Page 10 of Sick(ness)

Three

The Outside World

For what seemed like forever, glimmers of sunlight pushed weakly through the plastic-covered windows, fractured and dull. Addy blinked against the dim light, her eyes heavy with the kind of sleep that didn’t rest anything. For a brief moment, she nearly imagined it was morning on an ordinary day, prior to the world falling quiet.

But reality set in.

The air was bitterly cold, the kind that seeped into her bones and clung to her skin no matter how she moved. The faint odor of death, sweet, metallic, and wrong, hung in the corners of the room; stronger now that the temperature had dropped overnight. Her stomach twisted, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since the night before.

She sat up slowly; the blanket falling away from her shoulders, and took a long breath that burned in her throat. Her breath fogged in the air. It was colder than she’d realized.

The faint gray-yellow light filtering through the taped plastic made everything look sickly and distorted. Her reflection shimmered there for a fleeting moment—pale, hollow-eyed, wrapped in layers of shadows.

Addy pushed herself up and crossed the room; every movement seemed deliberate and heavy. She reached for her bag, checked that it was still packed, and turned her attention to the small stack of remaining supplies. A few bottles of water. Two energy bars. A nearly empty package of wipes.

She tore one out, the cold dampness startling against her skin as she wiped her face, her neck, her hands, between her legs; doing her best to feel human again, even if it was only an illusion. She caught her reflection again in the dull metal of the sink faucet, hair a tangled mess, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, and almost laughed. It was either that or cry.

“Morning,” she muttered to no one. Her voice sounded small in the quiet.

When she finished, she layered her clothes: thick socks, worn jeans, a thermal shirt, a sweater, coat. Everything she had that might hold warmth. She knew that once they stepped outside, it would be much colder—especially if Sawyer’s car plan didn’t work out.

She tugged on her boots and flexed her fingers in her gloves then into mittens, testing how much she could still move. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Addy looked around the apartment one last time: the overturned chair, the taped windows, the notepad still open on the counter with her last words scrawled across the page: We are still here.

Her chest tightened. She wanted to take it with her, but somehow it seemed right to leave it behind, like proof she’d been there, that she’d lasted this long.

She zipped up her coat, slung the backpack over her shoulder, and took a long breath.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s see what’s left of the world.”

The sound of her voice faded into the stillness, and she turned toward the wall that separated her from Sawyer, ready to knock.

Addy hesitated, her hand hovering above the wall. The silence on the other side seemed heavier this morning, as if the building itself was holding its breath. She gave a quick knock, three soft taps.

A pause. Then, faintly, a response.

“Are you awake?”

Relief washed through her, almost dizzying. “Yeah,” she said, her voice catching. “You?”

“Still here.” The sound of shifting came through the wall, wood creaking, metal scraping. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, which wasn’t saying much. Her hands trembled, and she shoved them into her coat pockets.

“Good,” he said. “Meet me in the hall in ten. Bring everything you’ve got.”

Her heart kicked. “The hall?”

“I’ll check it first,” he said. “If it’s clear, we move.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. Footsteps moved away from the shared wall, fading toward his door. Addy stood there for a moment, frozen.

Ten minutes. After weeks of isolation, fear, and waiting, ten minutes was all that stood between her and whatever was left of the outside world.

She double-checked her bag again, even though she knew everything was already in it. Her fingers brushed over the photo of her mother, the worn edge of the notebook, the cold metal of her flashlight. Little anchors of a life that didn’t exist anymore.

When the time came, she unlocked the deadbolt with shaking fingers. The sound was too loud, echoing in the small apartment. She faltered, hand on the knob, and for an instant, almost lacked the will to do it.