Page 2 of Burning Love (The Lost World #5)

2

SOPHIA

S ophia crouched down, keeping herself low to the ground. What little daylight was left had managed to make its way through the filthy windows of the abandoned grocery store. She moved her hand up to her neck and felt her blood thudding through her veins. It was pumping so hard she could barely hear anything else. She strained her ears. She could hear something but wasn’t sure if it might be some auditory hallucination. Was it her own movements or something lurking… something creeping closer? She imagined the once-busy aisles around her and what they once must have been. Now, they were littered with shards of broken glass, discarded cans, and ripped-open cardboard boxes, remnants of the chaos that had swept through like a storm. Being from England, she didn’t recognize most of the brand names, but the pictures on the packaging looked delicious.

I’d honestly eat a can of cat food right now if only I could find some.

Sophia felt that every step was a gamble. The slightest noise felt like danger was about to envelop her. Knowing that she—that no one—was safe anymore was her new reality.

She was all alone. She had been alone for weeks. Alone and hungry. The pain in her stomach made her feel constantly nauseous as the echoes of her solitude seemingly reverberated around her, amplifying the deadly stillness of what must have once been a store buzzing with life and energy. Time was somehow suspended in this place, and as she crept forward, she found herself remembering her student days in London—bright, loud, full of people hurrying through the streets, taking the Tube, drinking in crowded bars before taking their pick from a myriad of on-trend eateries. It felt like a lifetime ago. Just a month or so prior to the virus hitting the States, she’d been one of them, rushing between dance practice and errands without a second thought, impatient at the checkout line, oblivious to how fragile her world really was.

I wonder if life’s still like that back home.

Back then, grocery shopping had been something of a chore, an item on her to-do list squeezed between rehearsals, shows, and sleep. She could almost laugh at its absurdity now. What she wouldn’t give to be able to walk into a supermarket without fear and grab something she fancied off a shelf without a second thought. To be part of a line again, which her fellow Brits did so well, standing behind strangers, maybe complaining about the cost-of-living crisis quietly, or the weather, completely unaware that everything she took for granted was about to be ripped away from her. And the goddamn diets she’d been on to keep in shape for ballet, refusing to eat anything that wasn’t organic, vegan, or both. But now—and the irony wasn’t lost on her—every morsel of food she found felt like treasure, like a prize won through absolute sheer luck.

Sophia’s minute frame certainly gave her an edge in this new game of survival she suddenly found herself playing. At five feet tall with a slight ballerina’s build, she could slip into narrow crevices, wedge herself behind counters, and disappear into tight spots that most would overlook. It was this ability that had kept her alive, though it certainly came at quite a price. Her body was covered in bruises she’d gotten from hurried escapes and nights spent in cramped hiding places. Every muscle in her body felt knotted with tension.

On top of her physical injuries, her nerves had grown into live wires. She never felt fully relaxed, and the worst thing about it was that she was scared the damage was irreversible.

A cappuccino and some Valium. Now, that would be a treat and a half.

Survival had left her fearful, lonely, and in constant pain, but a part of her was still glad to be alive. She wasn’t ready to give in. She needed to find a way back to England, even if it meant swimming across the Pond.

She crawled over a collapsed shelf, feeling the cold tile beneath her fingers. This place—what was left of it—reminded her of a graveyard. But she was determined not to be buried here. Her senses were on high alert. They always were. She visualized the ghosts of families that once filled these aisles: parents with screaming toddlers, couples deciding on that evening’s dinner, and the familiar, almost comforting chaos of a ton of people being in the same space together.

Suppose I had just one person here with me—just one person to talk to.

It was strange to miss those mundane things in life, but she did. She missed the faces of strangers on the Tube, even the briefest eye contact with someone unknown, someone who wasn’t a threat. Such small, meaningless actions were pieces of humanity she had always taken for granted. And now they were gone.

She looked over her shoulder and decided the coast was clear. She needed food. She had gone four days with barely a scrap to eat. She felt so frail and knew she couldn’t afford to lose any more weight. What had her last meal been? Some stale crackers she’d found in a garbage can. She hated how hunger had become a constant companion. Her only companion. It gnawed at her inside like a parasite. Her movements felt slower and less coordinated than usual. And in this world, every second counted. Every step had to be deliberate.

In the dim light, she finally spotted what looked like a couple of cans on a shelf. They were partially hidden by debris and must have been overlooked by previous looters. She approached slowly. Her senses heightened because a part of her suspected that it could be a trap. She had seen it happen before. People, living people rather than those infected by the virus, left seemingly untouched food to lure in the desperate. They would then attack them, steal any supplies or equipment, and leave them for dead. Or just dead. Fully dead.

I’d rather go that way than the other, though. Anything but become one of those monsters.

