12. The Climb #2
Sawyer was sitting near the door, rifle across his knees. He hadn’t slept.
“How long have I been asleep?” she asked quietly.
He looked over his shoulder, the faintest ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Hours. You needed rest.”
Addy rubbed her hands together and moved closer to the fire, coaxing what little warmth remained. “The storm’s over.”
“Somewhat, snow stopped but the wind is whipping,” he said, standing and moving to the window. He used his sleeve to clear a small patch of frost and stared out at the endless white. “But it did its job. No tracks. No movement. Whoever was out there lost us.”
She exhaled in relief, but it was short-lived. “So now what? We can’t exactly walk through that.”
Sawyer’s jaw worked as he considered. “No. We’re stuck until it breaks.”
“How long will that take?”
He shook his head. Perhaps a day. It might take a week. Depends on how hard the cold sets in.”
Addy looked around the cabin, at the empty supply bag, the burned-down firewood pile, the frost already creeping across the inside of the windowpane. “We don’t have enough to wait a week.”
“I know,” he said simply.
He then turned back to her, and for the first time since she’d known him, she saw something close to fatigue in his eyes. Not only physical exhaustion, but the quiet kind, the kind that seeps into the bones when you’ve been running far too long on empty.
She stood and crossed to him, her hand brushing his arm. “You did the right thing, Sawyer. Getting us out. We’d be dead if we stayed.”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on the snow-covered trees beyond the window, expression unreadable. “We’re alive, for now,” he said finally. “That’s all that matters.”
But she could tell from his tone that it wasn’t enough for him. Survival was never simply about breathing, not for Sawyer. It was about control, about protecting what he cared about.
And right now, that meant her.
Addy watched him for a long moment and spoke softly. “You don’t always have to carry everything.”
He looked at her, something flickering behind his tired eyes, a crack in the armor, for a heartbeat. “If I don’t,” he said quietly, “who will?”
The question hung between them, heavy as the snow outside.
Addy wanted to argue, to tell him she would shoulder some of it too. But instead, she nodded, moving closer to stand beside him.
Outside, the storm had left the world frozen and still, but the quiet didn’t register as empty.
Sawyer had turned back to the window, still staring out at the blank sweep of white. His reflection in the frosted glass looked older, worn thin.
Addy took a breath, squaring her shoulders. “I will.”
He glanced at her, brow furrowed. “You will what?”
“I will,” she said again, firmer this time. “Sawyer, I might not be physically strong, but I’m smart. I learn fast. I grew up on a ranch, for God’s sake, I can handle myself. Let me carry some of this weight. Let me help.”
He shook his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching with a humorless smile. “Addy—”
“No.” She crossed the small room, stopping in front of him, meeting his tired eyes.
“You’ve been running on fumes for days. You haven’t slept more than a few hour at a time.
You can’t keep doing this. If you burn out, we’re both dead.
So you’re going to lie down, and I’m going to take watch. For a short time.
He looked at her as if she’d suggested something reckless, which, to him, it probably was. “You want to stand guard? Alone?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “You said it yourself — we’re stuck here today. The snow’s too deep to move, so it’s not like I’ll be chasing anyone. Simply sitting by the window. Watching.”
“Addy—”
“Give me the gun,” she said, softer now but firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Please.”
He studied her for a long moment, jaw tight, expression unreadable. The fire popped in the silence between them.
Finally, Sawyer exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
A small, reluctant smile ghosted across his face. “All right.”
He set his rifle down by the door, then stretched out near the fire, one arm folded under his head. “Wake me in two hours,” he murmured.
“I will,” she promised.
When his eyes finally closed, the lines in his face softened, the constant readiness easing away. He appeared nearly tranquil, or as near to it as he was capable.
* * *
Addy sat by the window, gun in her lap, the cabin filled with the soft sounds of Sawyer’s steady breathing and the muffled hush of snow outside. She kept her gaze on the tree line, scanning for movement, but part of her couldn’t stop glancing back at him.
She wasn’t afraid of what waited beyond the glass. The danger outside seemed distant; the real battle was here, inside, between fear and hope, exhaustion and trust.
For the first time, Sawyer was letting someone else fight it for him.
