Chapter Text
May, 2010
Vienna, Virginia
Livian Lavender had broken the news gently to her parents as soon as she resigned from her job at the middle school. Her father was happy to have her home visiting, while her mother was thrilled to see her daughter go onto “better” things.
At first Livian’s mother, Valerie, thought her daughter had found a higher paying job somewhere close by, but this was not the case. In fact, Livian had found an equal pay job at a public library, and it was nine hours away in Blue Ridge, Georgia. Livian wasn’t sure how to tell them, so she allowed the scene to unfold, and patiently waited for her chance to share the remainder of the news.
While the daughter thought up ideas on how to express what it was she was waiting to tell her parents, her mother sauntered in with a hot kettle of tea. Valerie Lavender was the sort of woman who wanted best for her only child, but her views on what was “best” was limited, and to Livian it wasn’t always the best.
Valerie poured her daughter a cup of tea, the steam rising up and disappearing into thin air, “It’s better this way, Livian. You’re better than some public school librarian.”
Henri, Livian’s father was next to his daughter at the dining table, peering up from the newspaper. “Don’t let your mother fool you-We love you all the same. A job is a job-”
“But a job at a university would better suit you.” Valerie interjected, her French accent a bit heavier than Livian’s own.
Livian rolled her eyes at her mother, bringing the cup of tea to her lips and blowing gently, watching the ripples closely, “Well, I wouldn’t get too excited-”
“No one is getting over excited, darling. I’m only pleased with your decision to leave that school.” Valerie took a seat on the other side of her daughter.
“Why did you wind up leaving so abruptly? You weren’t fired were you?” Henri asked, keeping his eyes lowered into the pages of the Fairfax County Times.
“Papa, I would’ve told you if I was.” Livian sighed, thinking back to the ghost of a familiar face in her recent memory. On that face was a shit eating grin she’d have to try to forget for the remainder of her days. “It would have made for a much more interesting story.”
“Is there an interesting story you’d like to tell?” Henri raised a bushy brow.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Livian quipped, causing her father to chuckle.
Valerie peered across the way to her husband, clearing her throat and causing the man to look up from his newspaper. “Let’s not read the Times at the table, while we’re visiting.”
Livian let out a soft laugh before pressing her lips to her warm mug, noticing their domesticity. “Nothing’s changed.” She stated in regards to her father’s rookie mistake. No devices, no books, no papers at the dinner table. That had always been a rule when gathered around together like this.
“Not a thing has changed.” Valerie agreed, then reached over to cup Livian’s face in her cold grip, turning the woman’s face in different directions as if to have a look from every angle. “Except you, darling. Your face looks all puffy. Have you tried that regimen I recommended? The chilled tea bags?”
Livian pulled her head away from her mother’s icy grasp, shaking her head, “No I haven’t. I’ve actually become a severe alcoholic, and it so happens to make my face very puffy.” The blonde made a face like a blowfish at her mother, who scoffed in annoyance, then she looked to her father who laughed softly.
“Well, haven’t you become a charming woman while you’ve been away?” Valerie heard the ding of the oven in the kitchen, so she stood up from the dining room table, and made her way to the meal that was cooking away in the oven, leaving her husband and daughter behind. “Come help me with this won’t you, Livian?”
Henri offered a lighthearted smile, “Duty calls.”
Livian looked at her father from where she was, smelling the roasted, well-seasoned shrimp and medley of veggies carried in from the kitchen. She knew not to get too excited over the meal they were about to have, something Livian still struggled with was eating in front of her mother.
Henri took notice of Livian’s sudden downcast expression, and reached across the table to take a hold of his daughter’s hand, “Don’t let your mother frighten you away.”
“I’ll try not to.” Livian replied, standing up from her chair and following after her mother’s trail that smelled of expensive perfume. It was second nature for Livian, reaching into the pristine white cabinets in the kitchen, above the marble countertops only to pull out two full sized plates, and one small.
Livian was an only child, so to Valerie she was a “passion project”, and therefore an object that was simply put onto this earth to be made into a “perfect” daughter. Valerie had standards, Livian always had to remain a certain size, especially when partaking in ballet classes. Her grades had to be at their highest average. Then, of course she had to always be well-dressed, and ready to impress. That was Livian’s life, or at least it was until she graduated and moved out.
Many therapy sessions later, and space put between herself and her mother during college created some normalcy in Livian’s life, but anytime she found herself back home she was forced back into old routine. It was as if she were a child again.
