The final breath
Chapter 1: The Final Breath
The smell of dust, decay, and cheap antiseptic filled the air, thick and metallic. It was the only air I had left, choked out in the tiny storage room behind what used to be Miller’s Pharmacy.
I hadn't moved in hours. Maybe a day. Time was meaningless; it had stopped the moment Liam’s hand went slack.
I sat huddled on the gritty concrete floor, my knees drawn up to my chest. My brother, my twin, my only tether to the world that used to be, was a dead weight draped across my lap. His military uniform—the one he always joked was "too itchy" for a zombie apocalypse—was stained dark with his own blood.
Liam. My big, loud, protector.
I traced the small, jagged bite mark on his forearm. It was red and angry, visible even beneath the sleeve I had frantically torn back. He hadn't been fast enough. He hadn't been lucky enough.
When he realized what happened—when he looked at me with that clear, terrified knowledge—he didn’t yell. He didn’t fight. He just whispered, “Take care of yourself, Roísín. Promise me.”
Then he pulled the pistol from his belt, pressed it against his temple, and took the final, merciful choice of a soldier. He did it so I wouldn’t have to. He protected me one last time, even in death.
I was soaked in his blood, but I was numb. My brain was a cold, quiet place. I was a nurse; I was supposed to fix things. I was supposed to have the answers. But I was just Roísín, the twin who couldn't keep her brother alive. I had failed my only promise.
I closed my eyes, pressing my cheek against the rough wool of his uniform jacket. This was it. This was where I belonged. With Liam. I was waiting. Waiting for the silence to stop, waiting for the walkers to come, waiting for the peace that Liam had found. I was too tired to move, too guilty to run.
The sudden, brutal sound of the outside world crashing in ripped the silence apart.
The back door, which I’d crudely barricaded with boxes of expired cough syrup, splintered. A shadow filled the doorway.
My heart hammered—a frantic, useless rhythm in my chest. A walker? I squeezed my eyes shut, welcoming the end.
But the sound wasn't the slow, wet growl of the dead. It was the aggressive, calculating scrape of heavy boots on concrete.
A man was standing over me.
I didn't need to open my eyes to feel the sheer, dangerous presence of him. He was tall, hulking, and smelled powerfully of dirt, sweat, and something acrid—maybe burnt rubber, maybe blood. He was armed: I could feel the cold, sharp presence of knives and arrows.
"Hey," a voice barked. It was low, gravelly, impatient. "What the hell you doin'?"
I didn't move. I didn't answer. My silence was my final act of defiance.
The man cursed—a quiet, vicious sound. Then he knelt down, his form blocking the last sliver of weak light. I felt a rough, calloused hand land on my shoulder.
"Look at me, dumbass! You want to be bit? Move!"
I flinched away from his touch, the first movement I’d made in hours. He was an intruder. A brute. He was interrupting my final moment with Liam.
I finally lifted my head, my eyes gritty and dry. I met his gaze.
He was the most feral man I had ever seen. His face was all harsh lines, dirt, and scruff. His eyes—pale, startlingly light against his tanned skin—were furious, impatient, and utterly devoid of pity. He didn't look like a savior; he looked like a predator who was annoyed his prey hadn't moved yet.
He saw Liam then. He saw the uniform, and he saw the dark, messy wound on his temple. His pale eyes flicked down to the bite mark on Liam's arm.
The man’s anger didn't soften, but it sharpened into something controlled and dangerous. He understood instantly.
"He's dead," he stated, his voice flat. "He's not turnin'. You ain't staying here."
I felt the rage finally break through the numbness. He was judging Liam. Judging me.
"Get out," I whispered, my voice cracked from disuse.
He ignored me completely. He reached out, grabbing my wrist with shocking speed and power. His fingers clamped around my small bones.
"We go now," he commanded, hauling me upwards.
"No!" I screamed, finally finding my voice. I kicked out weakly, trying to fall back onto Liam. "Let go! I won't leave him!"
"Yes, you will," he snarled, pulling me upright, wrenching me away from the only person I loved. He looked at me—a nurse in blood-soaked jeans, small, weeping, and fighting with the strength of a kitten—and he looked disgusted.
"You're a liability," he grated, shoving me toward the splintered doorway. "And I ain't leaving fresh meat for the dead. You move, or I carry you."
He didn't wait for my answer. He took my arm again, his grip like steel, and dragged me out of the pharmacy, away from Liam, and away from the peace I deserved. I looked back one last time at my brother’s still form, but the brute yanked me forward, pulling me into the blinding, terrifying light of the world I no longer wanted to live in.
I hated him instantly. He was the savage who had stolen my death.
