Page 6 of Sick(ness)

He gave a low sound—half chuckle, half sigh. “No one’s ever really ready. But I’ve been expecting something for a long time. People laughed at the idea of keeping supplies. They’re not laughing now.”

Addy didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t a person who laughed—she just hadn’t thought about it at all. Until it was too late.

A long silence settled between them. Through the thin door, she could almost hear the faint hum of his radio again, the static like a heartbeat in the distance.

“If you run low,” he said finally, “knock twice.”

Addy nodded, though he couldn’t see her. “Okay.” Then, after a pause: “Sawyer?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Another quiet beat. Then, in that same steady voice: “Keep your door locked, 2B.”

His footsteps faded down the hall, leaving her alone again—but now the silence seemed a little different. Not safer, exactly. Just… less empty.

Two

Not Alone

Aweek had passed since Sawyer’s voice emerged from her door—low, steady, and strange with that quiet confidence that simultaneously unnerved and reassured her. One week since he’d disappeared back into his apartment, leaving her with his parting words and a silence that seemed almost deliberate. She had no communication from him after that.

At times, during the late hours, she imagined she detected his stirring. A soft scrape, a shifting sound, like someone dragging something heavy across a floor. Enough to remind her she wasn’t completely alone. But it would stop, and the quiet would stretch long and suffocate again. Her water supply dwindled.

She had been rationing carefully, counting every swallow, every drop she allowed herself. The bottles beneath her sink had almost run out—three remained, perhaps four if she made them last. Enough for a few more days, at best.

Addy sat on the floor with her back against the counter, staring at the dwindling stash. She ran her thumb over the label of the nearest bottle until the paper peeled away. She kept telling herself she’d figure something out before it ran out. That perhaps when it got really bad, she’d go downstairs.

But the idea of opening her door made her skin crawl.

The world outside had gone completely silent. The emergency broadcasts that used to play in an endless loop had faded to static days ago. The internet had gone dark before that. Absolutely no sirens anymore. No voices. Not even birds.

Sometimes she’d stand at the window and stare out through the cloudy plastic she’d taped up during those first panicked hours. The street below was empty—cars parked crooked, doors open, a grocery bag rolling in the wind like a tumbleweed. No movement. No life.

And then, the odor.

It started faintly a few days back—a sour, metallic edge to the air that clung to everything. Now it had become impossible to ignore. The odor seeped through the vents, through the thin walls, until it seemed like the entire building had bathed in it.

The stench of death.

Addy pressed her sleeve against her nose, but it didn’t help. It was everywhere now, heavy and thick. She didn’t need to ask herself what it meant. She already knew.

Her neighbors.

The family with the baby. The old woman who lived downstairs with the wind chimes. The couple at the end of the hall who always argued about music. The odor was their answer—their silence finally explained.

Her stomach twisted. She tried not to dwell on it, but her mind filled in the blanks on its own. The cries that stopped. The doors that remained closed. The sudden, hollow quiet.

Addy pushed herself to her feet and crossed to the window. The light outside was gray and flat, the kind of light that made everything look already dead. She peeled back one corner of the plastic and peered out through the glass.

Still nothing.

No people. No movement. Not even Sawyer.

She wondered what he was doing now. If he were still sitting in his apartment, surrounded by his supplies and radios, waiting for a voice to come through the static. Or if the faint scrapes she heard were the only signs of life she’d ever get from him again.

Her throat was dry. She took another sip of water—small, careful—and immediately regretted it.