Now

Thirty days.

A lot had happened.

We've lost so many in a month. Everything changed in a month. All the things we hold for granted—technology, everyday society, and our own modern privilege—gone and foundered. Seasons will turn, holidays will be forgotten, and one of us will soon forget the faces of the people we love as time pass.

The latter is what I dread most.

I do not want to forget Luke's face, but picturing him is already hard to do even as I'm writing this.

I don't even have a photo of him.

If I try hard enough, I can scour for an old CRA hardware database, and perhaps find a photo of him in the survivor's list when he was still alive, but like I said, we took technology for granted they break down.

Everywhere I looked, I become more and more convinced that we are never going back to where we were before, even if, by some miracle, a brilliant scientist finds a cure. The past is an entirely different world, like a vague dream or a distant memory, and I'd find myself not even thinking about it as if it no longer exists. I can choose to relive them, but I only feel hollow like I will sink to the ground. If I had known the world will end, I wish I had done things differently.

I wish I never boarded that plane and be so far away from my family.

Sometimes, I wish I never met Luke.

Is this how everything ends? Death and destruction at every corner, shedding a piece of ourselves, and we will continue to lose friends and family like parts of your limbs and organs, and we can't do a fucking thing about it. We will slowly bleed as we watch ourselves decay until we no longer recognize ourselves. We are powerless against an enemy we can't even see, and it is winning.

How do you defeat an enemy that doesn't give you time to breathe?

Thirty days.

Thirty fucking days.

In CRA-controlled cities, many folks say anyone who survives the first thirty days of the outbreak is lucky, fortunate, touched by God if we get religious. I say, fuck that shit. Everyone is dying one way or another, including me, and the world's just doing it slower. We droned on and on and on, daring to hope like sheep, but what do we truly get out of it? I reckon that there's nothing to receive. A false image we define ourselves for years, to strive and fight, learn to kill and to suffer, but does it matter in the end? Does it count as a life well served?

Yet, I cling to it like a petulant child hanging up a tree. Luke's words ring in my ears when I write, when I think, when I fight, when I dream.

Survive.

Easy to say, but harder to do.

But dead is dead. What good do they know about living when they're free? For the living, hell awaits every day.

——

One Month since Ground Zero

Then

One midnight, I volunteered to keep watch. I saw no point in sleeping as I could barely hold my own in the covers, flashes of blood crossing my eyelids, and the muffled pop of a gun over a pillow that it felt better to be awake than unconscious. I knew I was slowly beating my body up. Eventually, I would need sleep, but until that time arrived, I'd keep myself up.

Peter didn't entertain my reasoning. "Sleep," he'd say. "Do you want me to tape over your eyes?"

"Sadist," I'd mutter.

Peter would scoff. "I could punch you and knock you out flat. It'll hurt, but oh yes, it will definitely work."

I flinched away from him. "Yeah, uh, no thank you."

"You sure?" I realized he was making fun of me now.

"Um, I don't want a black eye."

"Understandable. The bags under your eyes already occupied that space."

"Are you trying to guilt-trip me into sleep by exploiting my insecurity?"

Peter smirked. "What insecurities?" He asked sarcastically. "Want me to punch that out of you, too?"

I rolled my eyes and quickly walked away from him. Peter solved everything with violence. He cracked his problem with Captain Ramos through the same means, only I ended up getting shot. See? Violence.

Well, I didn't need Peter's approval, so I waited until the first watch's shift started, and I would keep them company. I thought we would keep each other awake, make his four hours a breeze. When I learned that it turned out to be Logan, maybe I felt better. The problem was, what the fuck are we going to talk about? Most of the old world topics (yes, I meant old world as in everything that happened pre-outbreak) didn't work anymore, or at best, seemed inappropriate. Could we still even talk about sports? I hated sports, but Logan loved it.

We were all sleeping in the basement of a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Peter insisted that we had to be in the same room for safety. I crawled out of my sleeping bag and crept up to the living room where I knew Logan would be.

The house was dark, barely any light on around to avoid suspicion from the outside. We were surrounded by flat fields, and anyone walking down by the dirt road or by the hills could see the house lights from half a mile away. If an uninfected person could see us from that distance, then the vectors could do the same.

I saw Logan's silhouette by an armchair, which had been pushed toward the large windows overlooking the front porch. He had his rifle pointed at me.

I quickly raised my hands. "It's me!"

