The morning light brought no comfort.
Alex woke on the couch with the bat still across his lap, stiff from a night of half-sleep. His mother was already in the kitchen, boiling water on the propane stove. The familiar scent of coffee filled the air, almost enough to fool him into thinking it was just another normal morning—except his clothes were still spattered with yesterday's blood.
His father sat at the table, silent, his hands folded. There were shadows under his eyes.
Margaret set down some mugs. "We need to wash your clothes, Alex. That's no way to sit around."
He nodded numbly, then rose and stripped down to his undershirt, carrying the stained jeans and flannel outside to the tub. As he scrubbed, the red water bled across the surface, diluting into pink. He thought of the man in the grocery store. The eyes, the teeth, the way he didn't stop until his skull cracked. Alex had killed someone—or something. His hands worked harder at the fabric, as though he could wash away not just blood, but also the memory of it.
When he came back inside, his heard his parents whispering. That stopped when he entered.
"We need to talk," Robert said. His voice was steady but tight. "About what happens if—if one of us gets sick."
Margaret flinched. "Don't say that."
"It needs to be said," he insisted. "We can't pretend forever."
The words sat heavy. Alex looked between them. They were right. He'd read enough history to know that families were often broken by plagues, not enemies. "If someone gets bitten," he said slowly, "we don't hide it. No secrets. We deal with it, before it's too late."
His father gave a grim nod. His mother's eyes watered, but she didn't argue.
The pact was unspoken, but binding.
After breakfast, Alex began the day's work. The house needed fortifying. Yesterday proved how fragile their safety really was.
He started with the windows. He found some old planks in the shed, leftover from when his father had repaired the barn years ago. With his trusty old hammer and rusty nails, he boarded the first-floor windows, leaving narrow slits for light. The sound of hammering echoed throughout the still countryside, and each strike made him tense. Noise could draw attention. But leaving the glass windows bare was worse.
His father helped where he could, handing nails, holding planks in place. His hands shook at times, not from weakness, but from the weight of it all. Margaret stayed inside, sorting supplies, her movements brisk and precise as though keeping herself busy might anchor her to reality.
By noon, sweat ran down Alex's back, his palms blistered. But the windows were secure, the porch reinforced with furniture pushed against the inner wall. The house no longer looked like a defenseless little home—it looked more like a fortified home.
Around mid-afternoon, Alex climbed onto the roof with binoculars. The air was unnervingly still, birds absent, cicadas silent. He scanned the horizon.
To the east, toward town, faint smoke still curled into the sky. Dark plumes rose from at least two separate places. Somewhere out there, fires still burned.
To the west, farmland stretched quiet, but at the far end of the road he saw something unusual. A pickup truck, parked at an angle in a ditch. The driver's door was open. He could make out no movement around it, but even from a distance, it looked wrong—like whoever drove it had left in a hurry.
He swung the binoculars back toward the nearest neighbor's property, the Daniels' farm about half a mile south. Their house looked intact, but shutters were closed, barn doors shut tight. No sign of activity. Alex knew they had a teenage son and an older dog. Were they inside? Safe?
A flicker of movement caught his eye. At first he thought it was a deer cutting across the far field. But no—it was a person. Stumbling, lurching, arms swinging loosely at the sides. Their head lolled unnaturally as they trudged through the tall grass.
His stomach tightened. Another one of them. Wandering aimlessly now, but how long until it found its way closer?
He lowered the binoculars, sat on the shingles, and pressed his face into his hands.
That evening, Margaret insisted on cooking something warm. She opened one of the precious cans of beef stew and heated it over the stove. "We'll ration tomorrow," she said. "Tonight, we need strength."
The three of them ate in silence at the table. Every clang of spoon against bowl echoed in the quiet house.
Afterward, Alex walked the perimeter with a lantern. He forced himself to check each boarded window, each door. He pictured what might happen if more of those things came in the night—shoving, pounding, clawing. Could their defenses hold?
When he reached the edge of the porch, he froze.
A faint sound drifted through the night. Not the guttural cries he'd heard before. Softer. Human.
"…help…"
His chest tightened. It came again, weak, broken: "…somebody… please…"
The voice was close. Just beyond the road, maybe in the ditch.
Alex stood rooted, the lantern trembling in his grip. He thought of his lists, his plans, his promise to his parents. He also thought of the bloody man in the store, the way he turned savage in seconds.
If it was a trap, opening the door could doom them all. But if it was a neighbor—if it was someone hurt but alive—how could he ignore it?
His father appeared behind him, drawn by the voice. "What is it?"
"Someone's out there," Alex whispered.
They stood together in the dark, listening. The plea came again, then faded into sobs.
Robert's jaw tightened. "We can't risk it."
Alex swallowed. He knew his father was right. But the sound burrowed into him like a thorn. He turned the lantern down, extinguished its glow, and led his father back inside.
All night, the faint cries haunted him.
He lay awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling. His parents slept fitfully downstairs, but his mind refused rest. He thought of the books lining his shelf: Ethics in Emergencies, The Biology of Plagues, Engineering for Survival. Words about choices, trade-offs, sacrifices.
What kind of man would he become in this new world? One who shut the door on others to protect his own? Or one who risked everything for a stranger?
The cries outside grew weaker as the night deepened, until at last, silence reclaimed the fields.
Alex turned on his side, gripped the bat tighter, and whispered into the dark:
"I'll figure it out. I have to."
Because the world was no longer steady. And every choice from now on could mean life or death.