Page 18 of Sick(ness)

It tapped against the windshield, soft at first, but growing harder, rattling in uneven bursts. Addy jerked, her heart leaping before her mind caught up. Just weather. Just sleet. But even knowing that didn’t stop the way her pulse refused to settle.

She glanced at Sawyer, still asleep, his face softened in rest but no less worn. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, the faint scar on his nose catching what little light there was. He looked different like this—human, almost peaceful.

Addy exhaled slowly, turning her eyes back to the dark. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be watching for, exactly, other people, animals, the sick—but she stayed alert, anyway.

Because in a world this quiet, even the smallest sound could mean everything.

Addy’s eyes burned as the faint light of early morning crept across the horizon. The sky was streaked with thin bands of pink and pale gray, the kind of light that made everything look fragile and half-real. Her body ached from the cold and from staying still too long. She flexed her hands, blew into them for warmth, and glanced toward Sawyer.

He was slumped slightly forward, one arm draped across his chest, his chin tucked toward his shoulder. Even in sleep, he looked alert, tense, ready. Addy hesitated for a moment, not wanting to wake him. She leaned over and tapped his arm softly.

He came awake fast.

In a single breath, his posture shifted, eyes snapping open, his hand instinctively reaching toward his knife before he registered her. Addy startled at the sudden movement, her pulse jumping.

“It’s morning,” she said quickly, her voice low and apologetic. “Sorry if I scared you. I … didn’t want to screw something up and let you sleep too long.”

Sawyer exhaled, rubbing a hand across his face, his expression easing. “No…it’s good. It’s time to get rolling, anyway.”

He sat up and stretched, his joints cracking in the quiet. For a moment, they both sat there listening to the soft tick of sleet melting on the hood. Then Sawyer reached for his jacket and nodded toward the field.

“I need to take a leak,” he said. “I’m sure you do, too. Stay within sight of the truck, and make it quick, okay?”

Addy nodded, pushing open her door. The hinges squealed loudly in the early morning calm, the sound slicing through the stillness. She winced, glancing instinctively over her shoulder before slipping out into the cold.

The air bit at her face, sharp and clean after a night of frost. She moved quickly behind one of the large storage containers, the gravel crunching under her boots, her breath puffing in small white clouds. The quiet was heavy, too heavy; and she caught herself scanning the horizon the way Sawyer always did.

She had just started to stand when something shifted at the edge of her vision.

Movement.

Her eyes snapped toward it, a figure stumbling from the open doors of a barn across the lot. The shape moved unevenly, dragging one leg, its head lolling slightly as it walked. Addy froze, confusion slicing through her grogginess. For a second, she thought it might be another survivor. Then she saw the way it moved—jerky, broken, like the body didn’t quite remember how to be alive.

It looked like death itself.

The person, if it still was a person, turned toward her. Even across the distance, Addy could see its skin was gray and slack, its mouth moving as if trying to form words. A sound came next, a wet, rasping plea carried faintly on the wind.

“Help… please…”

Her throat closed. She took a step back, heart slamming against her ribs. The thing’s head twitched sharply at the movement, and it began to shuffle faster—arms out, reaching.

“Sawyer!” Addy screamed, spinning on her heel and sprinting for the truck.

Gravel flew under her boots. The cold air burned her lungs. She didn’t look back.

Sawyer was already halfway out of the cab when she reached him, his eyes wide, scanning the horizon behind her. “Get in!” he barked.

She stumbled into the passenger seat, fumbling with the door as Sawyer slammed it shut and threw the truck into gear. The tires skidded, spitting gravel behind them as they tore out of the lot. Addy looked over her shoulder through the rear window just long enough to see the figure still coming, slow but relentless, its movements disjointed and wrong.

Sawyer didn’t say a word until the barn and the lot were far behind them, just a blur in the frost-tinted distance. His jaw was set, his hands tight on the wheel.

Addy’s breath came fast and shallow, her whole body trembling. “That, what was that?” she finally managed, her voice thin.

Sawyer didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the road, but when he spoke, his tone was low and grim.

“Whatever it was,” he said, “we don’t want to find out what happens if it gets close.”

Addy fixed her eyes on the road ahead, trying to breathe evenly, but her stomach twisted tighter with every mile. The world outside the window was a blur of gray fields and skeletal trees, and she clung to that motion, anything to keep from replaying what she’d just seen.