Page 6 of Glitter Rose
Three flights up, we pause again. He slumps down the wall, head lolling back against concrete. My shirt sticks to my skin, damp with both our sweat.
“Y’know,” I pant, “most guys buy me dinner first before bleeding all over me.”
His eyes find mine in the dim flashlight beam. “Rain check?”
I laugh despite everything. “Sure.”
Six flights up, my legs threaten mutiny. Knox has gone quieter, more focused, his jaw set in determination. We move in a rhythm—three steps, pause, three more steps.
“Why’d you… help me?” he asks between breaths.
I don’t have a good answer. “Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I’m stupid. Probably the latter.”
By floor ten, we’re both running on fumes. His arm feels like lead across my shoulders, his steps increasingly unsteady. I talk nonsense about my plants, about the zombies I’ve named on the street below, about how I haven’t had to wear heels in over a year.
“Two more,” I say after what feels like hours. “Almost home.”
Home. Like I’m inviting him into something more than a temporary shelter.
He grunts, head drooping. “Better be worth it.”
“Champagne minibar, memory foam mattresses, and zero zombies.” I adjust my grip. “Five-star apocalypse accommodation.”
When we finally reach the twelfth floor, I could cry with relief. He sags against me, barely conscious, and the katana at my back digs painfully into my spine.
Fumbling with my keys outside my apartment feels surreal,like I’ve returned from a normal night out instead of dragging a half-conscious stranger up twelve flights of stairs. Said stranger, leans against the wall, eyes half-closed, blood congealing in his hair. My fingers shake as I work the lock, partly from exhaustion, partly from the insanity of what I’m doing.
“Almost there.” The lock clicks, and I shoulder the door, dragging us both across the threshold into my perfect, pristine sanctuary that’s about to get blood all over its imported Persian rugs. “Home sweet apocalypse.”
We stumble through the velvet drapes I installed to hide the entrance, the heavy fabric brushing against our faces.
“Let me get some light.” I ease him down onto the nearest rug, propping him against the wall beneath a Renaissance reproduction I’ve always hated. “Stay.”
Like he’s going anywhere.
I light three candles, placing them strategically around the living room. The flames catch, illuminating the space in a warm glow that makes everything look deceptively normal. Except for the bleeding man on my floor.
“Medical stuff.” I rush to the bookshelf where I keep the journals stolen from 9B, a doctor who fled at the first sign of trouble. Selfish, but useful for me.
I grab the thickest one, ‘Emergency Medicine for First Responders,’ and drop it beside Knox before retrieving my medical kit from the bathroom. It’s a hodgepodge of stolen gauze, suture kits, antiseptics, bandages, and whatever else looked useful during my scavenging runs.
He watches me through half-lidded eyes as I spread everything out on the rug beside him. His pupils still look uneven. Definitely concussion.
“I should warn you.” I flip frantically through the book. “I’m not a doctor. My medical expertise comes from binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy before the world ended.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a groan. “Comforting.”
I find the page on head wounds, scanning it quickly. “Okay, so… clean the wound, assess for skull fracture, apply pressure to stop bleeding, then sutures if needed.” I look up at him. “How hard can it be, right?” I kneel beside Knox, peeling back the blood-soaked gauze to reveal a three-inch gash. “This looks… manageable.”
It doesn’t.
It looks terrifying. But admitting that won’t help either of us.
I soak a gauze pad in antiseptic and dab at it gently.
Knox hisses, flinching away.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “But infection will kill you faster than zombies these days.”
