CHAPTER 60: SMALL MEAL WITH RACHEL

The sun had finally surrendered to the horizon. Through the grimy windows of Jackson Township’s municipal building, the last traces of daylight flickered and died, leaving only the warm glow of scattered candles to push back the darkness.

It was dinnertime.

The aroma of cooking food drifted through the corridors. In what used to be the town clerk’s office, three camping stoves and an assortment of hot plates hummed quietly, powered by the precious fuel from their emergency generator. The community had learned to be strategic about electricity—cooking was essential, everything else could wait for daylight.

Rachel wiped her hands on a dish towel, surveying the modest feast she’d prepared on one of the portable burners. Two eggs, perfectly golden, nestled beside crispy potato rounds that she’d seasoned with some oregano.

"You didn’t have to do all the work," I said, leaning against the doorframe as I watched her plate our dinner on two slightly cracked ceramic dishes—a step up from the paper plates we’d been using.

She glanced up at me, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. "I wanted to. Besides, you’ve done enough today."

I didn’t think I had done much than her though.

The office had grown stifling with the heat from the burner and our body warmth. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cool air outside. "Want to eat outside? It’s gotten pretty stuffy in here."

Rachel nodded, already reaching for the plates. "Fresh air sounds perfect."

We made our way through the building’s main corridor, past clusters of survivors who had claimed various offices rooms as temporary dining spaces. The receptionist area had become an impromptu community hall, where at least twenty people sat in folding chairs and on makeshift cushions, sharing meals and quiet conversation. Their voices created a gentle murmur that almost masked the distant, unsettling moans that occasionally drifted from beyond the town’s barricades.

Martin spotted us as we headed toward the exit. His weathered face broke into a welcoming smile, and he raised his hand in greeting.

"Hey, Ryan! Rachel! Why don’t you two join us? Mrs. Patterson made some of her famous cornbread with the last of her cornmeal."

I felt Rachel tense slightly beside me. The invitation was kind—Martin always was—but I could sense her need for quiet as strongly as my own. Being around so many people, even good people, could be exhausting when your nerves were already frayed from constant vigilance.

"Thanks, Martin, that’s really thoughtful," I replied, balancing my plate carefully as I paused. "But we’ve got some things to talk through, and honestly, we’re both pretty beat."

Martin’s expression was understanding. He’d been through enough himself to recognize the signs of emotional fatigue. "Of course, you two. Don’t be strangers though—community’s important, especially now."

"Absolutely. We’ll catch up with everyone tomorrow," I assured him, meaning it.

The cool night air hit us like a blessing as we stepped outside. Above us, stars scattered across the sky like diamonds on black velvet, unmarred by the light pollution that should normally blanket the area I guessed.

We settled into two mismatched lawn chairs that someone had salvaged from a nearby house maybe, our plates balanced on our laps. The plastic forks weren’t ideal, but they were what we had. I took a bite of the omelet, and the flavors burst across my tongue—perfectly seasoned, with just the right amount of salt and pepper.

"This is really good," I said, not bothering to hide my appreciation. "I mean, really good. Restaurant quality."

"You don’t have to exaggerate," Rachel smiled.

"I’m not. Where did you learn to cook like this?"

She took a thoughtful bite of potato before answering. "Rebecca. When she was younger, she was always hungry, and our mom worked two jobs. I had to figure out how to make decent meals with whatever we had in the pantry." Her voice carried a note of pride mixed with old sadness. "I got pretty creative with eggs and potatoes."

"Well, your sister was lucky to have you."

The moment I said it, I saw something shift in Rachel’s expression. Her smile faltered, and she stared down at her plate, pushing a piece of potato around with her fork.

"Was she, though?" The question was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it.

I set my fork down and really looked at her. "What do you mean?"

Rachel was quiet for a long moment, the only sounds around us the gentle conversation from inside the building and the ever-present, distant groaning that served as a constant reminder of the world beyond our walls.

"Sometimes I wonder if I made things harder for her," she finally said. "If I tried too hard to be her parent instead of her sister."

"Rachel..." I started, but she continued.

