Chapter 19: Last Dinner At Sydney’s

The aroma hit me before I even reached the bottom of the stairs—a rich, savory blend of herbs and roasted meat that seemed almost surreal in our current circumstances. Sydney walked beside me. The house felt warmer somehow, filled with the kind of domestic comfort that belonged to a different world than the one we now inhabited.

“Jesus,” Sydney breathed. “Rachel, this smells incredible.”

I followed her gaze to the dining table, where Rachel had somehow transformed whatever was in the fridge into what looked like a proper feast. Golden-brown roasted chicken sat centerpiece, surrounded by perfectly seasoned potatoes, what appeared to be glazed carrots, and even some kind of bread that must have been freshly baked. Steam rose from each dish, and the whole scene was lit by the warm glow of candles Rachel had found somewhere.

“Wow, you made quite a banquet for us, Rachel,” Sydney said, genuine amazement coloring her voice.

Rachel stood by the counter, still wearing a flour-dusted apron, her cheeks flushed from the heat of cooking. There was something almost shy about the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, as if she wasn’t quite sure how her efforts would be received.

“My sister can cook even better than professional chefs,” Rebecca piped up from where she sat at the table, pride radiating from her small frame. But when she noticed Sydney and me looking at her, a deep blush spread across her face and she quickly looked down at her plate.

I caught the meaningful glance she shot between Sydney and me, and my stomach clenched. Great. The girl thought we were a couple. I shot Sydney a pointed look, but she was already moving toward the sink, either oblivious or choosing to ignore the implications.

“This is incredible, Rachel,” Sydney continued, washing her hands with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. “I mean, given everything that’s happened… how did you even manage this?”

Rachel untied her apron, folding it carefully before setting it aside. “I figured we should use what we could before it spoiled,” she said practically, though I caught the slight tremor in her voice. “No point letting good food go to waste when we’re leaving tomorrow.”

Right, she wasn’t wrong at all about this.

Sydney had already claimed a seat and was reaching for the serving utensils. “Well, whatever your reasoning, I’m grateful,” she said, spearing a piece of chicken before anyone else had even sat down. “Sorry, couldn’t wait—I’m starving.”

She took a bite and her eyes immediately widened. “Hmm, ish delishious!” She managed around the mouthful of food, making Rebecca giggle despite her earlier embarrassment.

Rachel’s face lit up with a genuine smile—the first real one I’d seen from her since we’d arrived. “Thank you,” she said softly, then her gaze shifted to me.

I stood there for a moment, caught between wanting to compliment her cooking and the weight of everything unspoken between us. The guilt that had been gnawing at me all day seemed to intensify under her hopeful gaze. Here she was, making this beautiful meal for us, and I was included in it despite what I had made her go through…

“I should wash up,” I mumbled, moving to the sink and deliberately taking my time. The warm water felt good on my hands, and I found myself scrubbing longer than necessary, anything to delay the moment when I’d have to sit at that table and pretend everything was normal.

When I finally turned around, Rachel had taken a seat across from where Sydney was enthusiastically working her way through her plate. The only remaining chair was directly across from Rachel, which meant I’d be facing her for the entire meal.

Great…

I slid into the seat, trying to maintain as much distance as possible while still being able to reach the food. The chicken looked perfectly golden, the skin crispy and gleaming. Beside it, roasted potatoes and some kind of sausage that smelled like it had been seasoned with herbs from another world.

Taking a tentative bite of the chicken, I felt my eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. The meat was incredibly tender, falling apart at the touch of my fork, and the flavors were complex—rosemary, thyme, something citrusy that brightened the whole dish. It was the kind of cooking that spoke of years of practice, of someone who understood not just recipes but the art of combining flavors.

“This is really excellent,” I said, looking up to meet Rachel’s eyes. “Thank you.”

She gave me a small nod. “I’m glad you like it.”

Rebecca beamed from across the table. “I told you she was amazing! Rachel’s been cooking for us since Mom and Dad—” She stopped abruptly, her face falling.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Sydney paused in her eating, looking between the sisters with obvious sympathy. I focused on cutting another piece of chicken, the knife scraping against the plate with more force than necessary.

“Since I was twelve,” Rachel finished quietly, reaching over to squeeze her sister’s hand. “Someone had to learn.”

Rachel had been taking care of her sister for years, had learned to cook like this out of necessity, not hobby. And now the world had ended, and she was still here, still taking care of Rebecca, still finding ways to create something beautiful and nourishing in the middle of chaos.

“Well,” Sydney said, raising her water glass in a mock toast, “to Rachel, who can apparently work miracles with whatever’s left in a zombie apocalypse pantry.”

Rebecca giggled, lifting her own glass. “To Rachel!”

I raised my glass too, meeting Rachel’s eyes across the table. “To Rachel,” I echoed, and meant it.

For a moment, her smile was radiant, and I felt that dangerous urge rise up in my chest again—the need to tell her everything. About my power, about what had really happened when I’d healed her, about the guilt that was eating me alive every time she looked at me.

But I held back in the end, swallowing the words that threatened to spill out. Only Emily knew the truth about what I’d done, about what I was capable of, and maybe that was for the best. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

But Emily’s words echoed in my mind, haunting me even as I tried to focus on the warmth of the meal before me. She’d said I had a responsibility—that my power came with obligations I couldn’t ignore. The thought terrified me more than any zombie horde could. If another situation arose where I needed to treat a woman the same way I’d treated Rachel, could I really go through with threatening them like I had with her? Could I look another innocent person in the eye and use fear to ensure their compliance?

The fork trembled slightly in my hand as I contemplated it. I didn’t know if I had that kind of darkness in me.

