it is. A lie. A gentle one. The kind we all pretend to believe.
I review the clipboard one last time, but it feels pointless. The paper doesn’t tell me anything I didn’t already read from the way she holds herself.
I set the mug down. The scent of chamomile barely survives the ward’s dry air.
“Can I be honest with you?”
Her head tilts, curious. A little wary.
“Why not,” she says.
“I’m supposed to evaluate you for risk. Mental state. Potential for self-harm.” I shrug. “But you seem more together than most I’ve seen this week.”
She stares at her hands. They’re trembling.
“Maybe I’m just good at hiding it.”
I meet her eyes. Hold steady. “If you need to hide, that’s your right. But if you need to talk, I’ll be around.”
There’s a question behind her eyes. Why? Why this much effort for someone still bleeding at the edges?
Instead, she asks, “Are you this nice to everyone?”
I let myself smile, all the way this time. Let her see it.
“Only the ones who ask.”
The mess hall bell rings—another gut-punch of routine pretending to be civilization. I stand, finish the last of the tea, and sling the clipboard back under my arm.
“I’ll check in again tomorrow,” I say. “You can stay in here, or come out. Up to you.”
She nods. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.
I leave the room and close the door behind me.
It clicks shut. I tell myself the tightness in my chest is just the tea going cold. But I know better.
Something in there is going to change everything. And it already started.
The light in the ward’s changed. Not better—just harsher. Overhead fluorescents trying too hard, casting long, mean shadows on the floor. Sunlight doesn’t even try to compete. It’s the kind of light that makes everything feel more exposed.
She’s sitting on the cot, legs tucked up, blanket clutched like armor. Sugar packet in one hand, unread. I recognize the way her eyes shift without moving her head. Hyperaware. Still calculating the exits.
I open the door quietly this time. No clipboard—just my notebook and the mug I always carry. The same mug, stained with the ghost of every tea I’ve poured into it since the world fell apart. I close the door behind me, slow. Make sure the latch doesn’t snap.
I don’t sit across from her. That felt too formal yesterday. Too confrontational. I angle the chair beside her instead—same side, same direction. Not looking at her. Looking with her. It helps, sometimes.
“Good morning,” I say. My voice is softer than usual. I make it that way on purpose.
She echoes it back. “Morning.” Tense, but trying. That’s enough for me.
I open the notebook. Nothing dramatic. Just routine. But today I do something different—I offer her the mug.
“I made too much,” I say. “Chamomile. Helps with nerves.”
She stares at it a second too long. That’s alright. I don’t pull it back. Eventually, she takes it. The mug’s warm against her palms, and I can tell it unsettles her. Kindness usually does, when you’ve had it weaponized before.
“You feeling any better today?” I ask.
She nods. Then, because she’s honest even when it hurts: “Physically, yes.”
I raise my brows. “Mentally?”
She shrugs. “Same as yesterday. Or worse. Hard to tell.”
I make a note. It’s vague, but it’s something.
“I want to walk you through what we call a baseline assessment,” I tell her. “Nothing invasive. Just helps us figure out how to make things suck less.”
She almost smiles. “Is that the official line?”
“I like to think I’m improving the process.” I flick the pen open.
“Okay. Here’s the first one: Can you tell me, in your own words, what happened before you got here?”
She goes rigid. I see it before she moves—spine straightening, muscles locking into place like a well-trained soldier preparing for an interrogation. I don’t push.
I wait.
She lowers the mug to the floor, careful. Like everything she does. Controlled. Precise.
“You mean at the wedding.”
I nod. Let her choose the starting point.
“There was a breach. Infected got through. I heard the alarm, ran for the service stairs. It was already chaos. Staff gone or dead. I didn’t stop running until I hit the freeway.” A pause. “After that, it’s… fuzzy.”
