Laura lingered for a moment, watching Vincent as he meticulously stitched Christine's wound. It wasn’t the sight of blood that made her turn away—it was the pang of empathy she felt for the young girl. Christine reminded her of her nephew Jason, and the thought of seeing her in pain was too much to bear. Laura trusted Vincent implicitly; she knew he would handle the situation with care. There was no need for her to stay and watch.
Once Laura left, only Manny remained by Christine’s side. She didn’t have to stay—Vincent was more than capable of handling the minor procedure on his own—but she wanted to be there for Christine. Having someone familiar nearby would help ease the girl’s embarrassment.
Time passed quietly. Vincent paused, gently pressing his fingers against Christine’s skin. “Can you feel this?” he asked. The anesthesia took effect at different rates for everyone, and Vincent wanted to be sure Christine was numb before proceeding.
Christine, no longer crying, nodded faintly. Her face was flushed with a mix of relief and shyness. At sixteen, she had never been this exposed in front of a man, let alone one she secretly admired. She lay on her stomach, her arms folded beneath her head, her cheeks burning as Vincent worked.
“Good,” Vincent murmured. He unrolled a small cloth bundle, revealing an array of surgical tools. Selecting a curved needle, he sterilized it and threaded it with precision. The wound, about three centimeters long and deep, required four or five stitches. Vincent worked quickly, his hands steady. Once the stitches were in place, he dressed the wound with gauze and bandages.
“It’s done,” Vincent said, helping Christine sit up slowly. “You’ll need to keep the stitches in for about a week. Try not to move too much.” He averted his gaze as Manny helped Christine remove her bloodstained jeans and clean up. Vincent’s professionalism had shifted; the procedure was over, and he no longer needed to focus on the intimate details.
Manny, ever the pragmatist, couldn’t resist teasing. “What’s the matter, Vincent?” she quipped, noticing his awkward avoidance. “You’ve already seen everything. No need to play the shy guy now.”
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Vincent shot her a reproachful look but said nothing. He turned to Christine, offering an apologetic smile. “Let’s get you back to the group,” he said, bending down to let her climb onto his back. Manny followed, carrying their bags.
Night had fallen, the sky dotted with faint stars. The group gathered in the northwest corner of the rooftop, using the dim light of their phones to eat. Christine lay on her stomach, a makeshift cushion of clothes beneath her. The summer air was warm, and the occasional buzz of mosquitoes was the only reminder of the world outside their precarious sanctuary.
Christine’s anesthesia had worn off, but she could move carefully without aggravating the wound. The injury, though painful, had missed major muscles, sparing her from more severe complications.
The night was quiet, the zombies below now eerily still. Vincent sat apart from the others, his gaze fixed on the distant glow of skyscrapers. Sleep eluded him. The weight of leadership pressed heavily on his shoulders. He had always been a pragmatist, focused on survival above all else. But now, surrounded by people who relied on him, he felt the burden of their lives resting squarely on his decisions.
Vincent’s mind raced. Every choice he had made—leaving Walmart, venturing into Manhattan, even the decision to surrender their weapons—had led them to this moment. He had acted with the best intentions, driven by the belief that rural areas offered greater safety. But now, trapped on this rooftop, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had been wrong. If they had stayed at Walmart, would they be sleeping in comfortable beds instead of huddling under the stars, swatting at mosquitoes?
“Did I make a mistake?” Vincent whispered to himself, his voice lost in the night. He didn’t know. He had planned meticulously, considering every possible threat. But the world had changed too quickly, too unpredictably. New York was no longer a city—it was a death trap. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that their current predicament was his fault.
The responsibility weighed on him like an anchor. He was their leader, whether they called him that or not. The trust they placed in him was both a privilege and a burden. Every decision he made carried consequences, and now, with no clear way out, Vincent felt the crushing pressure of their survival resting on his shoulders.
As the hours dragged on, Vincent’s thoughts grew heavier. The world had collapsed, and there was no government, no military, no one coming to save them. They were on their own, and Vincent’s choices had brought them here. The guilt gnawed at him, a relentless reminder of the stakes.
By 4 a.m., exhaustion finally overtook him. Vincent’s eyes fluttered shut, his mind still swirling with doubts and fears. He drifted into a restless sleep, the weight of responsibility clinging to him like a shadow.
The night stretched on, silent and unyielding. The group slept, unaware of the storm brewing in their leader’s mind. For Vincent, the dawn would bring no relief—only the relentless pressure of a world that demanded more than he could give.
