Page 14 of Burning Love

“Who knows? Look, we’ve got a job to do, Little Miss England. Don’t go getting all philosophical on me. Good consistency today, by the way,” Ellen remarked, her voice brusque but approving. “You’re getting the hang of it. You’re making yourself useful. That’s all you can do for now. Keep your head down, okay?”

Sophia nodded, a small smile creeping onto her lips. Her shoulders rolled as she adjusted her stance. Despite the stiffness lingering in her body from sleeping on the world’s most uncomfortable cot, she continued to knead with renewed purpose, deciding to take Ellen’s praise to heart. The woman’s acknowledgment felt like a lifeline.

The exhilaration of perfectly landing a grand jeté was nothing in comparison to getting a compliment from Ellen.

She looked down briefly at her feet. Alex had given her some newish leather boots. They weren’t quite her style, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, right?

I wonder if these used to be hers? I’d like to be wearing her boots…

She flexed her toes instinctively, feeling the phantom ache of pointe work—a pain she used to wear like a badge of honor. The disconnect between the world she had once inhabited and this one felt impossible to bridge. This compound would never offer her a standing ovation. She would never feel the burn of spotlights on her skin again. That life was behind her. Long gone. Now, she lived here. Now, the undead roamed just yards away. Now she baked bread for survival.

Her stream of thought sent a chill down her spine.

How the heck has it come to this? How did it all unravel so quickly?

She thought back to the first few days she’d spent in the hotel after the initial outbreak. She had stopped watching the news on day two—or had the power gone out? She couldn’t remember. What she could remember were the grim headlines, the emergency messages, the panic once the internet went down. She still didn’t know how this had all started. But the shuffles and groans that she could hear at night and the low groans carried on the wind were constant reminders that humanity had definitely fallen.

As the morning continued, Sophia found herself thinking more and more about Alex. The woman’s presence was impossible to ignore, even when she wasn’t actually physically anywhere near. Her influence could be seen in every corner of the compound. Her Monday meetings had ensured that food distribution and patrols ran like clockwork. Sophia could see the positive side of it, but a part of her also felt that the rules were relentless. The curfews were scary. Everyone had to be inside by dusk. A few days earlier, Sophia had witnessed a young girl, who could have only been around twelve, get caught outside the fence. The consequences were swift and severe. She had been sent to bed with no rations and no water. It had been hard to watch. When she’d asked Ellen about it, the older woman’s answer had been clear enough, “The girl’s disobedient. Alex won’t tolerate it. If the kid doesn’t watch herself, she’ll be kicked off the compound.”

Really? Would Alex go that far?

Then there were the patrols—the constant watching. That was usually Alex’s job. In fact, it was rare that Sophia saw Alex sitting down. She made her rounds throughout the day, ensuring that every rule was being followed. The compound was divided into sections, each one assigned a specific purpose. There were the living quarters, workshops, and the kitchen. No one ventured beyond their designated areas during the day. There was a rigid structure to their routine. It reminded Sophia of rehearsals but with less taffeta. Even casual conversations were hard to come across in the compound. It seemed that there was an unspoken rule—only necessary words should be spoken.

As Sophia stepped outside the tent to stretch her back a little, she glanced toward the main gate, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alex.

Why do I keep looking for her like this?

There she was, her rifle resting against her hip as she paced up and down in front of the gate. Sophia spotted some guards making their way over to join her. Their movements seemed to reinforce the order that Alex seemed so desperately to want to maintain in this place. Sophia knew that she had witnessed a softer side to this woman who had such a tight hold on their lives. But she didn’t know why.

Sophia could sense, even from a distance, how effortlessly Alex navigated not only the physical but also the psychological demands of this new life they were leading. There was such an impressive authority about her, a confidence that radiated from her every pore. Sophia realized at that moment that the rules on the compound weren’t just a matter of protocol for Alex—they were a part of her.