But she didn’t have a choice. As she neared the shelf, she scanned her surroundings, flicking her gaze to the darkened storefront windows where the shattered pane allowed a gentle draft to seep through, carrying with it the unmistakable stench of rot from outside. Sophia knew what this meant. There must have been a corpse nearby. Or an infected person.

Her fingers brushed against one of the cans. The cool, metallic feel jolted her heart in hope, but it was empty.

Bollocks.

She grabbed the other can. This one was full. But of what? She squinted at the label. It was barely visible in the waning light. Green beans in a bearnaise sauce. Wow. What a luxury. She tucked it carefully into her pack, aware of how something as small as a single can of food could mean the difference between life and death. She would guard it with her life.

Okay, I need to get somewhere safe. Hide. Eat these beans. Oh, God. I’m so happy. I don’t think anyone’s ever been this happy about green beans!

Sophia let out a slow, controlled breath. She couldn’t believe just how satisfied she felt. But just as quickly, the moment was gone. A faint shuffle sounded from just a few feet away. It was an uneven, dragging gait. She knew exactly what that meant. She froze in position. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

Zombies. But how many? Please let it just be one.

Her heart slowed as she felt her instincts begin to take over, quieting her breath and steadying her pulse. She pressed herself into the shadows beside the shelf, willing her body to become as invisible as possible.

“Jesus. Please, oh, please….” she whispered to herself, unable to stop the words springing from her lips.

Sophia gathered her thoughts. Her heartbeat was now barely a murmur, her breaths shallow and controlled, each one precise.

Stop talking, stop talking. Absolute silence.

She believed that the zombies, for want of a better word, relied on scent and sound more than sight. And she had just exposed herself. Why had she spoken out loud like that? They would be drawn to her now. The creatures were slower than she was, but that didn’t make them any less deadly. One wrong step, one trip, one stumble, and they would be on her. She knew this. She’d seen it.

The footsteps grew louder and closer, shuffling in a disjointed rhythm. Sophia pressed herself down, curling into herself, her muscles tightening. She couldn’t see them yet, but she could picture them—decayed, gray, animated by nothing but an insatiable, mindless hunger. She forced herself to stay calm.

You can do this, Sophia.

This was survival: becoming as small and quiet as the shadows that shielded her. She fought the instinct to run. She had learned the hard way that running was a last resort; it would be too risky a gamble. Memories of a couple of recent close calls flooded her mind—moments when she’d almost been caught, barely escaping with her life. She could still feel the bruises.

The zombie’s shuffling stopped. It was near. She held her breath. Her skin prickled, every nerve on edge, her mind a silent chant of, Don’t move, don’t cough, don’t sneeze .

She thought back to when the outbreak had first begun. How long had it been now? Weeks? Months? She’d lost count of the days. Panic had rippled through the world like wildfire. Contagion. What city had they been in? Somewhere south? She couldn’t remember. The city had fallen pretty fast. The dense population meant it was overwhelmed in days, leaving nowhere safe.

Sophia had been halfway through a ballet tour in the U.S. when it happened, performing in one city after another. The rhythm of rehearsals, curtain calls, and sleeping on the company bus had left her feeling gradually more and more exhausted by the day. News had started filtering in—first, just reports of strange sicknesses in scattered towns, but then it came—people falling ill and not getting back up, people attacking each other.

She had been in Boston when the first actual reports broke on the news, but the company insisted on continuing the tour. They went on to the next city, where she and the other dancers stayed in a hotel just a stone’s throw away from the theater. That was when Sophia saw the first signs of chaos.

One night, their director called everyone into the hotel ballroom, pale-faced and shaking. She spoke in hurried tones, explaining how they’d have to cancel the rest of the tour—something about the police ordering people into quarantine zones. The company made plans to charter flights back to the UK, just in case. But it was already too late. Within hours, the entire city was filled with panicked crowds, lines of cars snaking in every direction as military roadblocks went up. Sophia felt like she’d fallen into a surreal nightmare.

Sophia and her fellow dancers felt safe for a couple of days in the hotel, but the infected eventually made their way in. One of the stagehands fell sick first. Then the lead male dancer collapsed, convulsing in front of her before his eyes went hollow and something monstrous looked out through his face.

Sophia ran, slipping away from her friends and colleagues and hiding out in a tiny janitor’s closet on the third floor. She remembered pressing her hands over her ears, blocking out the sounds echoing through the hallway, the guttural groans, and the occasional, sharp cry that pierced her to her very core.

When the noise finally died down, Sophia emerged. She must have spent two whole days in that closet. Her ballet company was gone. The corridors were littered with signs of a violent struggle, but no one was left. She moved in a daze from room to room, gathering food and bottled water from minibars—anything that could keep her alive.

