Nobody was dying from the sickness any more, but that didn’t mean that nobody was dying. The constant reminder that Tilda was dying was the wet sucking sound every time she breathed.
She couldn’t run. She’d die fighting, or from drowning – she never should have pulled the knife from her ribs, but it was the only weapon she could reach. She pounced from the shadows when her pursuer turned the corner. The knife slipped in between two ribs and soon there was a pair of dying women lying in the hall. Each died wondering if the other still breathed.