Lights, someone talking and another whimpering lightly next to him drew Jim from the depths of his mind. There was brightness behind his eyelids causing it to look almost pink as he struggled to open them. The light made his head throb with the force of a hundred hangovers. It was too bright. Somewhere deep inside he felt a whimper escape his mouth. Suddenly whatever was causing the brightness and the searing of his sensitive retinas was turned off and he sighed contently feeling groggy. Foggy. Like he knew he should open his eyes but at the same time the devil on his other shoulder whispered in his ear for them to stay closed.

Was he dying? Was he already dead? Was this what heaven felt like?

Jim hoped this wasn't heaven, it smelled like shit. Body odor and sickness.

There's a soft touch on his head as if someone is caressing him. Fingers run through his hair slow and tender. It makes him feel grounded and gives him a tether to grab a hold of. He tries to lunge at the soft touch at the top of his head but the feeling retreats. It's gone. As if it were never there in the first place. Jim's world is dark, empty and now without the warm presences. He feels sad.

"You're one lucky son of a bitch."

It's the first and last thing Jim hears as he tries to claws his way back to consciousness. He thinks the voice says something else but he's not sure as the steep hill he's climbing goes out from under him and he loses his footing along with his grasp on reality. He falls feeling darkness consume him once more.

It can't be too long later when Jim comes back to himself again. It's easier to make the trek up the never ending mountain and he comes back to himself with a gasp. His lungs burn for air like he'd never breathed a day in his short life. He keeps his eyes closed focusing all his energy on bringing air into his sore lungs, then back out. It takes hours or days or maybe minutes until he feels the ache retreat from sharp all-consuming to a roar of dull fiery embers. This time, he sits still not making a sound and in turn hearing nothing around him. There's no warm presence, he feels cold. Slowly, gently, he opens his blurry eyes surprised at the crust that sticks them together. He attempts to bring his hands up to rub at his eyes but when he goes to move them they're nothing more than dead weight at his sides. Jim looks around the room, panicked.

Did those strangers poison him?

Where the fuck was Kevin?

If they hurt that little boy Jim swears to God not even the Devil himself could hold him back. He's not just some dumb hick from Nowheresville, he could take them. Maybe not at the current moment but definitely when he has his strength back from wherever the hell it was sucked away to.

He tries to move, to get up and out of wherever he is but it's futile. His legs don't move. They're stuck like they've been glued to the sheets of the bed he lies on. Jim's breath starts to quicken once more along with his heart beat.

Move, move, move, you idiot! He screams clenching his teeth to hold back his grunt and scream. It feels like his arms are shifting through molasses but eventually they do his bidding. He tries to put his hands under his right leg to get it to shift over to the side of the bed like he's been doing for months but stops when pain like he's never felt before shots up his leg. He cries out silently feeling himself start to freak out. Pain. Panic.

Don't panic Kirk, keep it together.

Jim isn't sure how he gets on the floor but he suddenly finds himself laying on his stomach on the ground feeling bile race up his throat. He turns his head and retches on the carpet as silently as he can. He's shaking and covered in throw up by the time he's finished. Part of him feels a little grossed out at the contents of his stomach staring back at him on the floor and partially on his clothes, but he forces himself to forget about it.

Kevin, he tells himself. Those bastards better not have hurt my so– that little boy.

He feels weak and heavy, groggy and just this side of panicked. Jim forces his protesting body to move, damnit and miraculously it does. He crawls breathing hard and heavily towards what looks like a closed door. The door itself seems familiar but the haziness and his blurred vision don't help him as he attempts to focus his gaze on it. He crawls for what feels like hours but couldn't have been more than a few minutes until he feels his arms shake so violently that his elbows buckle under him and he falls face fist into the carpet. His right leg protests overwhelmingly as it's jarred and he can't hold back the scream that rips from his throat. Everything hurts.

He's on fire.

No, he's rotting fast and painfully from the inside out.

Oh God, a thought finally breaches his foggy mind – he has it. He has the Sickness. Those people had the Sickness and gave it to him. He's dying. He is going to die. Oh God. Did Kevin get it? Did they just leave him here to rot and die and take the boy to safely?

The fight abruptly drains from Jim as the thought of being alone consumes his body. Dread cocoons him wrapping him in its acid tendrils. Now he can't blame the strange intruders for running away as fast as they could from him. He's got it, it's the end. He would have done the same thing.

Well, he would have put the person out of their misery before leaving them to be consumed but Jim supposes that it isn't a perfect world after all.

A tear makes its way down Jim's cheek and he curls into himself on the cool plush carpet. His stomach hurts as he crunches in on himself into a fetal position. His mouth is dry but sticky as snot and tears run down his face and he sobs.

He's alone.

He's going to die on this floor with his leg on fire and his body not cooperating with him.

He is going to die alone.

