Zombie survivor

[82] Ticking time

The camp's medical bay was a loosely thrown-together structure made from salvaged tarps and scraps of wood, barely standing against the cold night air. A few dim lanterns provided a weak, flickering light, casting long shadows across the rows of cots inside. The smell of antiseptic mixed with something sour lingered in the space, a grim reminder that the place was barely functional.

Jean pushed aside the flap of the tarp that served as the entrance, his footsteps hesitant. He hadn't meant to come here tonight—it just felt... necessary. The day had been hell, and the weight of everything was pressing down on him harder than usual.

Inside, the bay was eerily quiet, save for the occasional groan of pain from one of the patients. Most of the cots were occupied, some by people who were barely conscious, their bodies wrapped in crude bandages, others by those staring blankly at the ceiling as if they'd already given up.

Jean's eyes scanned the room until they landed on a familiar figure. Akira was bent over a table near the back, her long, dark hair tied into a loose ponytail. She was sorting through a small pile of medical supplies—most of which looked like they belonged in a first aid kit from a dollar store.

When she looked up and saw him, her eyes lit up instantly. "Jean!" she said, her voice soft but filled with warmth. She quickly put down the gauze she'd been holding and walked over to him. "What are you doing here? Are you hurt?"

Jean shook his head, his tired expression softening slightly at her concern. "No, I'm fine. I just... wanted to check on Ms. Heather and Morgan. Are they okay?"

Akira's face fell, her excitement dimming as reality crept back in. She glanced over her shoulder toward the cots in the far corner, where Ms. Heather and Morgan were resting. "They're... not great," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Morgan's wound... it's bad, Jean. Without proper treatment, it's only a matter of time before it gets infected."

Jean's stomach tightened, a cold knot forming in his gut. He looked past Akira toward the cots. Morgan was lying on her back, her face pale and drawn, her arm heavily bandaged where Akira had amputated her hand the day before. Ms. Heather was next to her, her leg propped up on a makeshift splint. She looked better than Morgan, but not by much.

"What do you mean 'a matter of time'?" Jean asked, his voice sharper than he intended. "Isn't there something you can do? Medicine? Antibiotics?"

Akira winced, her hands fidgeting nervously. "We don't have any of that, Jean. The camp's medical supplies are... basically nonexistent. Most of what we have is useless—expired bandages, empty pill bottles. It's a miracle we even have gauze."

"Are you fucking serious?" Jean said, his voice rising slightly. "What kind of medical bay doesn't have supplies?"

"The kind that gets raided every other week," Akira said bitterly, her tone unusually sharp. She sighed and lowered her gaze. "I've been trying to help, but there's only so much I can do. Without proper antibiotics, Morgan's wound will get infected. And Ms. Heather's leg... it might be broken. If it doesn't set right, she might never walk properly again."

Jean ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. The camp was supposed to be safe, a refuge—but it felt more like a death trap. "What the fuck are we supposed to do, then? Just sit here and watch them get worse?"

Akira hesitated for a moment before answering, her voice quiet. "I don't know. Unless we can find more supplies, there's nothing anyone can do."

Jean let out a frustrated breath, his fists clenching at his sides. He hated feeling this helpless. "This is bullshit," he muttered. "We came all this way, and for what? To end up in a place that can't even take care of its people?"

Akira reached out and lightly touched his arm, her fingers delicate. "Jean... I'm sorry. I wish I could do more."

Her touch startled him slightly, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he looked at her, noticing the dark circles under her eyes and the way her shoulders sagged with exhaustion. She had been working tirelessly, he realized, doing everything she could with the scraps she had. And yet, it wasn't enough.

"You're doing what you can," he said, his voice softening. "It's not your fault."

Akira's eyes searched his face, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she smiled, just a little. "Thanks, Jean. That... means a lot."

They stood there in silence for a moment, the weight of the situation hanging heavy between them. Finally, Jean cleared his throat and glanced back at the cots. "Can I see them? Morgan and Ms. Heather?"

Akira nodded and led him over to the corner of the bay. Morgan was asleep, her face slick with sweat, her chest rising and falling unevenly. Ms. Heather, on the other hand, was awake, her usually cheerful demeanor dimmed but still present.

"Jean," she said with a small smile as he approached. "What are you doing here, sweetie? Shouldn't you be resting?"

Jean knelt down next to her cot, his face tight with worry. "I wanted to check on you. How are you feeling?"

Ms. Heather chuckled weakly. "Oh, you know... I've had better days. But I'm hanging in there."

"Bullshit," Jean said, his voice cracking slightly. "You look like hell."

"Thanks for the honesty," Ms. Heather said with a wry smile. Then she winced, shifting slightly to adjust her leg. "But seriously, I'll be fine. You've got enough to worry about without babysitting me."

Jean shook his head, his eyes darting to Morgan. "You both need real help. This place doesn't even have fucking antibiotics."

"We know," Ms. Heather said softly. "But we'll figure something out. We always do, right?"

Jean wanted to believe her, but the knot in his stomach told him otherwise. He glanced at Akira, who was hovering nearby, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.

"She's right," Akira said, her voice quiet but firm. "We'll figure something out."

Jean wasn't sure if she actually believed that or if she was just trying to reassure him. Either way, he nodded, even though his mind was already racing with possibilities. If the camp didn't have the supplies they needed, they'd have to find them somewhere else. It was risky—probably suicidal—but what other choice did they have?

For now, though, all he could do was hope. Hope that tomorrow would bring something better.

It was a slim hope. But it was all they had.

Q: What what you do in this situation?