Your hands were trembling, so much so that you could barely hold on to the rifle. It felt like your fingers were frozen and now someone was going to smash them with brute force.

Nausea choked your throat as you stumbled back the way you came, almost falling over your own feet.

Thoughts raced through your mind as little beads of water ran down your face and soaked the rest of your clothes. It stank like a bog but the spores didn't scratch your lungs with every breath.

What if you had inhaled it without realising?

Your eyes jumped to your wrist in panic. There was still no sign of infection.

How long did it take for the disease to break out?

One, maybe two days?

A week?

All of a sudden, the world around you became dull. Only the beating of your heart echoed in your ears.

No, you couldn't be infected. There was no one else to take care of your father. He would be dead as soon as your last breath faded.

"Shit...", you gasped and gripped your wrist with your other hand.

The pressure was so tight that it felt like the (S/C) skin under your palm and bones was being covered in mud.

The trembling had to stop.

Clear thoughts, you reminded yourself and took a deep, shuddering breath. Nothing would happen. Everything would be fine.

Memories suddenly bit into your flesh. Dark memories, ones that almost made you scream out loud.

No, that couldn't happen. Not again.

Tears of panic blurred your vision, your breath hitched. Only your legs kept running. You almost stumbled, threatening to fall to the ground. But you just managed to hold yourself up and keep running.

Your gaze fell on a door. The room behind it was brightly lit by artificial light. A lamp. Long shadows crept between the gap and scratched the floor with long claws.

Holding your breath, you headed for the door.

It was all good. Everything would be fine. She had promised that. That's what Pa had promised.

And yet you found yourself gripping the gun with your hands, holding it just low enough to make it look non-threatening.

Swallowing hard, you stopped in front of the half-open door. Your eyes followed the movement of the light at your feet. A low hum reached your ears while the scraping of metal on metal told you that someone was eating. Or was cooking.

A soft whimper escaped your trembling lips. Inhaling deeply, you closed your eyes briefly.

Screeching voices fell silent in your head. All that remained was emptiness. Lonely, unpleasant emptiness.

As if you were swimming in the ocean in the dark. It would probably be all right. But your mind was on the edge of a cliff, urging you to jump to escape the monster.

"Shit...", you whispered again.

This time you pushed the door open with a gentle shove.

Old hinges creaked and for a moment you feared that the sound might attract new infected people.

After the first step into the room, your father lifted his head to greet you with a gentle smile. Gentle but tired. Or rather, exhausted.

With one arm resting on his knee, he crouched in front of a gas cooker and poked around in a slightly brownish mass.

Concerned, and also a little disgusted, you frowned.

"Goulash, he answered the question you hadn't asked and took a spoonful. "A little salty. But it should be fine."

His eyes travelled over your shoulder before his eyebrows lifted.

Taking a deep breath, you tightened your shoulders, let the rifle's strap slip off your shoulder and set it down against a wall.

Green tendrils wound their way across the concrete, crawling through broken windows. Colourful flowers tried to catch the sunlight in their calyxes.

"I don't think she wants to stay with us.", crunching your nose, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. "She wasn't particularly enthusiastic."

"To be rescued?"

"To be alive.", you said dryly and took the spoon from him to try a bite. "My tin was bad. However that can happen... She didn't want to eat anything anyway."

The taste of dry meat and flavour enhancers spread across your tongue. A few overcooked beans and carrots mixed in. It wasn't good food, not by a long shot, but it was enough to fill your stomach until something better could be found.

You took another spoonful before handing it back to your father.

"How are you?", he asked casually as he allowed himself a few bites.

His eyes were fixed on the small flame from the gas burner, but you could see a sad glimmer in them.

"I could ask you the same thing.", you replied, scratching the back of your head with your nails.

The water had made your hair heavy. It wouldn't be long before it was so greasy that it wouldn't dry properly. Maybe it would be better to cut it all off and go bald. It was easier to take care of it that way. Washing wouldn't be so important.

But somehow you couldn't quite part with the (H/C) strands. It had grown quite long over the weeks in captivity. You felt comfortable with it, wondered if it made you look like her.

Again the voices of the past cried out. Narrowing your eyes, you growled.

Not now, you thought to yourself. Not when he's around.

But you couldn't push back the feeling, the desire to shove a blade between his ribs, to scream at him and wish he hadn't made it. Guilt punched you in the gut. Anger fought back.

All that filled your chest was regret.

Grumbling tiredly, you had to wipe your face. You massaged the bridge of your nose with two fingers in an attempt to relieve the headache that was coming on.

"You should eat more.", your father held the spoon out to you again.

You stared lazily at the blank surface that reflected your face. Your stomach growled.

"Where are we going next?", you suddenly wondered.

A tired smile played around the corners of his mouth.

"Do we have somewhere to go?", he asked.

You took the spoon.

"No.", the food suddenly tasted far too salty.

But we could create one, you thought at the same moment.