And that was how she had survived in that place for over a week, wandering between floors, hiding in empty rooms. When she dared to look out the window, the city’s skyline seemed almost peaceful. The bustling metropolis had turned into a ghost town. But she knew better. She didn’t want to believe it, but she realized what had become of her friends, her fellow dancers, the people she’d spent so many months with. They were gone, swallowed by the outbreak. They had turned. And she was all on her own.

It was then she realized the horrible truth: survival wasn’t a matter of being strong or brave. It was about luck. She was still here, and they weren’t, but lucky hardly felt like the right word. She had never felt this low in her entire life. She’d escaped with her life, but the cost was almost unimaginable. She felt like the last woman alive.

A soft, scratching sound brought her back to the present. The zombie stumbled further up the aisle, its decayed body brushing against the shelves, its hands reaching, searching. Her pulse quickened as she briefly shut her eyes, willing her body to become even smaller.

The creature lingered for what felt like forever, its presence causing every fiber of her being to focus on remaining silent. She reminded herself of the countless times she had done this before. She knew she had to fight every instinct that was screaming at her to flee.

Finally, the shuffling steps began to fade, the zombie moving away, its attention drifting elsewhere. Sophia counted her breaths, waiting until the silence felt complete. Only then did she release the tension she had held for what felt like hours.

She unfurled herself slowly, every movement careful, deliberate. These creatures were unpredictable, and she’d learned that they sometimes circled back. She needed to get out there very carefully and find another place to hide before night fell.

Sophia’s loneliness settled back over her as she made her way to the exit.

Where should I go now?

It was an ache that never left her. She had nothing. Not here, in any case. She could only cling to the hope that everyone back home was still there. She remembered the faces of the few survivors she’d encountered, their wary eyes, the way they’d sized each other up, always calculating. Trust had become a luxury. And there was no room in this new world for luxuries. When every encounter carried a risk, isolation had become her armor.

She took one last look at the grocery store. There was something hauntingly beautiful about its emptiness.

Sophia slipped into the shadows outside. She moved with purpose, her senses alert, her mind focused on finding a safe place to spend the night.

As she walked, her thoughts drifted to her family. Had any of them survived? Were they also aimlessly wandering the ruins of London, haunted by memories of their once near-perfect lives? The ache in her chest grew. She could feel the tears coming, but she pushed them aside. There was no room for longing when she was supposed to be in super-vigilant mode.

Oh, Mummy. Where are you? I need you. I really need you.

She suddenly remembered an article she’d read online about soldiers on the battlefield. Oh, wow. Online. How odd to even think about it. The internet! Had that really existed? Would it be coming back? Was someone working on that? It was hard for her to believe it had even existed now that it was gone. Only a few weeks had passed, yet it felt like a lifetime since she’d last held her entire world in her pocket. Her iPhone had been a lifeline, a real-time portal to every person she knew, every fact she could look up, every thought or photo she wanted to share. Now, it was just a useless piece of metal and glass. She didn’t even know why she was still carrying it around. There was no signal. No power. But it was another hope she was clinging to. She thought about how easily she’d once tapped on friends’ names, seeing their lives unfold in pictures and messages as if they were right there with her. How she’d pulled up maps without a second thought, let music fill her ears with a quick scroll, held endless information in the palm of her hand. Now, the device was cold and silent, much like herself.

The article that had suddenly appeared in her mind detailed the universal tendency for wounded soldiers to call out for their mothers in their final moments, no matter how tough or battle-hardened they’d been. The words haunted her, tracing the edges of a feeling she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge—that primal, desperate longing for comfort, for someone who might make this nightmare bearable.

After having walked for about half an hour, she happened upon a small woodshed on the terrace of an abandoned bar tucked away in a corner. A rusty padlock dangled from the door, and to her surprise, the key was still in it. With a glance over her shoulder, she slipped inside, taking the padlock with her, and ducked into the cramped, musty space. She closed the door behind her and padlocked it from the inside. The shed was barely big enough to stand in, but she didn’t need space—she required safety. The cold seeped into Sophia’s bones, wrapping around her like a second skin. She shivered uncontrollably. The air smelled stale and very faintly of old cigarettes. But it was enclosed, and right now, that was all she needed. It was her haven. She pressed herself into a corner, hugging her knees to her chest, trying to conserve any heat her body had left. Her tights and pants offered little protection against the chill, and her thin jacket was of almost zero use. She would have to make it her next mission to find some clothes. Sophia rubbed her arms in a futile attempt to bring warmth to her frozen skin, her teeth chattering as she squeezed her eyes shut.

Mother…

But her mother wasn’t there. Nobody was here. There was not a single person in this world who would tell her what she wanted to hear—that everything would be all right. She was traveling solo. Each day was a battle. And she felt it now more than ever—an aching, desperate urge to scream. But she knew no one would hear her.