Valerie scooped two spoonful's onto her and Henri's plate, then when she reached Livian’s she paused. The older woman looked over Livian, knitting her brows together curiously, “Have you weighed yourself since you’ve come in?”
“Maman-I thought we were past this.” Livian said, keeping her voice lowered in order to ensure that her father didn’t hear what was being said.
“I only want to make sure you’re well-”
“Your definition of ‘well’ is far different from mine. I am well, maman-Well enough to know that my weight doesn’t define my state of health, alright?” Livian stated incredulously, shaking her head and turning to peer into the dining room, where her dad waited, “Look it doesn’t matter-I’m not even hungry.” The blonde put the small plate away into the cabinet with a light slam, then took the plate of food that was intended for her father.
“Livian Reinette.” Valerie called after her daughter, watching her fleeting form disappear into the dining room.
Livian slid the plate in front of her father, leaning forward to kiss his forehead, “I have to go, papa.”
“What-You just got here an hour ago, doux ange. We haven’t even had lunch yet.” Henri said, tossing aside his paper, and standing up to follow his daughter toward the front door, where she stood, grabbing her things she came in with.
“She’s upset over something I said, it’s hardly anything.” Valerie stated, coming into the dining room with her own plated lunch before following her husband to the foyer, where their daughter gathered her things.
“I have to get home and get myself packed.” Livian said, her words coming out uncontrollably now that her mother had set her off.
“Packed?” Henri asked. “You didn’t mention a trip to France this summer-”
“Sara’s a doctor now, you know how busy-”
“I’m moving to Georgia!” Livian declared over the noise of her parents' words overlapping. When her voice raised they both fell silent and looked on in shock at their daughter.
Livian blinked, then slowly shook her head, “I have to change something about my life because this-” She motioned to herself, then her parents and scoffed, “It’s not going to work for me, alright? I found a new job in Georgia. It’ll be a nice change of pace I think and you should both support me in doing so.”
Henri turned to his wife, who was bristling, and before Livian could say another word Valerie left the room with a huff of frustration. The man sighed tiredly, taking off his glasses that had been in place on the edge of his prominent nose. Walking over he helped Livian adjust the strap of her bag she had brought, and turned slightly to hear Valerie thump along upstairs. “I’m sorry about her.”
“I don’t see how you put up with her.” Livian replied, feeling her eyes grow hot with tears, then shook her head at her own bitter words. “Sorry-”
“I know she’s always given you the hardest time, but-”
“She still is, papa.” Livian had her hand on the door knob, the cool brass a contrast to her warm hand. “After all this time she still manages to make me feel like nothing I do is good enough.”
“She wants what’s best for you.” Henri shook his head.
“No, she wants what makes her look best .” The blonde replied, then turned the knob, but before she was too far gone she turned to her father. She took notice of his deeply thoughtful features, contemplating over what she had said. Livian paused and took a step closer to her father, standing on her toes to lay a kiss on his cheek. “I love you, papa.”
“I love you, doux ange.” He replied, kissing her other cheek and stepping back to watch her make her way out the front door. Henri kept the door open, watching his only daughter saunter towards her car, then he called after her, “I’m sorry it’s this way, ange, maybe we can have a nicer visit next time ‘round.”
Livian offered a sad smile, “Maybe so.”
-
August 30th, 2010
Blue Ridge, Georgia
Livian’s brows were knit together as she watched the news crawl through its horrific headlines. The anchor’s voice crackled, then the station lost connection entirely, the screen cutting to static. She barely noticed. Her hand moved quickly across the page of her journal, sketching out makeshift calendars for an uncertain future, clinging to the small comfort of keeping time when everything else felt unmoored. She couldn’t explain why it helped—only that it did.
She had closed all the blinds and shutters, draping old quilts over the remaining windows. The horror unfolding outside felt like something torn straight from the movies she’d grown up watching—fictional, distant. Now it seeped into her day-to-day life, unavoidable and real. It had begun across the Atlantic, somewhere in France—where her mother was from, where her cousin Sara still lived. Reports were calling it the Wildfire Virus, a fitting name. In just a few short months, it had consumed the world.
Evening settled in, heavy and oppressive, the dread of what was coming gnawing at her thoughts. Livian picked up her phone and dialed her parents’ landline for what felt like the hundredth time that day—possibly the last. It rang, then clicked over to voicemail. She exhaled shakily. Earlier, she’d spoken to both of them; they’d planned to stay together with close friends a few towns outside Vienna. Their cell phones had gone unanswered ever since.
