Page 11 of Sick(ness)

Then came the faint creak of another door down the hall.

“Addy,” Sawyer’s voice called quietly. “It’s clear.”

She swallowed hard and turned the knob. The door gave a reluctant groan as it opened, the stale air of the hallway rushing in. It was colder there, damp, sharp; carrying the scent of mildew and something faintly chemical.

For a moment, her eyes struggled to adjust to the dim light filtering through the cracked skylight above. The corridor that once held soft footsteps and chatter was empty now. Doors stood half-open, dark and silent.

And after that, she saw him.

Sawyer stood a few feet away, tall and solid in his dark coat, a duffel slung over one shoulder. He looked as if he’d been carved out of the same hard lines that shaped the world outside—broad-shouldered, rough around the edges, steady in a way that made the surrounding air seem a little less fragile.

His hair was dark and uneven, as if he’d cut it himself with a dull knife purely to keep it out of his eyes. His face was angled and strong, the kind of rugged that came from a life that had knocked him down more than once. A crooked nose told its own story, broken at least once, possibly twice; and faint scars traced along his jaw like old map lines. The world had beaten him up, but he’d learned how to hit back.

Up close, she observed his meticulous attention to everything: the hallway, the doors, and even the ceiling. Every sound made his head tilt slightly, as if he were cataloging threats she didn’t even hear.

“Ready?” he asked.

Addy hesitated, her heart thudding. And she nodded once. “Yeah.”

Sawyer gave a small nod in return, turning toward the stairwell. The dim light caught the side of his face as he spoke quietly over his shoulder.

“Stay close. Don’t look too long at anything you don’t have to.”

And together, they stepped into the gray world waiting beyond the stairwell door.

* * *

The stairwell door groaned as Sawyer pushed it open. A wave of cold air rushed in, sharp and biting, carrying with it the stale tang of smoke and rot. Addy recoiled when it struck her, a foul scent so dense it felt palpable with the underlying rot. She gagged.

Light spilled through the doorway, soft and wintry. The sky above the parking lot was overcast; the clouds were heavy and low, hanging like a lid over the world. The faintest glow of pale sun pressed through now and then, blurring across the haze that clung to the ground, a mix of frost, wood smoke, and the stench of rotting trash piled against the curbs.

Sawyer stepped out first, scanning the lot with that same practiced precision, his gloved hand resting lightly on the strap of his duffel. Addy followed a few steps behind, boots crunching softly against a thin crust of ice that glittered faintly in the light.

The town she remembered was gone.

The small brick storefronts across the street stood hollow and dark, windows broken or fogged with grime. The diner where she used to grab coffee before work was nothing more than a burnt-out shell, its sign swinging loosely in the wind. Cars sat abandoned at odd angles, doors left ajar, tires half-deflated. Everything was still.

Even the wind sounded different: thin, restless, whistling through empty doorways and shattered glass.

Addy’s chest tightened as she looked around. She remembered kids riding bikes down that same street, the aroma of fried eggs and coffee drifting from the diner, the cheerful hum of normal life. Now all of it seemed impossibly far away.

“This is…” she started, but the words caught in her throat. “

“Dead,” Sawyer said quietly. His tone wasn’t cruel, but steady, as if he’d already accepted it. “It’s been this way for a while. The virus hit fast. People panicked. Tried to run, but…” He gestured toward the scattered cars, the open doors, the silence. “They didn’t make it.”

Addy swallowed, her breath fogging the inside of her mask. The cold air made her lungs ache. She hadn’t realized how loud quiet could be until now; it pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating.

She wanted to ask him if he’d been sick, if possibly he’d survived it somehow, or if he was like her: untouched, inexplicably lucky, and afraid to question why. But the words caught in her throat, and instead her thoughts slipped backward.

She could still remember that first strange morning.

* * *

School had just started again, the beginning of another September—new notebooks, new faces, the familiar routine. She’d been running late, coffee forgotten on the counter, hair still damp as she dashed into the store to grab disinfectant wipes for her classroom. Half the kids had come down with colds that week, and she wanted to be prepared. The news had been reporting on the severe flu season this year.

The store seemed off the moment she stepped inside. Shelves half-empty. People filling carts as if a storm were coming. The sound of coughing—wet, desperate. She’d caught sight of a man slumped against a display of paper towels, his skin waxy and gray, a woman trying to hold him upright as he muttered something she couldn’t understand.

Someone sneezed behind her, loud and sudden. She’d jumped, heart racing, rushing to pay and get out, the bottle of disinfectant still clutched in her shaking hand.