"Our dad left when I was twelve and Rebecca was seven. Just... packed a bag one morning and walked out. No explanation, no goodbye. Mom was devastated." She paused to take a shaky breath. "She tried to hold it together, but she was working sixty hours a week just to keep us afloat. I had to grow up fast, you know? Make sure Rebecca got to school, help with homework, cook dinner, do laundry."

I watched her face as she spoke, she had a sad expression.

"Then Mom got sick. Cancer. She fought it for two years, but..." Rachel’s voice trailed off. "Dad came back for the funeral. Had the nerve to stand there in his expensive suit. Then afterward, he said he wanted to ’make things right,’ that he’d take care of us financially."

"And Rebecca resented it."

"Resented him. Resented me for accepting his help." Rachel’s laugh was bitter. "She was ten, full of righteous anger about everything. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t just tell him to go to hell."

"But you needed the money."

"We needed everything. College tuition, rent, food. I wasworking part-time at a coffee shop. His guilt money was the difference between Rebecca entering Lexington Charter and both of us ending up on the street." She finally looked up at me. "But she never forgave me for it. Said I was just like Mom, letting him think he could buy his way back into our lives."

The pain in her voice made me feel bitter as well. I’d seen the small tension between the sisters, but I hadn’t understood the depth of it.

"That’s why she doesn’t like you hanging around with me," Rachel continued. "She thinks all men are like Dad—that they’ll charm their way in and then disappear when things get hard. And she thinks I’m too trusting, too willing to let people close."

"And what do you think?"

Rachel was quiet again, considering. When she spoke, her voice was softer. "I think she’s scared. Of losing me, of being disappointed again. And maybe she’s a little right about me being too trusting." She glanced at me with a small, uncertain smile. "I mean, here I am, sharing my life story with someone I’ve known for what, four days?"

"Sometimes crisis has a way of speeding up relationships," I said carefully. "When you’re depending on someone to watch your back, to keep you alive... normal social rules kind of go out the window."

"Is that what this is?" She asked, and there was something in her tone that made me look at her more closely. "Just crisis bonding?"

The truth was, I’d been asking myself the same thing. What I felt when I looked at Rachel, the way my pulse quickened when she smiled, the protective instinct that flared whenever she was in danger—was it real, or just the intensity of shared survival?

"I..." I started, then stopped, suddenly aware of how careful I needed to be. "I mean, we’re friends. Good friends. We can say."

Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t the whole truth. But it felt safer than admitting that somewhere between our first supply run together and this moment under the stars, something had shifted for me. That when I imagined a future beyond mere survival, she was in it.

Rachel nodded, but I caught the flicker of something in her eyes—disappointment, maybe, or resignation.

"Friends," she repeated quietly, taking another bite of her omelet.

Was she a bit upset by my words or was I just imaging things like a teenager who had never touched a woman in his life?

"You know," I said eventually, "Rebecca’s not entirely wrong about me."

Rachel’s expression shifted to one of complete bewilderment, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. "W...what?"

I could see the confusion and hurt flickering across her face, and I realized how badly I’d phrased that.

"I mean," I said quickly, "she has good intuitions for being wary of me. It’s not like I’m a reliable man in the sense of whether I could be faithful to a woman—if that’s what she’s worried about." I ran a hand through my hair, struggling with how to put this delicately. "You know about my power, and I’ve already helped other women. I think you must have already thought about the possibility, right?"

The deep flush that spread across Rachel’s cheeks was visible even in the moonlight. She nodded slowly, and I caught the way her gaze flickered away before returning to mine. She was maybe remembering what had passed between us, the intimate necessity that my cure required.

"What I mean is," I continued, laughing bitterly at my own words, "even though I cured you, from Rebecca’s perspective, seeing me hanging around so many women, maybe she instinctively feels that I’m some kind of trash."

The thought of what Rebecca would think if she knew the full truth made my stomach twist. If she learned that I’d been intimate with her sister, with Emily, with Elena, with Sydney—she’d look at me like I was some kind of demon of lust. How could I possibly explain to a protective younger sister that I could cure women through sex? Even if I demonstrated my power to stop time, would she believe it wasn’t just an elaborate manipulation?