“Sorry, we couldn’t take your call! We hope to get back to you soon, au revoir.”
Her mother’s voice broke her. Tears welled in Livian’s eyes as the recording ended, replaced by a cold, automated tone. When the beep sounded, a tear slipped free.
“Bonjour, maman… papa,” she whispered. “I don’t know if you’ll ever hear this, but I had to try. I—I know you think I was running away when I came here, but—”
A sudden crash echoed outside—metal against metal, followed by blaring horns. Livian froze, then moved quietly to the window, peeking through a narrow gap in the quilt.
“I wasn’t only running from you,” she continued softly. “I was running from something else.” She swallowed. “That doesn’t matter now. Things are happening, and I just need you to know that I love you both. I will find you. I’ll be looking—”
Another beep cut her off. The mailbox was full.
Her phone slipped from her ear. Livian leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor, sobs shaking her chest.
Earlier that year, just before summer, her cousin had warned her. Sara worked closely with La Biomédicine in France and spoke in careful, hushed tones about what was at stake—what could happen if the virus was mishandled, if it ever reached the public. Livian’s preparations had felt paranoid then. Now they felt inevitable. She’d checked out survival manuals, stockpiled supplies, waiting for the day she feared would come.
That day had arrived.
The noise outside intensified. Livian moved quickly, blockading the doors as best she could. She shut off the television, silencing its incessant beeping, and let the radio murmur quietly instead. She gathered only the essentials—canned food, water bottles, matches, flashlights—anything she could carry.
Out of the corner of her eye, her phone screen lit up.
Her breath caught as she rushed toward it.
A text message.
From him.
The one she had been running from.
“I hope we find each other when all this is over. Stay safe. Use that bat of yours.
—N&L”
Tears blurred Livian’s vision. She wiped them away as they spilled down her already damp cheeks, then turned toward the bat mentioned in the message. It had been a gift—given with an awkward smile and a half-joking warning that a woman living alone might need it someday.
The wooden baseball bat rested in the corner of the foyer. Beside it leaned a painting she’d meant to hang weeks ago.
That was when she noticed the hammer and the small box of nails.
An idea took shape.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The sound echoed through the house as Livian drove nails into the bat, her hands steady despite the pounding of her heart. Every few minutes she paused, listening to the radio’s warnings and the rising chaos outside—shouting voices, car engines revving, the unmistakable sound of panic spreading street by street.
She thought briefly of the library—her workplace. If things truly went from bad to worse, the first-aid kits there could help. So could the donated canned and dry goods from the recent food drive.
But that could wait. There was already too much to think about, and she still wasn’t fully familiar with the area. She’d only lived here a few short months.
Livian retreated to the bathroom with a map, a pen, and a scrap of paper. By candlelight, she began sketching out routes, trying to plan a way around the traffic. She’d heard rumors of safe zones being established at the CDC and Fort Benning. It might be her best chance.
The house remained dark, save for the flickering candles, when a loud knock thundered against the front door.
Livian startled, her breath catching as she hurried to shove her belongings into the bag beside her. She blew out the candle and rose from the bathroom floor, gripping the bat as she moved down the hallway. A shadow shifted on the other side of the door.
Another knock.
“Ms. Livian?!” a young woman cried, her voice frantic. The knocking became continuous. “I don’t know what to do—please, I need your help!”
Livian exhaled shakily and rushed forward, dragging the low wooden cabinet away from the door. “Hold on—hold on.”
She unlocked it and pulled the door open.
Macy Mast stood on the porch, alone and trembling. The teenage girl’s mousy brown hair clung to her face, her bright eyes wide with terror. Dried blood streaked her freckled cheeks, mascara smeared beneath them in dark tracks.
“Macy—what happened?” Livian scanned her quickly, noticing the blood coating her hands. “Are you hurt?”
Macy shook her head, her breath coming in broken sobs. “It’s my dad. It’s—Dad. We were at the hospital. There were–things. They—”
She faltered, forcing herself to slow down. “We were trying to get back to the car, and one of them—”
“It’s okay,” Livian said gently, cupping Macy’s face and wiping away the blood and tears, trying to ground her. “It’s okay. Can you show me? Show me what happened.”
The words seemed to snap something into place. Macy grabbed Livian’s hand and tugged urgently.
Livian pulled back. “Wait. Let me grab my things—maybe I have something that can help.”