Sophia was mesmerized by the discipline Alex exuded—the order she had brought to the place required sacrifice. Alex made sure people respected her authority and was obviously prepared not to be liked for it. Sophia and the others felt submissive and controlled, and yet, somehow, in that order, there was a strange sense of security—a sense that they were safe. Sophia had felt as much since the very first moment in Alex’s presence.

As mealtime neared, Sophia felt an odd self-consciousness, as if she were being watched. She noticed the gentle curve of her slight arms as she carried loaves of bread to the dining area, her fingers trembling slightly under the weight. The skin on her forearms seemed tighter, stretched too thin.

I’ve lost weight. I can only imagine what my mother would say.

The thought lingered, heavy and unwelcome, as memories resurfaced.

There was a time—just a few years ago—when she had been obsessed with her body image. The pressure to fit a specific mold had been suffocating. At every audition, her movements had to be perfect. Every inch of her physique was carefully scrutinized. Her teachers had pushed her harder than she ever thought possible. At times, she didn’t think she could handle it. Her mother, too, had been a constant reminder of the stakes.

“If you want this, Sophia, you have to be perfect. Your father and I have saved every penny for your classes.”

Sophia had starved herself. It was her silent rebellion against the criticisms that came at her from every direction. She quickly lost track of the line between determination and destruction. Her body had become a shell, brittle and fragile. Her bones had jutted out sharply beneath her skin. She got into the Royal Ballet School, but the weight she lost cost her more than just her health—it had shattered her connection with her family. Her mother had cried when she’d come to visit her in the hospital, her face full of guilt and concern, while her father remained silent.

As she went through ballet school, Sophia learned to eat, to shop, and to drink normally. She had to teach herself to balance her meals, to enjoy the food that once filled her with guilt, and to understand that she didn’t have to sacrifice her health to pursue her passion. But now she had to deal with rationing on the compound. It felt like her natural inclination was to ration food. It had taken so much time, therapy, and patience to retrain her mind out of rationing mode. What if she were to slip back into it? What if she started to see food as the enemy again?

Stop thinking about it. Food isn’t the enemy! There are bloody zombies out there, Soph! The real enemy!

As she pictured the infected, she became grounded in the present moment, forcing her to focus on what she could control now.

Sophia’s movements as she set the bread on the table felt deliberate, her body gliding gracefully despite her fragility. She couldn’t help but wonder if Alex ever noticed these details. Did she see the way Sophia moved? Would she understand the troubles of her past if Sophia were to tell her?

The thought both thrilled and embarrassed her. What would it be like if Alex took an interest in her personal life? In her past? In the real her? Sophia felt a flush of warmth creep up her neck at the thought. She had been thinking about it long and hard. Not only that day but for almost a week now. It wasn’t just admiration she felt for Alex. It wasn’t even gratitude. There was something more. There was a feeling she couldn’t quite put her finger on that stirred deep in her chest every time she glimpsed the woman. And as much as she tried to focus on whatever task was at hand, the idea that Alex might be watching, might be noticing her, lingered at the back of her mind.

Sophia’s legs ached from standing. The familiar burn reminded her of long rehearsal days. She took a moment to lean against the edge of the table, stretching one leg behind her in a movement that echoed an arabesque. Her body remembered. As she shifted her weight, the rough fabric of her trousers scraped against her soft skin. Her clothes were such a far cry from the silky, flowing costumes and outfits she used to wear on and off stage. Her fingers curled against the table’s edge, grounding herself in the tactile reality of this new life.

“Hey, kid. You’re drifting again,” Ellen said sharply, pulling Sophia out of her reverie. “Focus, girl. Your job ain’t even all that hard. You should be thankful you’re in here with me and not… I don’t know… digging graves, laundering stinky teenage-boy bed linen, slaying the undead. There’s a whole load of stuff that needs doing around here. Do you want me to tell the powers-that-be that I don’t want you in here no more?”

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