Edward was reclined on his couch, the pale light of his phone illuminating his face. His chest continued to ache from the previous encounter with the CDC, and his mind kept revisiting the events of the day. The darkness in the house oppresses him, and each creak and moan in the ancient building seemed to echo louder, like an ominous warning.
Kyle's last message continued to haunt him: Sam had avoided loneliness. She's on her way home. Take care. Isolate her in a room if you can. I'll tell you all about it when I get there.
Her house. This was where she was supposed to be—at a location near her home, a location that he was not allowed to go to. This was the plan. That least, Kyle had vowed.
But now, huddled in the dark with the phone screen still lit, Edward wondered. Had he been wrong? His mind was trapped in those final minutes under the influence of the CDC—the words they made him say. Don't trust anyone. Stay indoors.
The chance of Sam out there, alone, on the streets—there was no ignoring it. Fear was growing in his chest. What if she was insane?
He just could not stay here. Not with the not knowing gnawing at him like this.
His fingers lay on the phone, but he forced himself to set it aside. No use worrying. He couldn't do anything about it now. His eyes wandered over the front door as a peculiar noise caught his attention—only a faint knock against the glass. Maybe a branch? Maybe the wind? He had no idea.
But then, again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Edward rose, every muscle tense in his frame, his breathing shallow.
He peered through the blinds, the dim glow of the streetlights beyond the house barely more than shadows on the front lawn. His eyes scanned the area.
Nothing.
But as he turned to head back, the knocking came again, louder now—distinct, persistent.
His gut roiled.
He put out his hand to grab the door handle, but he held back. He recalled Kyle's text message—She's going home. Sam was going to be miles and miles away, so who the heck was sitting on his front porch?
A wave of ideas charged through his mind, none of them helping him figure out what was happening. Reluctantly, he looked once more over the edge of the curtain and into the shadows. The figure outside was just on the edge of light. A shape.
Is that her?
His hand trembled on the doorknob. But no—no, it couldn't be. Sam wouldn't be here.
The woman was shorter than he'd recalled Sam to be. And the walk. it wasn't her. It wasn't her. No. It was some other individual—one whose walk was slow, awkward, nearly stag-like.
Edward stepped back, astonished replacing his alarm. Maybe it was some grief-stricken poor thing. Maybe it was merely some lost stranger who'd gotten herself lost.
But the form shifted once more. The man shifted slightly, and he saw it—to the light, and he saw it clearer.
That was when he saw it—the recognizable shape of a woman's face, although the features were reorganized by the darkness.
The moment his mind had figured it out, his heart pounding.
It was Sam.
His breath stuck in his throat. The intruder crept closer, more slowly now, and Edward's heart thudded in his chest. He did not understand it.
He had to act fast. Was she still Sam? Was she something else now?
The knocking increased on—faster now, more insistently, a wild beat that shattered the gaunt quiet of the house.
"Edward," said the straining voice on the other side of the door. "Please. Open the door."
It was her voice, only it was different. There was a rasp to it, a growl, that he wasn't used to.
Sam?
Edward swallowed again, trying to force the terror away. He couldn't be scared. He had to think. He needed to think for himself.
He backed away from the door, his gaze shifting around the house. The window next to the door—did it close? The back door—closed.
Sam was close now—far too close. The whistling wheeze of her labored breath crept past the thin veneer between them.
Edward retreated from the door, his breathing in ragged gasps. He had no idea what to do. Was she still she? Had the infection changed her beyond recognition?
Kyle informed him that she wasn't in her right mind. She's dangerous.
But was it too late? Could she have already reached the point of rescue?
Knocking resumed, this time louder—each boom on the wood a drumbeat in his head. He had to decide. The weight of the decision kept him pinned. He couldn't just open the door. He couldn't risk it.
Not when he wasn't sure if it was really Sam anymore.
The voice on the door became more pleading. "Edward, please. Please. Open up."
His hand went around the deadbolt. His mind screamed at him not to. But something within him urged him to help her. Was it still Sam?
But the door. The door would not protect him if it wasn't her.
His fingers flew, glided over his phone as he picked up and fired off a quick text to Kyle:
Edward: She's here. She's her. I don't know if she's Sam. She—she's being strange. What should I do?
The response was very prompt, but not the one he had been expecting.
Kyle: Don't open the door. Do not open it. You stay in there. Lock up everything. I'll get here soon, but you must stay safe. Do not trust her. No matter what you do, don't let her inside.
Edward froze, his head spinning. There was a knock on the door that stopped instantly. Faded noises of footsteps were heard beyond the doorframe, scrafficking off the frame.
He moved back, drifting deeper into the room. No escape from the moment.
The roll on the other side of the door came again, slowly, agonizingly, torturously, and then—the scrafficking noise ceased.
Edward no longer hesitated. Shaking fingers pushed back behind the door and released the deadbolt.
The door creaked open and slowly, in the dim light, stood Sam—no, not exactly Sam, but someone who had the same appearance, but she wasn't. She had glassy, empty eyes, and the face of aggression-confusion. She was swaying as if she did not know where she was.
Wordlessly, Edward retreated, waving her in.
"Sam," he panted, trying to anchor her back to some sort of reality.
She didn't respond, but stumbled through the door, her eyes locked on him, her body wooden and plastic. He didn't have the heart to send her away. Not now.
He took her slowly, hesitantly, to the guest room. He didn't know what else to do. She wasn't communicating, wasn't asking for anything. The worst was the vacant look in her eyes—like she didn't even know where she was.
When he got to the guest room, he lingered, but took her in slowly, locking the door behind.
Edward hesitated for a second, staring at the shut door, wondering what to do, but things were moving too quickly. He couldn't help but think that he had moved too quickly. But what else was he to have done?
The room was still for an unbearably long period of time. He heard a creak here and there from within, but nothing more. Edward, his own shaking hands still rattling, took his phone once again and fired off another panic-stricken message to Kyle:
Edward: She's here. I've locked her in the guest room. I don't know what had happened to her. Sorry, Kyle. Couldn't leave her on the porch.
The words had been spoken, but he was already regretting his decision weighing heavily on him. What had he done?
He couldn't help but wonder if the woman he'd just imprisoned in that room was even the same Sam he'd once known. Or was it too late now? Would she ever be his again?
The uncertainty was killing him as seconds passed, and all he could do was wait.