She rushed back inside, gathering the last of her supplies. Before stepping out, she paused, taking one final look around her home—the quiet, the stillness, the life she’d built here.
It might be the last time she ever saw it.
-
Macy led Livian across the street, both of them darting between speeding cars as horns blared past. They reached the front steps and slipped inside.
Blood stained the porch, then the foyer—dark, smeared footprints leading straight into the kitchen.
Macy let out a broken cry and dropped to her knees beside her father. His clothes were soaked through with blood.
Livian’s heart lurched at the sight. Mr. Mast’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, glassy.
“Mr. Mast,” she said quickly, forcing calm into her voice. “Stay awake, okay?”
She scanned the room for towels, for anything, her gaze catching on a half-empty bottle of vodka on the counter. Livian knelt beside him. “It’s alright. We’ll figure this out.” She glanced toward Macy. “Where’s your mom?”
Macy’s sobs only worsened.
Mr. Mast lifted his head slightly, his hand trembling as it clutched his arm, wrapped in a blood-soaked shirt. “Let me see,” Livian murmured.
She carefully peeled the fabric away.
Her breath caught.
The wound was unmistakable—a deep, ragged bite, as though someone had taken a savage bite from an apple. But this was flesh. The coppery stench of blood made her stomach churn.
“This is—” Livian stopped herself.
“What can we do?” Macy pleaded, gripping her father’s pant leg. “Please, I need him. I can’t lose him too—not like this.”
Livian poured the liquor over the wound.
“Mr. Mast, bite down on this.” She pressed a rag between his teeth. He cried out, pain tearing through the room as the alcohol hit raw flesh. Livian worked quickly, wrapping the wound as best she could. “Macy… I can clean it, but I can’t—”
“You heard the radio,” Mr. Mast rasped, every word labored. “Can’t let ’em bite you… or scratch you.”
Macy shook her head violently. “No. No—will you turn into one of those things? We can stop it, right? We can—”
Livian watched them cling to each other, father and daughter gripping hands as if refusing to let go might stop what was coming. Mr. Mast’s face had gone ashen, the color draining from his skin. Dark blue veins stood out starkly along his arms, unnaturally pronounced.
Livian stood. “Macy, keep talking to him. Keep him awake. I’m going to lock up and turn off the lights.”
“Wait—no, don’t leave us,” Macy sobbed.
“It’ll only be a second,” Livian promised, though her voice shook. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Mr. Mast lifted his gaze to her. “Livian–whatever happens, make sure Macy makes it out okay. Do what you’ve gotta do.”
Livian swallowed hard and nodded.
She moved through the house on instinct, barricading doors, shutting off lights, her hands trembling with adrenaline. It felt impossible that only months ago the Masts had hosted a neighborhood block party—another one on the Fourth of July. Mr. Mast had stood at the grill, laughing, handing out hamburgers and hot dogs.
Now she was sealing their home against the end of the world.
When she returned to the kitchen, dread coiled tight in her chest. How much worse could this get before the infection took him?
She knelt again. “Mr. Mast?”
He barely stirred. His eyes struggled to open as Livian pressed her hand to his forehead. Heat radiated from him—burning, feverish.
Wildfire, she thought grimly. Maybe that was why they’d named it that.
The kitchen was dim now, lit only by the oven’s overhead light. Outside, panic continued to ripple through the streets. Inside, the only sounds were Macy’s quiet sobs and the radio droning on, warning after warning, as the world fell apart.
-
“Symptoms may include: dizziness, nausea, fever, delirium, vomiting, paleness, coughing up blood…”
The radio droned on.
Time crept by as Livian and Macy sat on the cool kitchen tiles, backs braced against the cabinets. Macy’s head rested against Livian’s shoulder, her breathing slow and uneven with exhaustion. Across from them, the infected man remained awake, listening to the small sounds of the house.
“You can call me Pete,” he said softly.
“Might as well,” Livian replied, studying his face.
He was nearly twenty years older than her. Fine lines marked his eyes—creases left by years of laughter and loss. His hair had gone gray at the temples. The thought that his life would end here made her chest ache. He would never grow old with his wife. He would never see his daughter graduate, or marry. This was where it stopped.
“They said on the radio they’re sending out search teams,” Livian said gently. “They’re looking for people who are still alive.”
Pete didn’t seem to hear it.
“They’ll put me down like a dog,” he said, not bitter—just certain.
“I can’t leave you when you… change,” Livian whispered, shaking her head. “I don’t want Macy to see you like that.”