"Shit, Watts!" Logan spat. "Warn me next time? I could have shot you. I'd hate to shoot you on the face."

"Shh! Quiet down. You'd wake Mr. Dictator," I whispered.

"Who?"

"Peter."

Logan lowered the rifle. "You need to sleep. You look like shit."

"Don't you think I don't know that already?"

"Then go back to bed. Get your beauty sleep."

I snorted. "What? Am I not pretty for you?"

"Eh. debatable."

"Ass."

"Seriously. Go back to bed."

"I can't." Frustrated, I closed the gap between us and plopped on the armchair next to him. "I can't sleep no matter what I do."

"Did you drink chamomile tea?"

"Tea? That's your answer to my insomnia?"

Logan shrugged. "That's what my mom makes for my brothers and me when I have sleep troubles. It might help."

"I don't have that."

"Alfie might. He's been collecting all kinds of hippy shit. This morning I saw him rummaging through an antique shop in town. He might have some hippy tea."

I looked at him, confused. "Hippy tea? What do you consider a hippy tea?"

Logan shrugged. "Passion flower? Matcha?"

I rolled my eyes. "Well, did he find anything good?"

"Man, I don't fucking know. I mean, whatever makes him feel better, right? Ask him tomorrow."

"Right."

I propped my foot on the windowsill and leaned back into the chair, sinking into the soft cushion. I stared out of the window, noticing that there were stars, actual, real stars painted the skies. I could see the entire Milky Way!

"You don't see that every day," I said. Without air pollution and the drastic reduction of human activity across the region, and that we were out in the middle of nowhere, the skies were clear for the galaxy to reveal itself. It was the first time I had seen stars like this. Living in Portland, a large city, you rarely witnessed such celestial events. I stared at it in awe, almost making me cry.

"C—Can we go outside?" I asked Logan.

"It's dark out."

"Come on. It'd be fun."

"Not a good idea."

"Let's do star gazing."

"Why?"

I pulled on Logan's arm. "Coz, we rarely do something like that every day. Let's enjoy it while we can, you know?"

"No, I mean, why? Why are you acting like this?"

I huffed. "Logan. Please? Let's just get out there for a hot minute. It won't take long."

"Let's not..."

"It'll keep my mind off things."

Logan gently pushed me up off my seat and pointed toward the basement door. "Then you can do that by sleeping—"

"I don't want to fucking sleep, okay?" I snapped.

Logan flinched, and the room grew eerily quiet. I closed my eyes, trying to calm my nerves as I sank back down into the armchair. My hands were shaking. The silence hung in the air, waiting.

I thought Logan wouldn't dare speak the first words, but he did. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

"It's been two days, Bren. It'd be good for you to let it out. You're not yourself."

I scoffed at him. "You never talk about Nat. It'd be good for you to let it out."

Logan thinned his lips. "She's dead. I got over it."

"I don't think you are. You can't just ignore it and make it go away."

"And neither should you then."

I threw my hands up. "But you make it look so easy."

"Well, it's not." Logan peered his eyes away from me then, staring out of the window instead. He focused on a spot I couldn't follow. "It's a helluva lot harder than it looks," he said, choking at the end.

The silence returned, a force that I couldn't help but submit to until it passed through. I wanted to argue some more, I wanted to shout and scream, maybe punch Logan, too, but I hardly knew what to say to Logan. I knew I've touched upon a hard subject, but I was barely teetering on the edge of my mind, walking a tight rope between sleeping and wakefulness that I couldn't watch what words roll out of my tongue.

And in my fucked up state, I started laughing. Softly at first, but grew a little louder, which I had to stifle it.

Logan furrowed his brows at me. "What's so funny?"

I tried to stifle another bout of giggles. "When you think about it," I started, "We both shot the people we had relationships with. That's hella weird."

Logan blinked at me, though I couldn't tell whether he was shocked, offended, or somewhat just utterly confused at what I had said. Then, he let out a smile. "Yeah. That is fucking weird."

I laughed hard. "Oh, fuck! I'm sorry. I shouldn't laugh. This is so fucked up! I need to stop!" I tried to stop, but I couldn't help it. I curled over my seat, clutching my belly as I clamored for anything to make my laughing fits contained. It felt incredible, horrifying, and embarrassing. As if my exhaustion, shock, and pain all molded into one, and instead of balling up into a crying mess, all I could do was laugh. Laugh as loud as I could, but with the silence still lingering around us, I dared not disturb it.

