Death was no stranger to Ellen. As a vet, there were times when her most compassionate act was to end suffering. She had loved her job—calming animals in pain, comforting their owners in those final moments. Once a part of a close-knit team, she handled emergencies with confidence derived from experience. She had been young, independent, and thriving—the world at her feet.
But then her world had ended.
First the virus closed her practice. Then it took everyone she loved. By the third lockdown, hospitals overflowed, the bodies stacking up faster than they could be burned. Food had become scarce, compassion scarcer. The streets she’d once jogged had been patrolled by weary soldiers, struggling to maintain order—until their numbers thinned, as the virus marched on unchecked.
The sirens grew less frequent. The explosions crept closer. Her neighbors doors hung open, homes devoid of life. But before she could decide to flee, the cough took hold. When she recovered—alone in her apartment, fever-drenched and delirious—the city she had once loved was unrecognizable. Cars sat abandoned in the streets, looted buildings smoldered, and the bodies lay where they had fallen.
Now, as she ducked into a doorway of the looted shopping mall, she winced at the haunting screams that echoed throughout the ground floor. She crouched, forehead pressed against her knee, hoping the shrieks would fade, the hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention.
The supply run had been a bust. She’d found only a single sports drink tucked beneath a shelving unit and a blue and grey bandana from a stand next to the till. Pulling the fabric from its packaging, she pulled the soft band over her head, sweeping her hair back.
Every instinct told her to creep away and not expose herself to danger. Being reckless out here could get her killed, but another wail of anguish sealed her fate—she couldn’t walk away from someone in pain.
Stepping out of the doorway, she edged around the corner, careful to avoid the shattered glass from the atrium. Framed by the fading afternoon light, she spotted a boy—no older than twelve—impaled on Poseidon's trident. The metal sculpture had crumpled under the weight of his fall into the fountain. She glanced upwards to the broken skylight above.
The remaining survivors had fractured into rival groups, and traps were common. She wouldn’t put it past them to set up an ambush—but this seemed too cruel, even for them.
She scanned her surroundings. The scene looked genuine enough, but… Fuck.
The boy shrieked and writhed, a shard of metal extruding from his stomach, blood pooling around his hip. As he sobbed, a line of crimson ran from the corner of his mouth down onto his neck. “Help me,” he wheezed.
The raw agony in his voice cut through her fear like a blade. She wasn’t the kind of person who walked away from suffering. Not before the world fell apart—and not now. She broke from cover, running at a crouch across the open floor, each step a calculated gamble.
“It’s alright, you’re not alone.” she said, forcing a smile as she dropped her backpack by her feet and took his cold hand in hers. “You’re going to be okay,” she lied, trying to keep her voice steady.
“I’m cold.”
“I know. Lie still. Let me help you.”
She pulled her first aid kit from her backpack and removed a syringe and needle. There was nothing she could do—nothing except make death easier for him. The knowledge settled heavy in her chest, familiar but no easier to bear.
Taking a deep breath, she slid her hand into the side pocket of her pack and removed a glass vial of pentobarbital. It was intended for animals, but in this new world, it served a darker purpose.
“What’s your name?” She focused on the boy’s face as she drew the yellow liquid into the syringe.
“David.”
“My name is Ellen.”
She hadn’t seen a child since she recovered from the virus. Once, she had dreamed of having children. But that dream had died with the world, another casualty of the plague that had nearly wiped out humanity.
Holding his gaze, she administered the lethal dose. “Go to sleep now.”
His fingers twitched in hers.
She tightened her grip as his body spasmed, then went still.
Holding back tears, she folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes with her trembling fingers. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping his blood off her hands on her shirt.
“You’re in a better place now.” She straightened her shoulders and covered the boy’s face with her shirt, the only mark of respect she could offer. Was this her reality now? Loss hollowed her out. Survival wasn’t just about finding food anymore—it was about finding reasons to keep going.
Shouldering her backpack, she jogged toward the exit. She’d already been in one place for too long. Stepping out into the street, she covered her nose with the back of her hand, trying to stifle the stench of rotting garbage and decaying bodies.
She hurried along the sidewalk, bypassing an overturned lorry, scaffolding poles strewn across the road. Even now, the quiet was unnerving. Head bowed, the smashed-out windows of looted buildings resembled a line of open mouths mocking her with laughter. A plastic bag wafted past her in the breeze.
Squeak.
She froze, crouching. The shop door opposite swung on its rusty hinge. Exhaling, she jogged on, alert to any other unfamiliar sounds in the fading light.
Turning the corner, she leapt over a stream of water cascading across the sidewalk from a broken pipe, acutely aware of the risk wet footprints posed.
The burned-out gym loomed ahead—her sanctuary. She pulled open the fire exit door. The stench wrinkled her nose, but it afforded her some protection from discovery. Staying in her apartment had been too risky. A woman alone was a target.
Heading down the corridor to the old boiler room, she ducked under the stairwell. Hidden from view, she relaxed, relieved to have reached the triangular shelter where she had built her nest. A fragile illusion of safety.