“Don’t let me change,” Pete said hoarsely. “Don’t let her see.” He coughed, pressing a hand to his mouth.
The weight of it settled over Livian all at once—a responsibility she’d never expected, not this soon. The idea of having to put down Pete Mast, her neighbor of only a few months, made her stomach turn.
She looked down at Macy, asleep against her shoulder. The girl’s face was peaceful now, spent by grief and fear. Livian felt tears burn her eyes yet again.
“I can’t say my degree prepared me for this,” she said quietly, forcing a small, broken laugh.
“Nothing could’ve prepared us,” Pete murmured.
His hand slipped from his mouth. Blood stained his fingers.
Panic flared in Livian’s chest. She nudged his leg with her foot. “Hey. Stay with me. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
His eyes met hers, tired but present. Relief washed through her.
“What’s your best memory from childhood?” she asked.
Pete laughed softly, then winced as another cough wracked his chest. Blood darkened his lips. “Florida,” he said. “We grew oranges. My old man used to sit on the porch and peel them with his knife.”
“Can you remember the smell?” Livian asked. “The oranges?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I can.” A breath left him. “Feels like another lifetime.”
“Nothing’s ever too far away if you can still remember it,” Livian said, smiling sadly.
“I won’t make it till morning,” Pete said after a moment. “Livian, I want you to—” He struggled for breath. “There’s a handgun in my nightstand. Bring it to me. I’ll… I’ll take care of it. You just have to—” His breathing grew uneven. “I’ll take care of me. You take care of her.”
Livian nodded, her throat too tight for words.
She rose quietly, flashlight in hand, keeping its beam low as she moved through the house. Room by room, she searched until she reached the bedroom Pete had once shared with his wife. Family photos lined the walls—a small family smiling at church, at school events, on summer afternoons. A life lived simply. The American dream, whatever that meant now.
She found the gun in the nightstand.
A sudden crash echoed from the hallway.
Voices. Panicked. Unfamiliar.
Someone had come through the front door.
Livian’s heart slammed against her ribs. She lifted the handgun with trembling hands, flicked the safety with her thumb, and checked the chamber.
Loaded.
She moved silently to the bedroom door and peered out.
Three men stood in the house—tall, broad, tattoos crawling up their arms. They were tearing the place apart. Macy had stirred, shouting, trying to fight back. Pete was struggling to push himself upright, driven by pure instinct to protect his daughter.
It wasn’t working.
And it wasn’t going to.
Livian watched in horror as the scene unraveled before her like an unwanted gift, her body trembling in the doorway of Pete’s bedroom. Muffled voices drifted through the house as she froze—caught like a deer in headlights. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to steady her breath.
“Un, deux, trois…” she whispered.
Then she moved.
She floated into the hallway, weightless, her boots barely whispering against the hardwood.
When Livian opened her eyes, the world snapped into brutal clarity.
One man had Macy pinned against the counter, his forearm pressed across her chest. Another stood to the right with a knife drawn tight against Pete’s throat. The third rummaged through the house, tearing open drawers, searching for anything worth taking.
Livian raised the handgun, steady despite the tremor in her arms, and aimed it at the man holding Macy.
“Well, shit,” one of the raiders muttered when he noticed her.
“No one has to die,” Livian said, her voice thin but firm as she stepped forward. Her gaze flicked between them. Only one of the men was armed with a gun—the one restraining Macy. “Take what you need and leave. Food. Water. Just leave us alive.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence—broken only by Macy’s shuddering sobs.
Then all three men laughed.
The sound thundered through the kitchen, hollow and cruel. Pete’s eyes met Livian’s, both of them flicking instinctively to the gun on the raider’s hip. There was a chance—just one—to keep Macy safe.
But it would cost something.
Pete.
Livian inhaled shakily and raised her voice. “Quiet!”
The laughter died. Three sets of eyes snapped to her—hard, assessing.
“I made a promise to this man,” Livian continued, her face streaked with tears, her grip tightening on the gun. She nodded toward Pete’s arm. “He’s been bitten by one of those dead freaks. He’s a ticking time bomb.”
The men visibly paled.
“Take what you need and go,” she said. “No one dies. No one gets hurt.”
The pause that followed was agonizing, her heart hammering so hard it hurt.
“Fuck this,” the man holding Pete said.
Everything slowed.
