Day 8 – 15:35
Packing up the last of Mei-Lin’s things took five minutes and all of Zhao’s tact. Her locker held almost nothing—one faded photo taped inside, a handful of too-small T-shirts, nursing pads beside the breast pump. When Zhao offered to carry her bag she let him; it was so light she felt like she was sending off a child’s school kit.
They stepped into the corridor together. For the first time since all this began, Mei-Lin walked beside him with something like purpose. At the end of the hall, the overhead speakers crackled: “Zhao and Mei-Lin. Med lab, ASAP.”
Mei-Lin shrugged. With Saanvi, everything was always urgent.
The medical bay treatment room had shed its harsh glare. Soft lamps bathed everything in buttery gold, blue fabric covered the walls, and a circular treatment sofa in grey chenille sat at the center. A place meant for comfort.
Aida was already there, tea cradled in both hands, hair neatly braided. She gave Mei-Lin a long, appraising look, then nodded. Saanvi hovered by the bench, scrolling through fresh graphs. Iqbal, in crisp blue scrubs, arranged vials and color charts.
Mei-Lin sat. Aida slid closer, arm behind her chair—an unmistakable shield. Mei-Lin's shoulders lowered slightly at the touch, but her fingers still worried the hem of her shirt, twisting the fabric into a tight spiral as her eyes darted between the medical instruments laid out on the tray.
Saanvi wasted no time. “We need a sample of your milk to see if the viral suppressant transferred.”
Mei-Lin's stomach flipped. She glanced at Zhao, her shoulders hunching inward. Aida's fingers found hers beneath the table, a gentle pressure that said more than words. "I'll be right here," Aida murmured, her eyes holding a certainty Mei-Lin had never seen directed at her before—not pity or disgust, but recognition of value. For the first time since she was thirteen, standing in that puddle of inexplicable milk while classmates pointed, Mei-Lin felt the strange anomaly of her body might be something other than shameful. It might be necessary.
With trembling fingers, Mei-Lin unbuttoned her shirt and peeled it down, revealing a gleaming breast veined like a river map. A bead of milk, nearly white, glistened on her nipple.
Aida shrugged off her jacket and draped it around Mei-Lin’s shoulders. “No one’s here to see anything they don’t want.” Mei-Lin exhaled.
Saanvi uncapped a test tube. “May I?” Mei-Lin nodded and looked away. Saanvi’s clinical confidence turned milk into droplets, then a steady stream. When the liquid met the reagent it flashed electric blue.
“It’s loaded with suppressant,” Saanvi crowed. Iqbal compared it to a color strip. “Almost off the chart.”
Zhao grinned.
Aida squeezed her hand beneath the table. "Good genes," she whispered, warm breath tickling Mei-Lin's ear. The simple words wrapped around Mei-Lin like a blanket, making her feel, for once, that her difference was a gift. Read this novel at novelping.com for the best experience.
Saanvi’s tone grew serious. They had to test efficacy now—oral, vaginal, rectal—before the suppressant degraded. Mei-Lin’s cheeks warmed at each method, but she nodded. When Zhao offered to step out, relief bloomed in her chest.
First—oral. Saanvi glanced at each woman in turn, receiving nods of agreement before proceeding. She placed her lips on Mei-Lin's nipple with clinical detachment and took a few gulps. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Sweet," she murmured, almost to herself. "Like condensed milk." She swallowed again, letting the suppressant enter her bloodstream. After a moment, she pricked her finger and watched the meter: 48 percent.
"That's nearly 10% the protection of direct inoculation by zhao," Iqbal murmured, scribbling notes. After the second side, following the same careful process, 41 percent. "Consistent absorption," she added, her clinical tone belied by the slight tremor in her hands.
Then vaginal. Mei-Lin hesitated, fingers trembling against her shirt buttons. Saanvi reclined on the treatment sofa, matter-of-factly sliding her scrub pants down and positioning herself with knees apart, clinical in her vulnerability. Mei-Lin's gaze fell on the dark triangle of hair, the pink folds beneath, catching the faint musk of antiseptic soap mingled with something earthier, more human—like wet soil after rain.
Aida's hand warmed Mei-Lin's shoulder. "It's okay," she whispered. "You're helping us survive." Mei-Lin nodded, knelt beside Saanvi, and cupped her breast. She squeezed, watching milk arc onto Saanvi's exposed folds. "Keep going," Saanvi instructed, her voice clinical though her eyes fluttered briefly closed. She slipped two fingers through the pooling liquid, working it methodically into herself with circular motions. Her breath caught—a sound she quickly masked with a cough. After thirty seconds of this mechanical application, Iqbal's needle found Saanvi's vein: 34 percent.
Final method—rectal. Saanvi repositioned herself on all fours, medical top still in place but lower half exposed, her buttocks directed toward Mei-Lin.
Heat crawled up Mei-Lin's neck as she stared at the doctor's form. Her hands trembled slightly. She thought of Jia, who had sacrificed everything to save them all. If Jia could die for them, surely she could do this.