She threw her pack into the corner and lay on the sleeping bag she’d left there Curling into a fetal position, she pulled a rough woolen blanket over her shoulder, trying to shut out the world.
Now, survival was her daily challenge. Stay hidden. Stay alive. Stay clear of the lawless groups that tore through the ruins, clashing over diminishing resources. But isolation was its own kind of death. Deep down, she knew she couldn’t outrun loneliness forever. She needed others—a group. But that need could get her killed, or worse. She’d seen what happened to women who trusted the wrong people.
Thunk.
She tensed, peering around the corner into the dim corridor. Goosebumps rippled across her skin, as she strained to listen. Satisfied that it was just the wrecked building settling, she lay back down, willing sleep to come.
She never saw him coming.
***
Daryl pushed the slender woman through the door and into the open plan office, his pistol pressed against the back of her head. He shook his long hair out of his eyes, his heart pounding.
His brother, Cole lay sprawled on the floor, barely conscious.
Forcing her forward, Daryl cursed himself for needing her. Hidden at the top of the shopping mall escalator, he’d seen her treat the boy impaled on the fountain and he’d followed her back to her hidey-hole in the burned-out gym.
His orders were clear: anyone with medical skills had to be seized. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn her in— the barracks were no place for someone like her. Not with the way men looked at a woman when there were no rules left to stop them.
Fearing he was going soft, he’d pulled a map and stubby pencil from the pocket of his combats, marking the sector as searched.
Turns out that decision had served him well—because then he’d been able to go back for her. He didn’t believe in luck, but something had finally started to go right for him.
He closed the door behind them. Lines of desks stood in military rows on the far side of the office, their wheelie chairs tucked underneath them. He’d chosen the high rise to hole-up in, hoping they could evade discovery while his brother recovered.
Cole hadn’t recovered. He’d spiraled into fever and delirium. Before losing consciousness, his final words had been a confession—he had reaped what he’d sown.
Daryl didn’t buy that. Cole’s real problem wasn’t karma—it was overthinking. Being too fucking principled. Not being able to follow an order had landed them both in a world of pain, and now Daryl was fighting like hell to keep him alive. Because if Cole died, what the fuck would be the point of anything?
“Help him!” He forced her onto her knees next to his brother lying on the tiled floor.
She glanced over her shoulder, biting her lip. “Does he have a name?”
He frowned, caught off-guard by her English accent. “Cole.”
“Hello, Cole. My name is Ellen. I’m going to take care of you.” Her long dark hair pooled on the shoulders of her fleece jacket as she took his pulse. “When did this happen?”
“Three days ago,” Daryl said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “But the fever started yesterday.”
“Cole, do you have any pain anywhere else?” she asked.
Daryl hovered, his shadow stretching across them in the fading light. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Daryl was supposed to protect Cole, not stand around doing nothing. “Stop fucking talking and fix him.” He jammed the pistol into the back of her head, emphasizing every word.
She spoke through clenched teeth. “I need light, and you need to help me roll him.”
Walking backwards to the nearest desk, he reached behind him for the flashlight. His eyes flicked between the blood-soaked rags that packed the wound and Ellen holding Cole’s hand.
“Cole, I need to look at this wound so I can see what we’re dealing with. This will hurt, but I’ll be as quick as I can,” she said, her voice kind.
“Don’t hurt him.” Daryl snarled, the need to maintain control warring with the knowledge that this woman might be the only thing that would keep Cole alive. He pushed the gun into the back of her skull again.
She jerked her head away. “Stop it! I can’t concentrate if you keep waving a gun at me.”
For a beat, they locked eyes. She was scared, but she was angry too—fierce in a way that made him hesitate. He pulled the pistol back and tucked it into the back of his grubby combat fatigues.
Grabbing the scissors, she cut away the rags on Cole’s shoulder.
Daryl pursed his lips as his brother hissed and grimaced, gripping the edge of Ellen’s fleece jacket in his hand.
Cole had always been courageous and strong, but now, he appeared weak and helpless.
“Hurry!”
“Light.”
He shone the flashlight beam on the gunshot wound.
“It looks like the main artery isn’t damaged, the blood is clotting.” She peered at the injury. “I need to make sure there’s no debris in there.”
“It was a through and through,” Daryl said. “We’re both military. We know.”
“I need to check him over properly before I can treat him,” she insisted. She glanced at him. “If you’re both soldiers, why aren’t the military treating him?”
“It’s… complicated. Enough with the fucking questions, just fix him!” He leaned in and together they rolled Cole onto his left side.
“The entry wound’s clean; the edges were cauterized by the bullet.” Her voice was calm. The soft purr of a zipper cut through the air as she grabbed a sterile wipe to clean the wound.
When they rolled Cole onto his back, he cried out, his spine arching as he spasmed in pain.
He covered his brother’s mouth with his hand. “Keep the noise down!”