Addy sat near the window, the pistol resting in her lap, her eyes moving between the drifting snow and Sawyer’s sleeping form by the fire. His face looked softer in sleep, younger somehow, stripped of the constant tension that usually lived there.
She let her gaze drift back outside. The snow still fell in thick, lazy flakes, muting the world in white. It was almost peaceful, almost beautiful, if she didn’t think too hard about what it was hiding.
Her thoughts slipped back to the weeks before everything broke.
* * *
The television had been the first real warning, though nobody treated it that way at the time.
The glow of the screen cut through the dim living room as Addy folded laundry from the dryer, warm towels releasing steam into the air.
A perky anchor, her lipstick just a shade too bright, jabbered about an unusually early, unusually aggressive flu season.
Behind her, a digital map bloomed with scattered red dots, like harmless freckles on a smooth canvas.
“Officials urge calm,” the bold headline read.
A smaller subtitle ticked by: Multiple deaths reported.
Addy paused, tugging at a soft cotton sheet, the faint scent of lavender detergent drifting upward. She frowned, reached for the remote, and muted the sound. People caught the flu every year. People died every year. Sad, yes—but not new.
Then those red dots multiplied. They doubled overnight—and doubled again by morning.
That afternoon, her phone buzzed with Marcy’s name flashing across the screen.
Marcy, a nurse at the small-town hospital fringed by cornfields, was always upbeat.
But when Addy answered, her friend’s voice trembled like a leaf in a storm.
“Addy, I don’t know what this is,” she said, her words clipped between ragged breaths.
“It’s not just the flu. They wake up screaming.
They batter at the door. We’ve got to restrain them—and then they go… blank.”
Addy forced a laugh that sounded brittle against Marcy’s panic. “You’re exhausted,” she said. “Get some rest.”
But Marcy didn’t laugh. She whispered, “There are government people here—suits and badges, but not the CDC. Nobody says who they work for. They’re filming everything.”
The next morning, Addy drove through a gray dawn to the school where she taught.
The hallway, normally a riot of lockers slamming and sneakers squeaking, seemed cavernous and hollow.
Only seven students sat at their desks, faces drawn and eyes too wide.
The principal’s latest memo, pinned to the bulletin board under a spidery header, urged relentless sanitizing, strict distancing, and zero handshakes.
Addy lined up bottles of disinfectant on her desk like a row of soldiers—bleach spray, alcohol gel, wipes — hoping to inject a measure of levity into her trembling hands.
By the week’s end, three more desks sat empty.
One of those children never returned. His locker door stood ajar, a red backpack hanging by one strap as if waiting to be claimed.
When Addy heard the news at day’s end, she sat behind the wheel of her car in the school parking lot, headlights cutting swaths of light through drifting dust motes, and wept until her cheeks were wet and her shirt clung to her damp skin.
He was bright and funny—his only worry was math homework.
How did you explain a world spinning out of the orbit you knew?
That same evening, her mother’s voice crackled over the crack in Addy’s cellphone connection. Houston sounded distant, impossibly large. “They’ve locked us inside,” her mother whispered, each word coated with fear. “They say it’s for our safety. But, Addy… it doesn’t seem like safety.”
Addy pressed her palm to her forehead. “I’ll come down soon,” she promised, her voice trembling with false confidence. “It’s just the flu. They always figure it out.”
Only they hadn’t.
* * *
The fire crackled softly. Sawyer shifted in his sleep, muttering something low and indecipherable.
Addy watched him for a moment, her chest tight. Perhaps none of them had wanted to see it. Perhaps that caused the rapid descent; no one believed it would ever happen.
She turned her gaze back to the window, snow still swirling beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, the world was still falling apart. But in here, for this moment, it was quiet.
* * *
Addy let Sawyer sleep far longer than he’d told her to. Two hours had come and gone, then three, then four. But every time she glanced at him, stretched out near the fire, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths, she told herself he needed it.
It wasn’t as if there was much to do anyway. The world outside was buried and still, the snow muffling everything into silence. No movement beyond the window, no sign of danger. Just the soft crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of Sawyer’s breathing.
She sat cross-legged near the hearth, the gun resting beside her, and let herself simply watch him.
And something about that undid her a little.