Fire Swamp, indeed. Nole would get a kick out of how it’s living up to its name.

Structurally, The Fire Swamp seems salvageable. Maybe movable. Even livable. This girl, Stranna, saved me. Whether or not she had ulterior motives, I can’t deny that she saved my life.

Not Luc. Not me. This girl—a stranger. Maybe it really comes down to simple humanity: she saw me dying and chose to save me. Somehow I sense that if she faced a Spore in the Nightmare she wouldn’t have killed them.

Burn blisters cover both her hands and some exposed hair curls up in singed strands.

Good people still exist in this sick and dying world.

I won’t let that go to waste.

I gingerly make my way to my bathroom, brushing against the soot around the left side of the door frame. The first thing I do is run the tap and chug water, even though I typically save that water for emergencies. It temporarily soothes my throat but doesn’t eliminate the cough. That will take time.

I wipe soot from the mirror. It mostly smears but gives me a wide enough clean streak to see my face. For a startled second, I think someone else is in the squished bathroom. I don’t look like myself—a coating of ash adds a hardened tone to my eyes.

There’s no way Stranna recognized me as the guy on Nole’s video channel.

I turn to the shelving above the toilet where I keep toiletries and first aid. The box that held my standard first aid kit has melted into a blob of plastic. I crack it open in pieces only to find burned or disintegrated gauze pads and a burst tube of antibiotic ointment. I locate a single cough drop in the narrow cabinet above the sink, the wrapper is covered in dust and the bottom part of the drop melted to the paper. I peel it away and tuck it into my cheek.

There’s nothing to help with Stranna’s or my blisters.

I change my shirt and use the inside of my burned one to wipe the soot off my face. My stomach churns, so I head back into the kitchen area. I eat a raw potato and try to tell myself it’s just dirt-covered celery. Because obviously that’s better. I read in a book once that someone can live solely off potatoes. That doesn’t make it taste better, but my stomach appreciates it all the same.

Then I film my last live video to Nole’s channel.

“Sorry I disappeared.” I give them a scan of the burned part of The Fire Swamp. “Almost died, but I suppose I deserve that after what’s happened with the serum.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough but I’m really sorry. I tested it on myself, and it worked . . . once. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted you all to have a chance at life. It was only after I sold and delivered it to you all that it didn’t work for me the second time. I don’t know why it failed. I-I’m so sorry.”

Sure you are. A commenter says.

Give us our money back.

There’s no grace to be found in the chat. No understanding. I can’t blame them.

I close the computer and whisper, “I’m sorry,” one last time. Then I get to work.

I chuck anything ruined out the window and into the street. I check on the chickens in the back—the majority of the fire was toward the front of The Fire Swamp, so they and their coop are fine, except they’re very hungry. I should clean their pen, but my time is getting shorter, so I dump the last of their feed inside and grab the two eggs to cook if I get the stove working again. I’m lucky the whole thing didn’t explode.

I’d leave an egg for Stranna, but I don’t know if or when she’ll wake again.

The blankets in the loft are still usable, even though they smell like smoke. I fold a couple and tuck them on the floor by the couch in case Stranna rolls off at some point. I hope she doesn’t mind going on a little trip. If I knew where her home was, I’d drive her there.

I check The Fire Swamp multiple times to make sure it’s not going to crumble from the burned timber, but it holds. I hop into my rickety truck and start the engine. It takes a couple rumbles to get going. The neighborhood shrinks in my extended side-view mirror along with the tops of the distant university buildings, taking the many hopes and dreams Nole and I shared with it.

I drive to the storage-container lot on the other side of town. After enough walking and exploring, I’ve learned which route to take so I won’t get The Fire Swamp stuck. I could have made this drive without The Fire Swamp, but I don’t want to risk leaving Stranna behind in a parking lot where anyone could loot it. She’d gotten in, after all, so anyone else could too. And they would not be as likely to pass over a vulnerable girl as they would a vulnerable guy. I have a chance to help, keep her safe.

