The Blood that Binds (Thicker than Blood Book 3)

by Madeline Sheehan

  I could count on one hand the number of times each of us had been sick over the years, every one of those times having occurred very early on. Since, we’d only suffered the occasional headache or stomach upset due to either dehydration or expired food products.

  Her eyelids fluttered again. “I… don’t… know,” she rasped with visible effort. “Everything… hurts… but… my leg… bad… ”

  I scooted down, tugging up the tattered and torn hem of her cargo pants, just barely touching her when she cried out, jerking her leg. Ripping open her pant leg, I sucked in a hard breath. Her entire calf was dark and swollen, covered with angry-looking blisters.

  “You didn’t clean your wound, Willow,” I ground out, though I doubted she’d heard me—her eyes were closed, her features twisted with pain.

  Sitting back on my heels, I scrubbed a sweaty hand down my face. There wasn’t time for this. It would have been hard enough getting out of here back when we were two abled bodies. The cliff walls were steep, nearly straight up and down surfaces that even a professional climber would struggle with. With Willow incapacitated, I didn’t have a fucking clue what to do.

  “We should have never come down here,” I bit out. I’d initially told her as much, worried that we might not find a way out, but she’d begged and pleaded and—

  “And now here we fucking are,” I finished angrily.

  I thought about leaving her—about getting up and walking away and never looking back. I didn’t know where I’d go or what I would do, because what did any of that matter anymore? The only thing that had ever mattered to me, or to Willow, was gone now.

  Lucas was gone.

  And yet, even as I entertained the idea of walking away, I was already shrugging out of my pack and dumping my things on the ground. I did the same with Willow’s belongings, sorting only the bare necessities from each, repacking them quickly into mine.

  “Willow, we can’t stay here. Willow, come on, wake up!” I gave her cheeks another slap. Groaning, her eyes fluttered again.

  “I’m going to pick you up, okay? Ready?” Hooking my hands under her arms, I hauled her upright. “Put your weight on me… stay off your leg… yeah, just like that.”

  After some painful maneuvering on Willow’s part, I had her firmly tucked into my side, my arm wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her up.

  “They’re… coming,” she whispered. “You hear it… the hum…”

  I paused, listening. Foremost, I heard Willow’s labored breaths; past that, I could make out the trickle of the stream, the caw of a bird, and… yeah, there it was… the not-so-distant buzzing of an approaching horde.

  “Go,” she said, her breath crackling with the effort it took for her to speak. “I won’t blame you. Just leave me and go.” Struggling to keep her eyes open, sweat was streaking down her forehead and cheeks in steady streams.

  “Shut up,” I gritted, shrugging her up higher.

  Try as we might to make significant gains, it wasn’t long before the sounds of the dead had amplified, signaling that the horde was nearly upon us. Willow was barely walking now; her feet dragging as I pulled her along, my fingers slipping on her sweat-slickened skin.

  “Come on,” I grunted, summoning all my strength. But it was no good; Willow was little more than deadweight. Behind us, the hum had become a roar; the horde was close enough to smell, the sick scent of their festering bodies permeating the sweltering air.

  Laying Willow on the ground, her features gone slack, I hurried to rid myself of my pack, taking only a long length of bungee cord. Tying the rope around Willow’s middle, I secured a tight knot at her waist and hoisted her up onto my shoulder. It took a few stumbling tries to manipulate her listless body into a piggyback position; once she was situated on my back, I tied the rope around my middle, using the last bit of it to bind her hands together around my neck, ensuring that she couldn’t fall. Glancing at the discarded pack, at what remained of everything we’d painstakingly accumulated over the years, I cursed Willow for forcing us to leave it all behind.

  And then I took off running.

  Logan

  This would not be how it ended for me—trapped in a gorge with a bunch of motherfucking Creepers. It was too goddamn easy a death—like shooting fish in a barrel. I hadn’t fought this hard for this long only to end up as a chew toy.

  So I ran.

  I ran until the trampled ground beneath my heavy footfalls turned green, lush with tall grass and colorfully dotted with wildflowers. I ran until the spring ran clear—the water on this side of the ravine not tainted with human remains. I ran until my muscles were taut and burning, feeling as if they were tearing in two and the strain on my back became so great that I thought it might be breaking.

  I jumped at the first climbable stretch of rock I came across, where the ravine wall had given way. Gripping a thick portion of overhang, I hoisted us up onto the ledge. It was only about four feet off the ground and just wide enough to stand on. Feeling the strain of Willow’s unsecure weight on my back, I pressed tightly to the wall, trying to catch my breath. Each intake of air felt as if I were sucking down fire.

  As I was struggling to climb onto another rocky outcropping, the first few Creepers tumbled into view. Digging my fingertips behind the jagged edges of a car-sized boulder, I dragged myself slowly up and over, a groan ripping free from my swollen throat. Dragging myself to standing, I looked below, finding three Creepers snarling underfoot—Runners by the looks of them. Beyond them, the front end of the horde had surged into view. They’d reach us in no time, trampling one another, climbing over each other until one of them reached us.

  Grimacing, I shifted Willow into a slightly more comfortable position on my back and resumed climbing. I managed the next ten feet without incident, helped along by a ten-foot stretch of cracked bedrock that had broken in such a way that offered the ease of steps. Eventually my good luck ran out along with the steps. Gauging the considerable distance between us and the top of the wall, it was mostly a straight shot of smooth rock, with only the tiniest of footholds scattered throughout.

  Here goes nothing, I thought, and started climbing. Willow’s weight on my back was brutal in this position—each time she shifted even the slightest, I would nearly lose my balance, forcing me to use up precious seconds steadying myself.

  Arms quaking with fatigue, eyes blurry and burning, sweat drenching every inch of me, I reached for the next rocky grip and missed it. I was teetering on my barely there foothold, fighting to keep my balance, when Willow’s head flopped suddenly to one side, shifting her weight in the other direction.

  We fell instantly, scuttling down the wall, crashing hard onto a boulder below. Groaning in pain, I dragged myself upright and peered over the edge, wishing I hadn’t. The dirt and debris I’d kicked up during our free fall had sent the horde into an all-out frenzy; I had only minutes before they reached us.

  Gritting my teeth against the strain burning fiery pathways across my back, I resumed climbing. My grunts turned to groans, my groans soon becoming breathless heaves as I fought to remain upright despite the weight on my back, and to keep climbing despite the pain.

  Eventually my fingertips skimmed the edge. Only a handful of feet away, it taunted me. There was nothing left to grip but the edge itself and I wasn’t Superman—I couldn’t do a pull-up with a whole other person tied to my back, let alone an unconscious person. