At least… most of us were.
I don't remember hitting the ground. Just the blinding white. Then black.
Then nothing.
{TIME: I DON'T REMEMBER CLEARLY}
The world came back in flashes.
Blurry lights.
A sharp smell—like rubbing alcohol, sweat, and gunpowder.
Then, pain.
Not the kind of pain that makes you scream.
The kind that pins you down like gravity. Heavy. Relentless. Real.
I blinked. Once. Twice.
A ceiling fan spun above me, blades moving too slow for how loud my heartbeat was thudding in my ears. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeped in time with it.
"Hey. You're okay."
A voice. Familiar.
My eyes snapped sideways—Zayn. Sitting beside the cot I was laid out on, back taped up in gauze and bandages, face pale but somehow still trying to smirk through it.
"We made it," he said, "barely."
I tried to speak, but my lips were dry, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. All I could manage was a whisper: "What… happened?"
Zayn glanced away, jaw tightening like he was deciding how much truth I could handle.
"You don't remember?" he asked.
I shook my head, the motion sending lightning bolts down my spine.
He exhaled. "Okay, then listen close."
We'd made it through the gate, you and I—bleeding, breathless, half-dead from the chase. The soldiers were shouting. Doors were slammed. Alarms cut through the night.
And you?
You just dropped.
One moment you were yelling at Insha to move, the next—your knees buckled like someone pulled the strings.
You hit the floor. Hard.
Headfirst into a steel railing. Blood everywhere. I remember screaming your name louder than I even knew I could.
Then the sign fell.
A broken metal nameplate—probably once part of an airport check-in board—came loose in the chaos. Sliced clean across my back like a paper guillotine. I didn't even feel it at first. Just warmth and wetness. And then fire.
Soldiers pulled us in, shouting orders, dragging us behind barricades.
It was a warzone in here. Not the neat little bunker we'd imagined. The airport had been converted—bags of rice stacked like sandbags, emergency stretchers rolled across polished floors, LED lights taped to ceiling beams, and soldiers in mismatched uniforms, some in hazmat suits, some in what looked like civilian gear sprayed camo.
Everything was desperation wrapped in duct tape.
I passed out a few minutes after you.
We both hit the edge that night—literally and figuratively.
Zayn finished and leaned back slowly, wincing from the pain in his shoulder.
"Docs say you had a mild concussion," he added. "And twelve stitches near your temple. Lucky your skull's that thick."
I rolled my eyes. "Twelve? Damn."
"Yeah. I only got eight." He smirked again, then winced immediately. "Woulda asked for a medal, but I think they're fresh out."
I managed a weak laugh before glancing around.
The room was part of the old lounge, maybe once business class. Now it was a field infirmary—rows of people on mats and cots, IV bags hanging from window latches, soldiers walking past carrying crates and rifles.
And right by the door—Insha and Aaron.
They stepped in the second they saw I was awake.
Insha rushed over, eyes glossy, the scarf around her neck streaked with ash and oil. Aaron followed slower, holding two steaming mugs—probably powdered soup or whatever they managed to heat up.
"You scared the hell out of us," Insha muttered, half-yelling, half-whispering. She dropped to the edge of my cot, squeezing my wrist like she was making sure I was still warm. "One second you're yelling at me to run. The next, you're just… gone."
Aaron handed me a mug and nodded. "You lost a lot of blood."
"We thought we were gonna lose both of you," Insha added, voice cracking just enough to twist the air in my chest.
I sipped the soup—thin, salty, slightly burnt. Best thing I'd tasted in weeks.
Zayn chuckled. "Tell them what the doc said when he saw our injuries."
Aaron grinned. "Said, 'These two rolled in like it was D-Day and forgot helmets.'"
We all laughed. Quietly. Carefully. Because too much noise still felt dangerous. Even here. Even now.
But it was laughter nonetheless.
Outside, the camp was alive. Not in the chaotic, infected way. But alive with something we hadn't felt in ages:
Organization.
Lines of survivors queued up for rations. Maps marked with spray paint were taped across terminal walls. Helicopters landed and took off every so often, soldiers yelling instructions and sorting people by name, region, status.
Still—there was tension in every breath.
Rumors spread like wildfire:
"Camp Delta fell."
"Someone let infected onto the third runway."
"Foreign aid is coming in—only by air."
"Every other base is compromised."
It all pointed to one thing:
This airport was the last chess piece on the board.
Later, when I could walk again, we wandered to the edge of the arrivals terminal. Windows were cracked, but the view still stretched across the runway like something out of a post-apocalyptic film.
Somewhere out there—planes were coming. Countries still flying rescue ops were sending cargo planes, military birds, anything they could spare.
And we had to be on one.
Zayn stood next to me, arms folded, hoodie stained and cut open at the back. I leaned into the railing, bandaged head buzzing with a low throb.
"Still think we're gonna make it?" I asked.
Zayn didn't answer right away.
He looked out at the airstrip. The blinking lights. The line of survivors below. Soldiers guarding them like the last firewall before extinction.
Then he turned to me. Eyes steady. Tired. But not hopeless.
"I don't think," he said. "I know."
And for the first time in what felt like forever—
I believed him.