The checkpoint itself seemed temporary, but the silence that surrounded it was not. A rusted cattle gate blocked the path, with some worn cones and a single pop-up floodlight, which illuminated the gravel in a harsh, hospital-white glow. Trees loomed behind the barrier like spectators — tall pines and naked birches, their branches perfectly motionless, even in the wind.
Edward idled to a stop. The whine of his engine sounded too loud in the stillness.
A CDC guard emerged from the shadows, boots crunching on loose gravel. His face was obscured by a respirator mask and wraparound goggles, windbreaker fluttering as he stepped forward.
"Name?" the guard asked through the mask.
"Edward Raines."
A pause. The man raised a battered radio. "Incoming. Raines. You clearing him?"
The answer crackled back amidst the static: "Cleared. Escort him through. Subject is stable."
The guard stepped forward and knocked on the driver's window. "Drive straight through. You'll notice trail markers. Stay on the gravel. You've got ten minutes with the subject. Don't touch her. Don't agitate her. If anything doesn't feel right, you leave first."
Edward nodded and the gate groaned as it rolled open.
He cajoled the car forward, tires crunching over the gravel road. Trees were nearer on both sides, leaning in as if to listen. Moss dripped from bark like wet hair. The sun had dissolved to a bloated orange stain through the leaves — a dying ember behind gauze.
He passed a skeletal deer carcass just off the highway, half-hidden in underbrush. Something had torn it open at the ribcage, but there were no buzzards, no insects. Not even flies.
The forest was silent.
Ahead, floodlights lit up the ranger station in bleached yellows. The structure huddled at the base of a hill, its peaked roof bowing under a cover of pine needles. Behind it, a derelict fire tower stood guard, its stairway partially collapsed. Windows were blacked out from the inside, most likely with foil or paint.
A van from the CDC was parked motionless against the building, wires spilling from its side into the walls like IV tubes. A portable generator rumbled somewhere at the rear of the building, far and muted.
Edward stepped out, boots sinking slightly into damp ground. The air stank of ozone, pine, and disinfectant. Too clean, like a hospital in the woods.
A medic stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand. She didn't speak — just handed him a pair of nitrile gloves and jerked her head toward the rear.
It was chillier within the station. The fluorescents overhead hummed. Almost everything had been stripped out — counters bare, furniture pushed against walls, all of it covered in clear plastic sheeting that crackled underfoot.
The hum of machinery came from deeper in — vitals monitors, air scrubbers, an oxygen compressor. It sounded like a war hospital, or close enough.
The medic gestured down a tight hallway.
Edward made his way down the length of it slowly. The walls were lined with old wood paneling, stained in places where maps used to hang. At the far end, a solid door stood open.
Beyond it: Sam.
She was sitting cross-legged on a cot in a cleared office space, the room sealed off with a second layer of plastic behind her. She was lit from the side by a single upright lamp, which cast deep shadows in her face. Her hospital gown appeared too large, crumpled around her collarbones. But her eyes were sharp.
And they were trained on him.
She smiled. Crooked. Dry. Familiar.
"Edward Raines," she said. "My apocalypse plus-one."
He lingered in the doorway.
"You going to stand there in the dark, or do I need to refresh your memory on how chairs work?"
Her voice was rough-edged but even. It contained some of its old bite — dry sarcasm she once used to wield like a paring knife on the graveyard shift.
He walked in carefully and occupied the chair across from her. The metal legs scraped against the concrete.
"They finally let you in, huh?" she said. "Or maybe I'm dreaming. But I don't usually dream in fluorescent lighting and disinfectant."
"You look better," he said.
"Dangerous line. I may be contagious, you know."
He glanced up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. "They say you're stable.
"Well, I'm still sarcastic, at any rate. So there's that."
She shifted on the cot, pulling the blanket further over her knees. The air in the room felt artificially dry, as if humidity had been removed for safety.
"You're more silent than I remember," she said. "Either that or coma-me created a more talkative version of you. Do I have anything to apologize for?"
"Do you remember?"
She tilted her head to the side. "Voices. Yours, mostly. I heard you before I saw you. Strange, right? Like… my brain processed the sound of you before it could keep up with the visual."
Edward nodded stiffly.
She leaned forward slightly. "It's strange being in one's own body and still feeling like a visitor."
"Remember anything else?" he asked.
Flashes. Nothing very coherent. Cold tile. A panic. I think someone screamed. But mostly. heat. Terror. Like I was watching myself from the bottom of a well." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You were there, though. That much I remember."
He didn't say anything.
They just keep testing me," she said. "Poking, measuring. Kyle's the tall one, right? He stares at me like I'm a math problem that didn't add up. But the thing is — I feel fine. Stronger, even. Like my brain finally stopped buffering."
Her hand tightened. "I used to get this fog, right behind the eyes. Gone now."
Outside the room, a soft digital chime sounded. Seven minutes.
"Guess I'm on a clock," she muttered. "Feels very dystopian romance. Ten-minute visitation window. I didn't even get flowers."
Edward stood, the motion too stiff.
Sam watched him closely.
"You really don't remember what happened… before they brought you here?"
"Not really. I mean — I remember you. Your voice especially. Everything else is like… oil and water. Won't mix."
She reached out to him suddenly. Not fast, not badly — just reflexively. Her fingers grazed the sleeve of his coat near his shoulder.
The one still covered up beneath.
She tapped the space gently.
"I used to do that," she said, half-smiling. "Poke you in the arm when I wanted you to go get snacks from the back. Or when I was being annoying."
Edward froze. The heat pulsed beneath the fabric, his skin aching under the gauze.
She tilted her head, fingers still hovering. "That spot feels important. Familiar."
His voice, when it came, was flat. "Just an old bruise."
She blinked. "Weird. Feels like something else."
The chime sounded again. Time's up.
Edward stepped back.
"I'm feeling better, though," she said suddenly, her voice dropping into something softer — almost reverent. "Clearer. Like something's waking up."
She looked at him then — really looked — and weakly smiled.
"It feels good."
He left without saying a word.
Sam stood behind him staring at the door long after it shut, her hand still suspended in the air.