Chapter 19: You have enough food for weeks.
The silence in the cabin had changed. The frantic, desperate energy had dissipated, replaced by a heavy, post-coital quiet. They were lying in the single bed, a tangle of limbs and shared warmth under a coarse blanket. The reality of what had just happened was settling over them, and with it, a new, more complicated set of calculations.
Skylar was the one to break the silence, her voice soft but deliberate. "We need to be careful."
Nate, who had been staring at the ceiling, his mind already drifting back to perimeter security and water levels, grunted. "The door's locked. The perimeter is secure."
"Not that," she said, propping herself up on an elbow to look at him. "I mean… us. This. What if… what if there are consequences?"
He turned his head on the pillow, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Consequences."
"You know what I mean, Nate. A baby."
The word hung in the air, stark and terrifying. It was the ultimate vulnerability, a screaming, helpless liability in a world that punished weakness without mercy.
Nate's gaze was hard. "That can't happen."
"I know it can't," Skylar replied, her voice gaining a slight edge. "But it can. It's biology. We're not the first people to… and we just… it's a possibility."
He sat up, the blanket falling to his waist. The pragmatic survivor was fully back in control. "There are ways. Or there were. Things women took. Things… people used."
"From a pharmacy that's been looted for six months?" she countered, a hint of frustration creeping in. "Do you have anything like that in your treasure trove of books? A secret stash of birth control pills?"
"No," he admitted flatly. "I don't."
"Then we have a problem. Unless you want to bring a child into this."
The look he gave her was answer enough. It was a look of pure, unadulterated horror. A child would be a death sentence for it, and likely for them. It would mean noise, constant need, an inability to run or hide effectively. It would be a beacon for every threat in the woods.
"Then we avoid the risk," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We're careful. We… don't do that again."
Skylar looked at him, a complex mix of relief and a strange, hollow disappointment twisting inside her. It was the logical, necessary answer. But it was also a cold one.
"Right," she said, lying back down and turning away from him. "We don't do that again."
The silence returned, thicker and colder than before. They had found a temporary, desperate connection, but the fear of creating new life in a dead world had just built a higher, more impassable wall between them than any of his hidden defenses.
The heavy silence stretched for a long time after Skylar turned away. Nate lay staring at the ceiling, but his mind wasn't on the perimeter anymore. It was on the ghost of her warmth against him, the feel of her skin, the shocking, life-affirming intensity of the connection. Six months of nothing. Of being a ghost. And in the space of an hour, he'd been dragged back into the messy, complicated, terrifying world of being human.
The fear of a child was a real, ice-cold spike in his gut. It was the worst possible outcome, a total system failure in the architecture of his survival.
But the memory of the feel of her was a low, persistent thrum in his blood, a hunger that had been awakened and now refused to be ignored. He couldn't just shut it off. He was a man, not a machine. The abstinence hadn't been a choice; it had been a circumstance. Now that the circumstance had changed, the primal part of his brain was screaming that this was a resource as vital as food or water.
He sat up abruptly, the blanket falling away. Skylar flinched at the movement but didn't turn.
"We need a supply run," he said, his voice rough.
That got her attention. She rolled over, her expression wary. "A supply run? We just got here. You have enough food for weeks."
"Not quite, of course for food," he said, his gaze intense and utterly serious. "There's a town. About a day and a half's hard march from here. Larger than the one with the general store. There was a clinic. It might not have been hit as hard."
Understanding dawned on her face, followed by a flicker of the same conflicted relief he felt. "You mean… for contraception?"
He gave a single, sharp nod. "Pills. Or anything. Whatever's left. It's a risk, but…" He trailed off, the 'but' hanging in the air. But the alternative is to stop, and I don't think I can. But the risk of not going is now greater than the risk of going.
"It's a long way," she said softly, the practical concerns rising. "You said it yourself, it's dangerous."
"It is," he agreed. "But it's necessary. We can't live in a bunker and just… hope. That's not a strategy. That's a prayer." He was already mentally mapping the route, calculating the weight of the weapons he'd take, the risks of leaving the cabin unattended. "We go in three days. We travel light, we move fast. In and out."
He looked at her, his decision made. The fear of the run was now a calculated part of the equation, a necessary danger to mitigate a greater one. The need for the supplies was no longer just about preventing a catastrophe; it was about enabling a connection he now realized he desperately needed to continue.
"It's the only way," he stated, and the finality in his voice wasn't just about the pills. It was an admission that a line had been crossed, and there was no going back to the sterile solitude of before. The world outside was death, but inside these walls, a different, complicated kind of life had just begun, and it required its own specific, dangerous form of sustenance.