"Are you okay?" Logan also tried to stifle his laughter, though I reckoned it wasn't because of our discussion, but because of how I acted. He rubbed my back, and that helped a little. "You look demented right now."

"I know! I can't stop!" I said, covering my mouth with my hand. I felt like Joker having his laughing fits.

Suddenly, I felt a tide changed within me like something snapped, and at first, it felt like I pulled a muscle below my ribs, soothing a pause on my throat for just a split second. But that was enough for me to stop. And then the tears welled, and there was nothing I could do but let them fall. Logan's touch was enough to break the dam.

I cried hard. Logan knelt in front of me, sweeping me into his big arms as I nestled on the crook of his shoulders. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him tight, fully welcoming the warmth of his body. It felt good. I couldn't stop the tears, turning me into a sobbing mess as Logan continued to rub my back, repeatedly murmuring, "There. There. You're okay. You're okay."

"I see his face, Logan," I said. "Every time I close my eyes, he's there. Every corner I turn to, I hear his voice, mostly his laugh. When I'm alone, I feel his touch, and when it's quiet, I hear him whisper my name." I looked at my hands, and for a split second, I saw it still covered with his blood. When I blinked, it was gone. "I did that to him."

"It's not your fault. It's what he wished."

"No. I did that to him. I killed him."

"If you don't, he turns into one of them."

"I know. But..."

"You wished he did it himself."

I slowly untangled my arms off him. "Am I a horrible person for thinking that?"

Logan smiled. "I think you are brave."

"I'm not."

"No. You are. We can't even do it. Neither did Luke. It takes guts to do what you did."

"But, I still killed him."

"I can't justify what happened further, Bren. Only you can do that. However, I can tell you what I feel. You saved Luke from a lot of pain, and he feels better that it was you, someone he trusts wholeheartedly, who takes care of him till the end. He's at peace." Then, Logan's smile slowly dropped. "Unlike me...what I did to Nat and Bobby...that was something different."

I looked up, and I met his eyes. "Logan..."

"You're not a murderer, Bren. I am. I killed my girlfriend, shot her, and left her for those monsters to rip her apart. She screamed my name. I have to live with her screams inside my head forever. I have to face my family, and then her family, if ever they're still alive, and I have to look them in the eye, and they'd see a different me. They're expecting the golden boy and the quarterback, but I'm not the guy any longer. If you can't sleep now, Bren, you need to adapt."

"But she and Bobby betrayed us, Logan."

Logan shook his head. "This is what the world has come to. We justify death at every corner, including the people we love, or we used to love. Things are never going to be normal. This is the new world. We died the moment we pulled the trigger. We just didn't know it. Stop beating yourself up about Luke's death. Mourn him, of course, but let's face it. This will be our life now. What matters is how we live it."

I didn't have anything to say after that, too numb and too worn out from crying. Logan gently pulled me out of the armchair and led me onto the big sofa, where he sat me down. He then sat next to me, pulling my head down onto his chest as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders in a cuddle. "If you want to stay up here with me, then, you're most welcome to. As long as you're going to sleep. Deal?"

I merely nodded, and Logan accepted it.

Once in a while, Logan would run his fingers along my upper arm, soothing, relaxing, and intimate, sending goosebumps down my spine. I could hear his heartbeat thumping against his chest and his breathing. Under the cool spring air, he was warm and inviting.

I didn't remember what happened next, but I woke up, and the clock was already three in the morning. I managed to sleep for three hours, and what a good three hours it was. I felt refreshed, and I readily admit it felt better than two cups of caffeine. Miguel stood before us, shaking Logan's shoulder and relieving him from night watch duty. I missed his reaction of me being there, but he didn't make a fuss about it.

Logan led me back down to the basement and tucked me into my sleeping bag. When he turned to get up, I caught his wrist, stopping him midway. "Thank you," I said.

"What for?"

"For the company."

Logan smirked. "Until next time, then."

I closed my eyes. "Yeah. Next time."

The sleeping bag was warm and comfortable, something I hadn't felt in the past couple of days after dreading it so much, surprising even me that the feeling returned.

I felt something wet pressed against my forehead right before I dozed off, and Logan's soft whisper, Goodnight, Bren. Did he say something else after? I didn't catch it. Or maybe I might have imagined it. Perhaps I'm seeing things through my heavy eyes that Logan was still crouched beside my sleeping bag, staring down at me for a long moment.

Perhaps, I was dreaming all of it.