It’s not enough to atone for the other things I’ve done, but it’s a start.

I arrive at the storage unit. It’s a cloudy night, so the alleyways between units seem particularly dark. Nole and I rented this after we sold Mom’s house. When we moved into The Fire Swamp, we put her belongings in storage, having no idea the virus would take over mere months later—one of the best timing accidents we’d had. We paid only two month’s rent before the owner got infected. He forgot to charge us. Another month later, he died.

We kept the key.

Some people turned their storage units into places to live until the virus trapped them. Because of that, I’m on alert whenever I visit. They could jump me. Especially now that my face is blasted all over the internet, jabbering about a cure.

I’m such a dummy. I thought being public—being vulnerable in live videos—would build trust and take people on the journey with me. I thought it would gain respect for Nole’s work and show people I was picking up his torch.

Instead it’s put me in more danger and tainted his entire memory.

I should have left the soot on my face.

I hop out of the truck into shadows. Always shadows. Always night. I miss the sun. Tenebra may have “daytime,” but it can’t replicate nature. It is limited by man’s imagination, which is a far cry from the creativity of God. No matter how bitter or resistant I am toward Him, I still know He gets the credit.

I haul open the storage door to the sight of a dozen five-gallon gas cans. Two are empty from the last time I came here. I empty four straight into the tank of my truck and then load the remaining six into the bed. Then I collect the last of my food supply.

It’s not much. A few boxes of pasta that make my mouth water just looking at them. A bag of potatoes that have gone to seed. Some canned beans and a jar of peanut butter come along too—the self-control I had to enact to keep myself from eating these a long time ago is a thing of the past. I unscrew the peanut butter and take a huge scoop out with my fingers. I allow myself ten whole seconds to savor it, then I haul the contents into the cab of the pickup and bid the storage unit goodbye, along with what’s left of Mom’s furniture and belongings.

I’m tempted to leave the door open or the key somewhere for someone to access if they need to, but I might need to come back someday. So I lock the door and pocket the key.

By now, some of the clouds have moved on, and the moon seems to shine on me like a spotlight.

I climb into the cab of the truck, start the engine, and press down the clutch. A prickle runs down my spine, and I look up.

A man stands in the narrow space between storage units, illuminated by moonlight.

He blocks my way out, a rifle aimed at my head.

“Get out of the truck,” the man with the rifle shouts. “I want the real cure. The one you swallowed.”

So it begins. He thinks I sold him a vial of olive oil while I kept the real cure for myself. Does he even spare a moment to wonder what I’d gain from that? Absolutely nothing.

“Get out of my way,” I respond with as much gusto as I can. Unfortunately smoke inhalation has turned my voice into a wheeze. I’m not sure he even hears me.

He takes aim with the rifle. “Have it your way.”

I duck beneath the dash, but he doesn’t fire. Instead the truck shakes. I peek out the back window to see another man tossing my last six gas cans out of the bed of the truck.

“Hey!” I pop open my glove compartment and pull out Nole’s handgun. It’s a revolver with six bullets and six chambers. Why Nole ever thought this was cool is beyond me, but at least I know how to use the thing.

I aim through the window but can’t make myself shoot. This isn’t a dreamscape. I can’t blame my actions on heightened emotions. I don’t want to kill. Again. Especially when it’s someone who paid me their life savings for a failed cure.

The man throws a fourth gas can over the edge, still oblivious to the fact I have a weapon. I drop the barrel and shoot low. The glass shatters, and the man falls over the edge of the truck bed with a cry. I aimed for his leg, but there’s no telling if that’s what I hit. The rifleman shoots, and the windshield explodes in a shower of glass. I pop up and aim with my revolver, but he’s nowhere in sight. I glance out each window and catch movement in my side mirror.

The man yanks at the door of The Fire Swamp.

Stranna.

I shoot a wild bullet his way in the hopes of deterring him. He ducks, but then pulls on the door again. Even though I locked it, the frame is weakened by the fire. It won’t take much more—