Gloves," Saanvi instructed, voice steady despite her vulnerable position. Aida snapped one on and reached for the lubricant, warming it between her fingers before applying it to Saanvi's exposed ring. As she massaged with methodical circles, Saanvi's breath caught, her back arching slightly. "Now," Saanvi whispered, voice suddenly tighter. Mei-Lin leaned forward, pressing her breast to the glistening entrance, and squeezed. Milk streamed directly inside while Aida's gloved finger followed. Saanvi's thighs trembled unexpectedly, a small involuntary spasm rippling through her body. Her eyes flew open in surprise before squeezing shut again, counting breathlessly under her breath. At sixty, Iqbal's needle found her vein: 28 percent. She recorded the number with clinical precision, though her eyes lingered on the flush spreading across Saanvi's chest, the way her colleague's fingers gripped the edge of the sofa. Iqbal swallowed hard and looked away, pressing her thighs together beneath her lab coat as she busied herself with labeling the vial.
Saanvi slumped back against the treatment sofa, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her scrubs. Despite her disheveled appearance, her eyes gleamed with the fierce satisfaction of scientific discovery. Mei-Lin watched her, tears welling unexpectedly. She pressed a palm against her sternum where conflicting emotions collided—grief for Jia's sacrifice tangling with this new sensation spreading through her chest. Not just the familiar tingling of let-down, but something that felt like the first green shoots breaking through snow. Her fingers trembled as she wiped her cheek, but her chin lifted slightly. The steady drip from her breasts no longer felt like shame, but like victory—small but certain.
Saanvi sketched out a new protocol on her tablet—Mei-Lin would join the treatment team but remain in the owner's suite with Zhao and Aida. "We'll bring equipment to you," she explained.
Aida leaned forward, eyes bright with determination. "I can induce lactation in myself," she said, then glanced around the room. "Maybe in others too. It'll be difficult—painful even—and not everyone's body will respond, but if we can create multiple sources..." She traced a finger along the protection percentages on Saanvi's chart. Aida's finger traced the protection percentages on Saanvi's chart. "Even at thirty percent efficacy, three or four more producers could mean the difference between surviving and not."
Saanvi's eyes widened slightly, her clinical detachment giving way to a flash of hope. "It's possible," she admitted, exchanging a quick glance with Iqbal, who was already scribbling calculations on her notepad.
"The compounding effect," Iqbal murmured, not looking up from her figures. "If we time the treatments..." Her voice trailed off as her pencil moved faster.
Mei-Lin's fingers stopped their nervous twisting. "I can help with lactation-boosting meals," she offered quietly. "Oatmeal with brewer's yeast. Fenugreek tea." The words came easily—she'd done this before, she realized with a small, determined smile.
The door cracked open and Zhao reentered, eyes bright. Aida beamed at him. Mei-Lin slipped her hand into his, hope and fear mingling in her chest. Somehow, survival didn’t seem impossible anymore.
# Day 8 - 21:41
That night, the old owner’s suite was transformed. All the luxury bedding stripped and replaced with thick cotton mattresses, layered up in a row along the inner wall. Zhao stacked pillows and fleece blankets to make the corner as soft as possible—he’d promised Mei-Lin she could have the spot farthest from the door, and Aida had insisted on the buffer. Zhao himself claimed the outside edge, closest to the footpath and the corridor. This chapter is updated first at novelping.com.
Twelve women called the room home now: engineers, medical, comms, the handful of core survivors who’d made it through the owner’s massacre. They clustered in threes or fours, each pod an island of warmth and whispered secrets. Some were asleep before the lights dimmed; others lay back-to-back, staring at the ceiling or the little blue glow of a tablet screen. No one bothered with modesty. Most wore old sweats, pajamas, or nothing at all beneath the blankets.
Zhao found a strange comfort in it. Even the noise—the endless shuffle of limbs, the wet coughs, the soft snore from the end of the line—felt like proof that the world hadn’t ended, not yet.
He took his time making up Mei-Lin’s bed. She watched, sitting cross-legged, her hair damp from a hot shower, the new pajamas Aida had found for her almost comically oversized. At first she wouldn’t meet his eye, but as he finished fluffing the pillow, she leaned in and rested her head against his arm.
“You did good today,” she whispered. “I don’t remember ever feeling safe before.”
Aida was already in bed, watching with a half-smile. She patted the spot next to her. “Come here, kitten. We don’t bite.”
Mei-Lin crawled into the corner, slid under the blanket, and pressed her back against Aida’s chest. In seconds, her breathing slowed, evened out. Aida looked up at Zhao and mouthed “Thank you,” then closed her eyes.
Zhao left them like that and wandered over to the window. The glass was new, no cracks or bullet pits, and for a while he just watched the lights of the ship ripple across the black water. Beyond the wake, the night was bottomless.
Somewhere, a woman cried out in her sleep. Someone else shushed her, and the room fell back to its gentle chaos.
He pressed his forehead against the glass, felt the low tremor of the yacht as it pushed through the chop. The engines were working harder than usual, the vibration deeper, more urgent.
Then he saw it: a pinpoint of light, low on the horizon. Not from shore. Not a star, either. Too steady, too white.
He watched, counting heartbeats, as it tracked them across the darkness.
He listened to the engine pitch climb, felt the boat’s subtle shift as they changed heading.
Zhao knew, with a quiet certainty, that they were being chased.
He turned back to the beds, to Mei-Lin curled in a circle of Aida’s arms, and the tangle of survivors wrapped up in each other, and wondered how long this moment would last.
Then he dimmed the lights the rest of the way, glanced once more at the sleeping forms, and slipped out. The corridor felt colder than before as he made his way toward the command room, each step quickening with the certainty that whatever light pursued them across the water wouldn't wait until morning.