I was honestly surprised that Elena had managed to believe it, even after witnessing my time-stopping ability firsthand. Maybe she’d been too desperate about the infection, too terrified of becoming a zombie to think clearly about whether I was lying. I couldn’t be sure of her motivations, but I was grateful she’d trusted me.

"But that’s wrong," Rachel said softly, shaking her head. "I... I’m just surprised. You really helped other women?" She paused, her voice taking on a different tone as she glanced at me meaningfully. "Was it before you met me, or... after?"

If I said after, she would immediately start thinking about Sydney, Elena, Alisha, Cindy, or Daisy—women in our group whom she knew, whom she’d seen me interact with.

I stayed silent for a long moment, completely caught off guard. Part of me wanted to tell her everything—about Elena’s infection but I couldn’t. Not without Elena’s consent.

"I’m sorry," I said. "I just can’t say without her consent."

Rachel’s expression softened, though I could see the disappointment she was trying to hide. "No, it’s fine. I understand."

But it wasn’t fine, and we both knew it.

The silence stretched uncomfortably until an idea occurred to me. "Rachel," I said, leaning forward slightly, "let me ask you something. Would you want me to tell another woman I’d cured that you were among those I’d helped?"

She looked up, startled by the unexpected question. "Eh?"

"I mean," I continued, the words coming faster as I tried to explain, "for example, if I needed to convince someone who was infected, I could say ’you can ask Rachel—she was bitten and she was cured.’ I don’t want to resort to threats or pressure like I did with you initially. If another woman could talk to someone who’d been through the same experience, it might make it easier for her to trust me."

I paused, making sure she understood I wasn’t demanding anything. "Of course, I’m not forcing you into anything. If you want me to keep it secret, I will."

The truth was more complex than I could easily articulate. I was exhausted by the constant juggling of secrets, the way I had to carefully calibrate every conversation to avoid revealing too much.

Sometimes I thought it would be so much simpler if Elena and Rachel both knew they’d been through the same experience. I wouldn’t have to repeat everything about the Dullahan Virus separately to each of them. It was tiring, but I could continue managing it if Rachel didn’t want anyone to know about our intimate encounter—even Elena, who had been through the same cure.

Rachel set down her fork and was quiet for a long time, clearly working through the implications of what I was asking. I watched her process what it would mean to have her experience known by others, what it might cost her in terms of privacy and dignity.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft. "Okay."

"Okay?" I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.

She nodded, though the embarrassment was clear in the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think it’s important for other women who might be infected in the future—women who might think their life is over—to believe and trust that you’re capable of saving them, Ryan." Her voice grew stronger as she continued. "If I can help reassure them that you’re truly capable of doing what you say you can do, then I’ll help you."

"Thank you," I said, and the words felt completely inadequate for what I was feeling. "I... thank you."

She was truly a woman who was thinking of others.

It would make things so much easier and less awkward for me if I could use Rachel’s willingness as a safety measure to convince other women who might need help.

She smiled then. "We’re all in this together, right? If we can’t help each other survive, what’s the point of any of this?"

After that exchange, we resumed eating, and strangely, it wasn’t awkward at all. If anything, the atmosphere felt more peaceful than before, as if addressing the difficult topic directly had somehow cleared the air between us. The conversation flowed more naturally, touching on lighter subjects—memories of foods we missed, speculation about whether other communities had found ways to grow fresh vegetables, small observations about the people sharing our temporary home.

I was reaching for a water bottle when the pain struck without warning.

It started as a sharp twist in my chest, like someone had reached inside my ribcage and grabbed my heart with icy fingers. I dropped my fork, the plastic clattering against the plate as I pressed my hand to my sternum, trying to breathe through the sudden, inexplicable agony.

"Ryan?" Rachel’s voice seemed to come from very far away. "Ryan, what’s wrong?"

But I couldn’t answer her. The pain was spreading, radiating outward from my heart like ripples in a pond, and with it came a knowledge that I couldn’t explain but couldn’t deny. Something was coming. Something bad.

I raised my head slowly, my gaze moving past the municipal building’s makeshift barriers, past the familiar silhouettes of abandoned cars and barricaded storefronts, into the darkness beyond. My enhanced senses, Dullahan was screaming warnings that my rational mind couldn’t quite process.

"It’s coming," I whispered.