CHAPTER 15: ITS QUIET
Suryel had raised an arm to shield her eyes from the sunlight the moment awareness returned.
The warmth hit her skin first.
Pleasant.
Almost kind.
The kind of warmth that lied straight to your face and waited for you to believe it before it ruined you.
Her eyes watered as she squinted past her forearm, breath catching in a way that had nothing to do with rest.
Every detail screamed dream before her mind finished booting up.
The way shadows clung too closely to the edges of tombstones.
The soft hum of nothingness pressing against her ears.
The stillness of the leaves— Too still, not peaceful, just… Held.
She was standing in the undead cemetery again.
“Fuck.” Suryel said aloud, voice hoarse and flat, and immediately started running.
Her inner compass snapped to life, clicking insistently toward the nearest sanctuary.
The sun was already sliding toward the horizon, and this time it felt impatient— Like it had places to be and no interest in waiting for her to catch up.
She forced herself not to stare at it.
“Focus. That’s not the worst of your problems.” She told herself, jaw set as her feet locked into a steadily rising pace.
One step.
Then another.
Immediate over another.
Her calves burned first.
Then her thighs.
Muscles tightening into knots she didn’t have the luxury of acknowledging.
Her gut churned— Not hunger, not nausea, but the deep animal certainty that she was not alone.
She was being hunted.
Every instinct she’d earned the hard way.
Through street chaos, bad neighborhoods, worse nights, and a lifetime of learning which corners killed you and which ones let you live.
Lit up all at once and screamed: Do. Not. Stop.
The cemetery felt wrong today.
“It’s too quiet…” She whispered, barely a breath.
So quiet it hurt.
She could hear the scrape of her shoes against stone far too clearly.
The whisper of dried leaves curling in place sounded like movement even when it wasn’t.
Somewhere behind a mausoleum, earth shifted with a hollow, distant thump, as if something buried had stretched and decided not to wake yet.
The dream felt stretched thin, like someone had paused the tape and left her alone inside the frame.
Every shadow looked grabby.
Every sound arrived sharp and over-enunciated.
The sun was gone now.
And the dead still hadn’t risen.
Like an even bigger predator was on a hunt.
That, more than anything, made her stomach drop.
Suryel scanned her surroundings without slowing, eyes flicking left, right, up— Cataloging angles, distances, cover.
The crunch of leaves underfoot mixed with the thudding of her heart and her own gasping breath until the noise itself felt hostile.
She remembered the last dream.
She didn’t need confirmation to know.
It’s already here, her gut said with grim certainty.
And it already warmed up.
Her lungs screamed as she pushed harder, breath tearing in and out of her chest in uneven pulls.
She scraped her shoulder against a jagged tombstone, hissed as a branch raked across her cheek.
She didn’t stop.
Pain was transactional.
Fear was not.
The nearest sanctuary felt farther today.
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Every stride brought her closer and yet somehow further from control, like the distance itself was shifting to test her.
She counted breaths.
Counted steps.
Because if she didn’t, panic would take the wheel and drive her straight into a wall.
Her heart felt like it wanted out— Like it was ready to throw itself onto the path ahead of her just to slow her down and call it quits.
It knows I’m here, she thought, teeth clenched.
Then she heard it.
A skittering sound— Soft, wrong.
Like wind through trees, except it was on the ground.
Behind her.
Suryel didn’t look back.
She didn’t need to.
“Nope. Nuh-uh. Hell to the no.” She muttered under her breath when her foot slipped and she windmilled once before catching herself.
She refused to give it the satisfaction of seeing her fear reflected back.
Even though her legs were shaking.
Even though some traitorous part of her wanted to sprint without thinking and damn the consequences.
“I wish my hands could be extra feet.” She thought grimly.
The city had taught her this kind of survival.
Dodging cars.
Weaving through crowds.
Balancing on uneven sidewalks while avoiding collisions with the walking dead and the very much alive.
Rain or shine.
Twenty-four seven.
Three hundred sixty-five days a year.
Her mind ran calculations faster than her legs ever could— Plotting shortcuts, identifying choke points, shaving milliseconds wherever she could find them.
Her instincts barked orders.
She obeyed.
If obedience meant living, she didn’t argue.
Her senses thrummed with the aggressive— Absolutely not!— Energy of someone born, raised, and baptized in peak urban chaos.
Her vision pulsed.
Then there it was, shelter.
The chapel broke into view, stone walls cutting clean lines through the nightmare landscape.
Relief hit hard and sharp, almost painful.
The air around her feet prickled, pressure snapping at her heels like teeth.
She threw everything she had into the final stretch.
She didn’t quite make it clean.
Her foot caught.
She went down hard, barreling into a roll.
Her shoulder slammed into the inner wall of the chapel, pain detonating deep in the bone.
She curled instinctively, sucking in a sharp breath as she cradled the injury.
Then she heard it.
A long, low chuckle.
Her head snapped up.
The black cloak stood just beyond the open doorway.
It didn’t breathe.
It didn’t sway.
It simply was.
Toeing the line.
Waiting.
Making sure she saw it.
Making sure she understood that it could not cross— And that it didn’t need to.
The thing studied her.
She felt its amusement settle over her skin like a second shadow.
Almost had you, the silence said.
You’re lucky.
This time.
Her breath hitched.
The hair on her arms and spine stood on end.
She could have sworn she saw white teeth curve sharp inside the hood, a smile cut from hunger and patience.
It lifted two long, prune-thin fingers.
Its voice was low when it spoke.
Calm.
Certain.
“Day two.”
Suryel woke screaming.
Her body lurched upright so fast the room spun, dizziness snapping stars across her vision.
She heaved in air, chest tight, fingers clawing at the sheets.
Her shoulder screamed in protest.
The pain was still there.
Then—
Across the ICU ward—
Machines erupted.
Not staggered.
Together.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP—
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP—
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP—
Suryel’s head whipped around.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP—
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP—
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP—
Almost every bed.
Thirty-seven monitors flared red, steady lines screaming into the air like a challenge.
It looked like Death himself had pulled up with a hearse and decided to play Russian roulette with a full chamber.
Chaos detonated.
Stethoscopes hit the floor.
Doctors shouted over each other.
Hands pumped in frantic, uneven but synchronized rhythm.
Beds creaked under compressions.
An intern froze mid-step, eyes wide and empty.
Somewhere, an RN yelled, “OKAY, WHO SAID THE Q-WORD?!”
Fluorescent lights burned dull and harsh.
Antiseptic stung her nose.
The beeping wasn’t hers— But it mocked her heartbeat all the same.
And somewhere in the background, subtle as a shadow brushing the edge of perception, Azriel’s presence lingered.
Not moving, not speaking.
Just a weight behind the bed curtain, a calm observation threading through the frenzy like a second heartbeat.
Suryel curled inward on her bed, knees to her chest, rubbing her shoulder and gnawing at her nails without realizing it.
Her body ached in places the dream hadn’t touched— Jaw, knees, spine.
She tried to breathe.
Each breath came shallow, tangled with leftover terror.
She couldn’t shake the certainty that whatever had chased her hadn’t stayed in the dream.
It was waiting.
And the quiet— The awful, anticipatory and disciplinary quiet between alarms— Felt like a question.
A question she didn’t yet have the courage to answer.
Author’s Note:
Hahahahaha. Did you know you can do CPR in the beat of the ‘Another One Bites The Dust’? :D
