𝘐 𝘔𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘋𝘪𝘦 𝘈𝘵 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘯𝘥

Chapter 1

It's the end, as far as we know, anyway. Maybe not for others, maybe not for the world, but for us, it looks like the end of everything else.

All communications from any facilities, CDC or otherwise, had gone dark. Of course, that doesn't mean any aren't still running, that none aren't still trying. My dad still was. This still made it difficult to have any kind of optimism. So I don't. I feel no hope, no curiosity. Life is over, and I accept that.

For the most part.

Dad has given up too. I could tell whenever he spoke, whenever he looked at me with those sad, misery-filled eyes as he poured a coffee. What I didn't know was why he was still trying. Every day, hours are wasted in the lab trying to figure out any answers or solutions. But I knew he'd given up, so why did he keep doing it? It was easy to see he expected nothing to come of his 'trials'. Still, he continues to spend the remainder of our days locked in that lab. Or drinking at his computer.

Dad was never a drinker, the occasional wine when we went out, maybe a bit more on celebrations. This was out of caution and respect for my mother, who had once been an alcoholic. She'd been sober for seven years before she passed, but he was still cautious about drinking habits in front of her.

Dad was often drinking now, of course; he had a reason: we would die. There was no question we were going to die. The countdown on the clock that glowed in the dark is proof of that. He still showed some restraint, not often getting drunk but tipsy. This was much more than he used to drink.

Mom is dead, and we're waiting to die. What is there to stop him?

"Vi," I address the AI system built into the facility. "What time is it?"

"It is six-fourteen PM."

"Oh, fuck me," I exclaim, running a hand over my face. I finally reached over 24 hours without sleeping. As tired as I am, I'm still somewhat wired. So much energy and nothing to do with it. I wish I could sleep the remainder of the time away.

I used to cry about the decision to stay here or try and find help. The decision, the knowledge that when the clock ran out, we would die. I cried more about that reality than when my mother got infected and died. I hate myself for that, knowing I'm not processing her loss well at all. But what's the point? We are dying.

I thought that was the worst part, the decision, the dying, deciding to die. I changed my mind. It wasn't the dying; it was the waiting.

"I'm so tired," I mumbled absently, getting up from the bed. Promising myself that I wouldn't try sleeping again unless I were sure I would pass out. Tired of what? Life, waiting, tired in general? Maybe all. I wasn't even sure.

After wandering the halls blindly, I end up at the main setups of the workstations. Dad isn't in there, but I wasn't looking for him in particular anyway. I purposely avoid looking at the countdown, certain we had less than 24 hours, but I didn't want to see it.

The alarm rang from a different part of the building, echoing through the halls and reaching my ears. I look toward the hall it was coming from.

"Fuck. What now?" I got up and started over. I push myself faster when I heard a deep rumbling sound, some kind of crash. "Dad?!"

I was nearing the lab as the automatic door slides open. Dad steps out, his head hanging low in defeat. He was stripped down to his boxers, hair and body soaked, dripping.

Without looking at me, he sniffs and wipes the wet drips from his face, "I thought you were trying to rest."

"Gave up."

A sound escapes his throat as if it could have been a laugh but failed, "Yeah, me too."

"What happened? Some . . . contamination?" I motion to his almost naked body while examining him for burns or signs of injury.