Page 14 of Sick(ness)

She watched his profile, his jaw tight, his eyes hard in a way that told her this wasn’t theory. He’d seen it.

He continued, his tone quieter now, almost reluctant. “And for you…” He hesitated. “It’s worse. You need to understand that.”

Addy’s stomach turned cold. “Because I’m—”

“Because you’re a woman,” he said flatly, cutting her off before she had to say it. “And out here, that means you’re a target. For food, for shelter, for… whatever someone decides they want.”

His words hung heavy in the cold cab. Addy looked down at her hands, the gloves trembling slightly. She’d known, somewhere deep down, but hearing it spoken aloud made it more real.

Sawyer’s tone softened, just barely. “That’s why we stay quiet. That’s why we don’t stop for anyone. And if someone tries to approach you—”

“I’ll stay behind you,” she finished, her voice steadier than she felt.

He nodded once. “Good.”

For a while, the only sound was the rumble of the truck and the occasional clatter of debris skidding across the road. The world outside seemed endless, just miles and miles of silence.

Addy turned her gaze toward the window, watching the faint reflection of her face ghost across the glass. She looked different already, sharper somehow, leaner. There was no room for softness anymore.

Still, as she glanced back at Sawyer, she found a small flicker of something she hadn’t felt since the world had fallen apart. It wasn’t safety exactly, but something close, a fragile thread of trust that stretched between them, holding just strongly enough to keep her moving forward.

They drove on.

Four

The Road

By early afternoon, the horizon opened into wide, flat country. The edge of town had gave way to stretches of farmland, fields that hadn’t been tended in weeks. Rows of corn stood half-harvested, the stalks bowed under frost, their yellowed leaves whispering faintly in the wind. A plastic bag fluttered along a wire fence, snapping like a warning flag.

The houses they passed were caught somewhere between life and ruin, porches still lined with empty chairs, toys scattered in yards. Curtains fluttered in cracked windows as though they still remembered the people who used to pull them closed at night. Nothing had collapsed yet. Everything looked as if it had simply paused—stuck in the moment when the world decided to stop turning.

A hand-painted sign leaned crooked in the ditch ahead, half-covered in frost: Haven Ridge, 4 Miles. Someone had spray-painted a crude skull over the town’s name.

“Used to come this way for hunting,” Sawyer muttered, eyes scanning the fields as the truck rolled past the edge of town. His voice was quiet, almost reverently, as if he were speaking to ghosts. “Whitetail everywhere. You’d see them cutting through that corn come sunrise.”

Addy followed his gaze. The landscape stretched out for long, cold miles, fields dulled to gray and pale gold, the color of a world holding its breath. The corn stood half-rotted, stalks bowed and brittle. A rusted tractor sat crooked in the distance, its wheels swallowed halfway by frozen mud.

“It looks… empty,” she said softly. Before she could stop herself, the question slipped out. “Do you think they’re all dead?”

Sawyer didn’t answer right away. His hands stayed steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The only sound was the low rumble of the engine and the faint rattle of loose debris caught in the wind. Finally, he said, “Most, yeah. Some probably ran. Though not many places left to run to.”

Addy looked out at the horizon again. The fields, the houses, the empty barns, they all looked frozen mid-breath, as if the people who’d lived here had… ceased. Like the world had shut its eyes and never opened them again.

They turned onto a narrow bridge that arched over what had once been a small river. Now it was barely moving, a sluggish vein of dark water threading through mud and dead reeds. The wind picked up, carrying a faint odor that made Addy’s stomach twist—sweet and sour, the unmistakable scent of decay.

Halfway across, Sawyer slowed the truck. “Damn,” he murmured.

Up ahead, a cluster of vehicles blocked the road, three cars and a delivery van, turned sideways as if they’d skidded to a stop in panic. The doors hung open, windows covered with frost. A shopping bag lay torn in the middle of the road, its contents — cans, a box of crackers — scattered and half-frozen.

Addy’s breath hitched as she spotted movement off to the side. Not movement, she realized, shapes. Bodies.

They lay tangled on the riverbank below the bridge, half-hidden in the reeds. At first, she thought they were burned, but she saw the truth: blackened from rot, skin split and warped by the cold. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a cry as bile rose in her throat.

Sawyer reached across the seat, his hand brushing her shoulder, steady, warm even through their layers of fabric.

“Don’t look,” he said quietly.

But she already had. The image burned behind her eyelids no matter how tightly she shut them. Families—travelers who thought this bridge was their way out.