Livian fired.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The man holding Macy staggered back as bullets tore into him. The third raider charged her, screaming. Livian fired again—once, twice—before he slammed into her, knocking her to the floor. His hand clamped around her wrist, crushing. The gun skidded across the tile.
Livian cried out, kicking and thrashing as they grappled. She saw the wound in his leg—blood pouring freely—and without thinking, she jammed her thumb into it.
The scream was animal.
She slammed her knee into his groin and shoved him away, scrambling to her feet. When he lunged again, she kicked him hard in the face, felt cartilage give.
Livian snatched up the gun.
She turned and fired once more.
The man dropped, lifeless.
Her breath came in harsh, ragged gasps. Gagging, she fought back bile as silence flooded the house. Then panic seized her.
Pete.
Macy.
She stepped forward, legs unsteady, the floor seeming to tilt beneath her. Her boot splashed into a widening pool of blood. The black-and-white kitchen tiles were slick now, stained dark with the lives that had been spilled there.
The raiders were dead. One slumped with bullet wounds. Another lay crumpled with a knife buried in his throat.
Pete was nearby.
A hunting knife protruded from his chest.
Macy was still alive—barely. She gurgled weakly, hands twitching.
Livian’s breath shattered.
“Macy—no, no, no.”
She fell to her knees, cradling the girl’s head, lifting it instinctively. That was when she saw the deep slash across Macy’s throat.
Livian pressed her hands over the wound with all her strength. Blood poured through her fingers, warm and unstoppable.
She grabbed a towel, pressing it down, sobbing. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetheart—”
The towel darkened to crimson.
Macy’s eyes fluttered, then stilled.
Livian stayed there long into the night, unmoving, surrounded by cooling bodies and the quiet aftermath of violence—knowing exactly what would come next, once the dead began to stir.
-
Livian Lavender sat in the farthest corner of the Mast home as dawn broke outside. Pale light crept through the windows, touching what remained of the night. She had made sure to bring rest to Macy and Pete—her hands shaking as she drove the knife through their skulls. She couldn’t bear the thought of them changing. She wouldn’t allow it.
The other three, she waited for.
She stayed close, listening first for the wet, ragged breaths. Then she watched them struggle upright, limbs jerking, mouths working soundlessly. One by one, she put them down before they could reach her.
By morning, Livian’s eyes were swollen and red from crying. Her clothes were stiff with dried blood, her hair tangled and matted from the violence of the night. As the sun rose over the backyard trees, its light revealed the destruction inside the house.
The world outside used to hum with simple comforts—dogs barking, children pedaling bikes down the street. Now those sounds were gone. In their place came distant car alarms and the low, unsettling growls that carried through the air.
Livian forced herself to move.
She stood slowly, joints aching, and began gathering her things. With a hollow feeling in her chest, she took what she needed from cabinets, drawers, and the pantry—food, water, anything useful. She claimed a hunting knife from one of the raiders and fastened it to her belt, then found a holster for the handgun Pete had given her.
In the hallway, she stopped before a mirror.
Blood smeared her clothes. Her face looked unfamiliar—older somehow, hardened by a single night. She shuddered and turned away, knowing she couldn’t leave like this.
In the master bedroom, she found a wardrobe. Inside were women’s clothes—some newer, others clearly untouched since the late nineties. Pete’s wife. Piece by piece, Livian stripped off her stained clothing, tears slipping free, then carried the clean garments into the bathroom.
Under the shower’s spray, she finally broke.
She scrubbed the blood from her skin, mourning what had been lost—and what she herself had done. Even after the water ran clear, she kept scrubbing until her skin burned, as if she could erase the night along with the stains.
Dressed again, Livian returned to the living room.
Macy and Pete lay side by side on the floor, pale and still, arms resting neatly at their sides. Livian knelt and looked at them one last time, forcing herself to remember every detail.
Remember.
She covered them with a sheet and took a framed photograph from the mantle, placing it carefully atop their bodies. If someone came along, they would be remembered—not as bodies left to rot, but as a family that had once lived, laughed, and loved here.
Livian slipped out through the back door, bat in hand. She paused as sunlight hit her face for the first time in nearly twelve hours, then moved forward.
She chose to travel on foot. A car could fail—run out of gas, get trapped in traffic. On foot, she could keep going. On foot, she could run.
Her path carried her through dense trees, down steep slopes, alongside narrow creeks she followed for miles. Every so often she stopped to check her map, using the shifting sun to orient herself.
Her stomach growled. Her head throbbed.
But she didn’t stop.
This was only the beginning.