Six Years Ago
The music was loud, bass thumping a slow, deliberate rhythm that vibrated in the soles of Jenna's bare feet and throughout the cheap laminate floor. The apartment was steeped in the hazy, late-night glow of cheap wine and the flickering blue light from the television screen. The air was thick with heat and the sound of rushed breathing.
Jenna, twenty-two and reckless, was pressed against the kitchen counter, her head tilted back as Finn, a man she'd met barely an hour ago in a smoky bar downtown, crushed his mouth against hers. His hands were a heavy, welcome weight on her hips, pulling her closer, and the world—her dead-end shift at the diner, the mounting student debt, the crushing boredom of early adulthood—had shrunk down to this single, immediate sensation.
The man, a lean blur of muscle and urgency, was focused only on the curve of her body and the heat of her mouth. He tore his lips away long enough to rip open the button of her jeans, the snap of the denim lost in a ragged groan.
Broken away from the kiss, Jenna exhaled a plume of gray smoke from the cigarette she held loosely between her fingers. The tip glowed orange as she laughed, a low, husky sound as Finn continued.
"Mm, Slow down, cowboy," Jenna murmured, pushing him back just slightly so she could drain the last of the lukewarm vodka-soda in her plastic cup. The harsh liquor burned a quick, warm path down her throat, momentarily silencing the noise of the world.
Finn, sweat slicking his forehead, merely grinned, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached past her, snagging the television remote from the counter and tossing it toward the sofa. The screen, which had been flickering silently in the corner, suddenly blared the local news channel.
On the screen, a graphic flashed: EMERGENCY PANDEMIC ALERT. The anchor, a woman with wide, stressed eyes, was talking quickly over chaotic, shaky footage of a downtown street. "We are advising the public to remain calm, but to exercise extreme caution. Reports of unusual and highly aggressive behaviour are escalating in several major cities. Please, seek shelter and await official instruction..."
"Urgh, turn that shit off," Finn grumbled, his focus already returning to Jenna's neck. "I don't want to hear about some damn flu."
Jenna didn't bother. It was white noise. The news had been crying wolf for months—a new disease, a new crisis, always something happening somewhere else. Besides, the remote was too far away.
"Ignore it," Jenna whispered, leaning in to bite his earlobe, effectively pulling his attention back to the present. The sound of her short blonde hair rustling against his stubble was louder than the frantic voice of the news anchor.
"Focus on me, baby." Her hands were raking through the man's hair, pulling him closer as his tongue traced a hot path down her neck. She pushed back against him, the urgency of the moment consuming every thought. She felt the cool air against her skin as he impatiently tugged her shirt over her head, letting it fall forgotten to the floor.
She didn't hear the anchor, eyes wide with alarm, begin to describe the latest, most disturbing symptoms, focusing on the uncharacteristic, brutal violence reported from the quarantine zones.
She didn't hear the news ticker flash below, its bright red text impossible to ignore: LOCAL HOSPITALS OVERRUN: STATE OF EMERGENCY IMMINENT.
She felt Finn's hands slide up her sides, felt the pressure of his body against hers, and for a glorious, fleeting moment, she was utterly, completely safe inside her own reckless bubble of pleasure.
"—The CDC is now confirming a new mutation has occurred, resulting in unconfirmed reports of… cannibalism and extreme aggression. I repeat: Stay indoors. Lock your doors. Do not engage with anyone displaying signs of—"
The music track switched, the bass dropping with an intensified, hypnotic beat. Jenna groaned, not in annoyance at the news, but in approval of the song. She tossed her empty cup onto the floor and slid her fingers into Finn's hair, pulling his head back up for a deep, desperate kiss that tasted of nicotine and cheap liquor.
The cigarette fell from her fingers and landed on the faded rug, unnoticed. As the smoke curled upward and the passionate urgency between them flared, the muted, frantic screams of the local news anchor—pleading with the public to recognize the apocalypse unfolding outside their window—were finally swallowed by the deafening sound of their desire.
She reached for the waistband of his trousers, her fingers fumbling with the belt buckle. The news anchor's voice, though strained, was easily ignored for the roar in her own ears.
The last of their clothing was shed, tossed aside as they stumbled from the counter to the bedroom. They crashed onto the unmade bed, their bodies a tangle of urgent limbs and shared gasps.
The TV, left on in the living room, continued its grim broadcast: "...unconfirmed reports suggest conventional containment methods are failing. I repeat, authorities are now issuing a mandatory, immediate lockdown for all non-essential personnel. Do not go outside. STAY INDOORS!"
Finn's weight shifted over her. Jenna wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him down, her body vibrating with a desperate, singular focus. The feeling was electric, primal. He groaned, a deep sound of masculine relief and pleasure, as he found his mark.
He began inserting his cock into her pussy, slow until it was all in, the base pressed onto her folds, Jenna let out a low, drawn-out moan, her eyes squeezing shut, completely shutting out the distant, muffled warning from the television. The world was right here, right now, in the dark, warm confines of her bed.
They just continued.
The morning was cold.
Jenna woke slowly, the silence in the apartment heavy and profound. The air was stale, the sunlight outside strangely muted by the heavy, gray clouds.
She was alone. The space next to her in the bed was cool, the sheets barely disturbed. The man, Dean? Or was it Finn? Whatever his name was, was gone.
She stretched, a slight, lingering ache in her muscles, and glanced toward the open bedroom door.
The television in the living room was still on, but it was no longer displaying the frantic news anchor. Instead, the screen displayed a static, faded test pattern. The silence outside was complete.
Jenna frowned, reaching for the remote. "Tch. Jerk didn't even leave a note," she murmured to the empty room.
The only sound that answered her was the deep, unsettling quiet of a world that had ended without her ever noticing.
She squinted at the digital clock on her nightstand: 9:17 AM.
"Shit!" Jenna shot upright. She was due at the bakery at 8:00 AM. Her boss, Mr. Henderson, was a stickler. "I'm dead, I am so dead."
The floor was freezing under her bare feet as she scrambled out of bed, grabbing the nearest thing—a black t-shirt that definitely belonged to the vanished stranger—and pulling it over her head. Her focus was entirely on the frantic need to find clothes and text a pathetic excuse about a stomach flu.
She padded into the tiny kitchen, the familiar scent of old coffee and mildew offering a brief comfort. She grabbed a water bottle and slammed down half of it, trying to quell the dull, throbbing headache of her hangover.
It was then she registered the sound. Not the usual morning cacophony of the city—no car horns, no school buses—but a strained, distant chorus of yelling. It sounded angry, frightened, and chaotic, like a massive fight had broken out two blocks over.
Jenna frowned, walking to her window overlooking the street. She saw a few people sprinting down the sidewalk, not jogging, but running with a terrified, headlong urgency. A delivery truck had veered haphazardly onto the pavement, its hazard lights blinking uselessly.
Weird. Major accident? she thought, dismissing it as she dug through her laundry hamper for a clean pair of jeans.
"Need to check the traffic," she muttered, grabbing the small, dusty TV remote.
She pressed the power button, but the small television screen remained dark. She jabbed the button again, harder this time.
"Ugh, seriously?" she muttered, flicking on the light switch—which also did nothing. The power was out.
She grabbed her phone, instinctively swiping down to check the news, but the service bars were gone. No signal.
She tried the television one last time, hitting the input button. A burst of blindingly bright static noise exploded onto the screen, filling the small apartment with a harsh, ear-splitting hiss. It was the white-noise wall of dead air, louder and more aggressive than any static she'd ever heard. Every channel was the same: a violent, screeching blizzard of black and white.
Jenna flinched, slamming the power button off.