He thinks of all the times he stayed in when people who he wasn't necessarily friends with but acquaintances begged him to go out. He used to love being alone – having time for himself to study or clean or tinker with this box circuit set or that motor. His being alone had always felt full and comforting, but not now. Now he felt empty. Unwanted. Unloved. A kicked puppy finally giving in and not barking back anymore.

The world was such an unfair place.

He feels like throwing up again but doesn't have enough energy to even gag. His head thrums with his quick heartbeat telling him he's still alive for now but promising it won't be long. Jim gives out another hearty sob winding himself into a tighter and tighter ball. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to die like this. It was supposed to be a long, long time from now after he'd gotten a degree and a nice ass job with a nice ass house and a cute ass dog with equally cute ass children and a hot ass partner by his side holding him in his arms as he keels over from old fucking age. Jim used to have dreams of gazing up at the stars looking as they twinkled and sparkled above. There would be a blanket under him as he lay in the arms of the person he loves with all his heart. They would gaze at the stars then gaze at each other knowing that nothing, nothing, could make life better than this, than this moment of looking at each other and seeing absolute trust with absolute love and absolute safety.

But none of that was going to happen, he was going to die here on the carpet with throw up on his shirt.

God, why did his life suck?

Jim lets out another sob because fuck the future he never got the chance to have and fuck the people who got him sick and fuck Kevin's parents for leaving the poor kid to fend for himself but most importantly fuck Jim for not being fucking smart enough to live any longer.

He's going out like his dad, in a blaze of not as much glory and less sacrifice but equally as not fair and far slower.

His dad was an astronaut, but man was never really meant to go to space. Not now anyways. Not when they weren't even smart enough to create shuttle crafts that didn't fucking explode four minutes and thirty-eight seconds after liftoff. Winona had helped engineer the craft, she never forgave herself. Jim had been eleven years old when he saw the explosion light up the TV screen as he sat on the couch with Sam and Grandpa Tiberius.

It was obvious that George Kirk was dead in an instant. No pain. But what good does that do? Okay yeah, George felt nothing but what about Winona as she sank to the ground in the underground room she'd just kissed her husband goodbye in then watched him and three others walk out and up to the craft like heroes ready for space adventure? What about Sam who screamed as flames filled the sky? The shuttle seemed to just float for a second before it came crashing back to the earth. Tiberius placed a hand over his mouth, silent tears shed as he watched his son die in an instant. And Jim, just starting to grow into his lanky limbs and skinny frame sat and stared open mouthed and eyes wide.

Some things you just never forget.

And now Jim was going to die just like his dad died but for all different reasons. He was going to die because he was an idiot. A stupid little fuck who thought there was no way he could get sick. It wouldn't happen to him, couldn't happen to him. Absently he wonders what type of – what was it the others had called it? A Dead One? – he wonders what type of dead one he would become. Would he wander aimlessly around the streets limping and dragging his limps at night with no purpose trapped inside a body wanting nothing more than to drift? Or would he become a runner whose purpose was to feed? God, he would hurt people. He would try to fucking eat people!

Jim feels his stomach clench hard as he gags dry heaving. Spit drips from his mouth covering the side of his face.

Shit, he thinks. Fuck me. Fuck this world. He's so angry and sick and embarrassed and weak. But mostly angry and weak. And tired. God was be tired. Alone. He was all alone.

There was once billions of people in this world but now there were probably closer to millions after the Sickness. There were so many people and here Jim was forsaken. Forgotten. Him and his shadow. One more among the many to succumb to the plague. It's a terrible feeling realizing you're not special, that you never were. Realizing that you're going to die on the floor from sickness.

Jim thinks he hears something above his head. It sounds like a gasp but maybe it just comes from his own mouth as he cries into his chest. He doesn't notice as the door is flung open. He doesn't notice as a person curses loudly. He's too caught up in his own head.

"Jim!"

Then there's another shout, louder and more demanding this time as the person jumps into the room rushing over to Jim's sobbing figure crumpled on the floor.

"Jesus kid," the person whispers and goes to get Jim to untangle himself from his own body. Jim whimpers something to slight to hear. He looks up at the man who is staring down at him worriedly. Jim is surprised to see the brown and hazel speckled eyes staring down at him. The man as a strong jaw, thin lips and hair that looks soft enough to run his fingers though.

Sawbones?

Jim blinks up at him before feeling a cry bubble passed his lips. Even with the man so close he still feels a nagging feeling devastating his gut. Alone. He still feels so alone.

"Don't leave me alone..." He whispers brokenly in a voice too soft and way too hurt to be his own. "Please... don't leave me. I don't want to be... alone."

And his world goes dark as he feels himself falling. He thinks he hears someone far away say something but he doesn't know as he falls though the cold darkness.

"I won't Jim. I won't leave you. I promise."