“By the way, where are we going exactly tomorrow?” Rebecca asked suddenly.

Sydney paused mid-chew, considering the question. “Hmm, I’ve been thinking about that,” she said, swallowing before continuing. “Staying at my house is comfortable, sure, but the grocery stores are too far away. It’d be better to move somewhere we can be safe but also close to supplies—assuming there are any markets that haven’t been completely cleaned out yet.”

She gestured vaguely with her fork, and I found myself nodding along. It made sense. Here, tucked away in Sydney’s suburban neighborhood, we had the luxury of comfort and relative quiet, but we were also isolated from the resources we’d need to survive long-term. Every supply run would require taking the car, burning precious fuel, and venturing deeper into the city where the infected were likely gathering in larger numbers.

“What about you two?” Sydney asked, turning her attention to the sisters. “Is there somewhere specific you want to go? I can drop you off if it’s not too far—we should have enough fuel for a reasonable detour.”

Rebecca immediately looked to her older sister. Rachel set down her fork carefully, that thoughtful expression crossing her face again.

“I was thinking we should go to Rebecca’s school,” she said finally.

“Lexington Academy?” Sydney’s eyebrows rose. “That’s about half an hour from here, but why there specifically?”

Rachel straightened slightly, and I could see her gathering her thoughts, preparing to make her case. “Rebecca didn’t go to school the day everything started because she had a doctor’s appointment. But there have to be other students still trapped inside, waiting for someone to rescue them—for the army, their parents, anyone.” She paused, glancing at her sister before continuing. “They’re the elite, you know? Sons and daughters of senators, CEOs, foreign diplomats. Their parents would pay millions to get them out safely, assuming it hasn’t happened already.”

It wasn’t a bad plan, actually. I’d seen enough movies to know that the wealthy and powerful always found ways to protect their own, even in the worst circumstances. If there were still students trapped at that school, there was a good chance rescue operations were already underway—or would be soon.

“I still have my student card,” Rebecca added, pulling a plastic badge from her pocket and holding it up. “I can get us inside the gates.”

“Assuming the place isn’t already overrun with infected,” I pointed out, unable to keep the pessimism from my voice. “My high school was full of them within an hour.”

Rebecca’s face fell slightly, but she lifted her chin with determined optimism. “Maybe, but Lexington is different. It’s really well-guarded, with high walls and security gates. And it’s only been two days since everything started—there might still be hope.”

Part of me wanted to cling onto that hope, while another part worried we were setting ourselves up for devastating disappointment.

“Hmm,” Sydney mused, tapping her fork thoughtfully against the edge of her plate. “It’s worth a shot, I suppose. Better than wandering around aimlessly.” She looked around the table, meeting each of our eyes in turn. “Do we all agree?”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. It wasn’t like I had any better ideas, and Rebecca’s logic was sound enough. If even one wealthy student was still alive in that school, their rescue could be our ticket to real safety. Military protection, government resources—it would certainly beat scrounging for supplies in abandoned grocery stores.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “I’m in.”

The rest of dinner passed in relative quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts about what tomorrow might bring. When we’d finished eating, we helped Rachel clear the dishes—though she insisted on doing most of the work herself—before heading upstairs to our respective rooms.

I had already cleaned all rooms, so the guest room was actually comfortable now. Fresh sheets that Sydney had provided, dust-free surfaces, and the lingering scent of whatever cleaning supplies I’d found under the kitchen sink. It felt almost normal, which was perhaps more unsettling than if it had remained chaotic.

Pulling off my shirt, I moved toward the bed, ready to collapse after the emotionally exhausting day. But as I passed the mirror mounted on the dresser, something made me stop and look closer.

My reflection stared back at me, but it wasn’t quite the reflection I expected. My torso, which had always been lean but unremarkable, now showed the clear definition of developing abs. Not the kind you got from a few weeks at the gym—these looked like they belonged to someone who’d been training seriously for months.

Confused, I raised my arm, flexing experimentally. The muscle that bunched and shifted under my skin was noticeably more pronounced than it had been just days ago. My shoulders looked broader, my chest more defined. It was subtle enough that someone else might not notice, but I knew my own body.

“What the hell?” I muttered under my breath, running my hands over the unexpected muscle definition.

I felt stronger too, now that I thought about it. The physical exhaustion that should have been weighing me down after everything we’d been through seemed oddly absent. Even my endurance during our earlier encounters with the infected had been better than I’d expected.

Was this connected to my power somehow? Some kind of physical enhancement that came with the ability to heal others? The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. If I was getting stronger, faster, more capable—that could only help us survive. But it also meant my body was changing in ways I didn’t understand, transforming into something I couldn’t predict or control.

A soft knock at the door interrupted my worried examination of my transformed physique.

“Yeah?” I called out, quickly grabbing a clean t-shirt from my bag and pulling it on.

I expected it to be Sydney, probably wanting to discuss tomorrow’s plans or maybe just to tease me.

But when the door opened, it was Rachel who stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her.

My heart immediately began racing for all the wrong reasons. She looked nervous, her arms crossed protectively over her chest, but there was also a determination in her posture that hadn’t been there during dinner.

“You’re awake?” She asked, though it was obviously more of a conversation starter than a real question.

“Yeah,” I managed, settling heavily on the edge of the bed. My mouth felt dry.

Rachel stood there for a long moment, clearly wrestling with whatever she’d come to say. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, uncrossed and recrossed her arms, opened her mouth twice before closing it again. The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken tension.

Finally, just when I thought she might change her mind and leave, she spoke.

“I know you’re the one who cured me of my infection.”

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