Sublimity ? Leon Kennedy

"Hi, Piers." I nod at him with a smile.

Leon's eyes snap up at me almost instantly. "You two know each other?"

"Uh . . yeah," I rub the back of my neck. "Him and Chris drove us here the night of the breakout." I explain. "He's a great sniper."

His face is flat, unreadable - gaze shifting to me, and then Piers, and then back at me again.

Why does it feel like I just did something I wasn't supposed to?

"Anyway, Leon," Chris starts. "About those defenses. I think it would be best you and I study this together."

Leon tears his eyes away from me after what feels like an eternity, flipping through the papers and maps on the table - their conversation going on about tactics and routes to scavange for ammo.

I stand near the wall, hands on my back, taking in every corner of the room, eavesdropping but unable to understand anything.

They're searching for routes where they could find supplies and ammo. Searching for routes they can transfer survivors.

Maybe if they talked about the infection I would understand. What am I even doing here? I should've just stayed upstairs.

Piers turns to me with a warm smile, gesturing for the door. "Some of the survivors are preparing lunch in the dining hall. Maybe you should join them." He says.

Food. "Sure." I shrug.

We walk out of the office, away from the stomps and crackle of radios, away from Leon and Chris. I limp behind Piers' heavy steps as we tread down the stairs. He glances at my bandages.

"That's still going on?" He cocks an eyebrow.

"Oh yeah it is. It's been a week or more."

"Have you checked it? Maybe it's infected."

It is infected. I have to stop myself from thinking about it too much or it's the only thing I'll think about. "No signs of sepsis at least. I'll be good."

"Have you tried herbs on it?"

"No I haven't. Maybe I will one of these days."

The dining hall downstairs is teeming with life. Real life. Not the one reanimated and sloughing off from flesh. People I've seen before and smiled at, people I've treated in the infirmary for minor injuries. A big dining table sits in the middle of the room, the smell of soup and bread wafting in the air and making my mouth water.

Piers and I join them, filling our bowls with soup and bread for lunch and sitting next to each other.

I don't know how long I'm there for - minutes, hours - my bowl empty and my bread gone before I know it. The survivors chatter about their town, about the incident and how traumatizing it is; but they also chatter about their lives. A teacher, a receptionist, some students from the local schools.

Some of them were driving home from work, some resting, getting ready for bed - all of that stripped away from them, replaced with everything the safehouse has been for the past week or so.

My mind swims back home. My real home. Away from this universe, where I studied until my books took over my own bed, I couldn't even sleep on it anymore. Where I have Gina and Bea constantly bugging me to go out with them every weekend. Where I carry the weight of Elliot abandoning me because of my dreams.

I miss them. Even the old pathetic bitterness about Elliot moving on so fast from me.

Because those are better. Better than the literal undead banging at the fence. Better than the constant weight of the horrifying truth pressing down on everything I do.