Ellen swabbed Cole’s shoulder, the wipe becoming saturated with blood, smearing her fingers. “I need to sterilize the wound before I stitch it. Do you have anything?” She looked across at him. “Alcohol would work. Any kind will do.”
He concentrated on calming his heart rate as he reached for his pack. For the first time in days, it seemed like he was getting the situation back under control. He thrust a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey at her, the liquid sloshing inside, streaks clinging to the glass.
Removing a T-shirt from her backpack, she soaked it with the liquor, clearing most of the blood with swift and confident strokes.
“Cole, I’m going to give you something to help with the pain.” She withdrew a vial and syringe from her kit. “It’s meant for animals, but it’ll take the edge off.” She ripped open the packaging and inserted the tip of the syringe into the bottle, turning it upside down.
“Stop!” Daryl frowned. “What do you mean… it’s meant for animals?”
“I’m a vet.”
“Wait. What?” He raked his hand through his hair, pacing. No. No, that couldn’t be right. “I thought you were a fucking medic!”
“Do you want me to treat him or not?”
What choice did he have? He swallowed his mounting fear, nodding curtly.
As the hypodermic pierced his brother’s arm, Cole grabbed for her hand. “Daz…” His glassy eyes flicked toward Daryl before he fell unconscious.
Daryl’s chest tightened, but Ellen’s voice cut through the tension. “Do you have a lighter?” She was already threading a needle with a short length of fishing line. “This needs sterilizing too.”
Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a cheap plastic lighter. It took three sharp flicks of the wheel before it lit, the flame wavering over the needle as his hand trembled.
“This won’t take long,” she said.
Daryl frowned as her expression changed. She wasn’t just patching up a stranger; she was committed to it, like saving Cole’s life meant more to her than just staying alive for another day.
Ellen returned her tools to her backpack. She wiped the sweat from Cole’s cheeks and forehead, then stood. “I’ve stopped the bleeding. He’s strong, but the infection will kill him.” She challenged Daryl’s gaze for a moment. “He needs antibiotics. I’ll fetch some and—”
“No!” He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her towards a cast iron radiator next to where Cole lay.
“Get off me!” she cried.
Pinning her against the radiator with his hip, he pulled a cable tie from the side pocket of his combats.
Shrugging him off her, she slapped at him.
He grabbed her wrists, and she kicked him in the shin. Grunting, he rammed his shoulder into her chest and shoved her to the floor. “Stop it! Don’t make me hurt you!”
Looping the plastic tie around her wrist, he secured her to the water pipe. Stepping back, he glared at her. “I’ll get the drugs. You take care of him.”
“Wait!”
He shrugged into his backpack. “He dies. You die.”
“You don’t know what drugs to get—or where to find them.”
“I knew where to find you, didn’t I?” He pulled the door open, checking the hallway before stepping into it. He hesitated—his eyes flicking to her tethered wrist. Then he left. Finding antibiotics and getting Cole fixed was his only mission, then they could put this godforsaken city behind them and get their lives back on track.
The night deteriorated into a blur of risk and desperation. He’d searched until dawn, coming up empty-handed. When he stepped back into the seventh-floor office, Cole lay exactly where he’d left him, but Ellen’s place by the radiator was empty. The cable tie hung loose, cut clean through.
For a heartbeat, Daryl just stared, her absence sinking in.
Now he was really screwed. With Ellen gone, it was just him and Cole—and he didn’t have a clue how to save his brother.
Chapter 2
Cole knew he would die. He welcomed it. The burn in his shoulder pulsed with each heartbeat. He’d known a lot of hurt in his life—now he wanted the suffering to stop. Grimacing, he shifted his position.
The acrid smell of sweat filled his nostrils, but underneath it, something else—a trace of whiskey, familiar and suffocating. In an instant he was back there, by the river.
“No, like this, see!” His father grabbed the rod from his hands, jerking it behind him in quick strokes, casting the line into the late summer evening. The lure sailed through the air, landing gracefully in the stream several meters away. He shifted his weight on the slick rocks. Taking the rod back from his father’s calloused hands, he frowned in concentration, hoping for a bite.
The lure bobbed once, twice.
“Quick boy! Quick!” His father’s arms encircled him as he helped to steady the rod, spinning the reel. Cole grimaced as sour whiskey breath enveloped him. He bit his lip, wishing the fish would get away, praying it wouldn’t.
His father snatched the silvery trout from the water, smashing its head on the rock next to him. Wrenching the hook from its mouth, he grinned in triumph. “Well done, boy!” He thrust the cold, slippery corpse into his reluctant hands and tousled his hair. “I’ll make a man out of you yet.”
A hesitant bud of pride bloomed in his stomach as he looked up from the fish to his father’s face.
“Hello, Cole.” A female voice broke through the haze—soft and reassuring.
“Hello, Cole.” A woman’s voice broke through the haze—soft and reassuring. “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to take care of you.”
He opened his eyes. A woman smiled down at him.
Are you real? He glanced down to her hand in his and squeezed her fingers.
“Cole, do you have any pain anywhere else?”
I hurt all the time.
