What We Bear in the End Times

The apocalypse didn't come with fireworks. It came with a funeral notice on Sarah's iPhone.

Mia found her wife on the balcony at 3 AM, her face illuminated by that familiar blue glow, scrolling through the same message again. The government alert had been concise: 'Reanimation confirmed. Stay indoors.' But Sarah hadn't moved in hours.

"They're saying it's temporary," Sarah whispered, not looking up. "The quarantine. The lockdowns. Like COVID."

Mia touched her shoulder, and Sarah flinched. Her skin was already cooler than it should be.

"I know what you're running from," Mia said softly.

Sarah's laugh cracked like dry leaves. "Running? I'm not running anywhere. Look outside."

Below them, Chicago burned in patches. Screams carried up on the wind. The bear of a man they'd seen on the news—the one patient zero who'd torn through three nurses before security put him down—had multiplied. Now there were hundreds. Thousands.

"I mean with me," Mia said. "You've been running since the miscarriage. Since I wanted to try again and you couldn't look at me."

Sarah finally met her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris. Not fear—hunger.

"I'm sorry," Sarah said, and it sounded like goodbye.

Mia had spent eight hours running that day. From the grocery store when the first screams erupted. From their neighbor, poor Gary, halfway up the stairs. From the truth that had been staring her in the face for months.

Her iPhone buzzed again. Another emergency alert. This one read: 'Do not approach infected loved ones. Termination authorized.'

"You know what the cruel part is?" Sarah asked, her voice roughening. "I finally stopped running. And now you have to."

Mia stepped closer instead of away. Reached for the hand that had held hers through vows and hospital waits and three years of silence.

"We bear what we must," Mia said. "That's what marriage means."

Sarah's fingers twitched toward her arm. Not with love anymore.

The iPhone chimed again—a final reminder from the world ending outside. But Mia only had eyes for the woman in front of her, the one she'd loved even through the long winter of their grief, who was now something else entirely.

"I'm not running," Mia said, and she didn't.

Some bears, you carry with you. Some, you carry into.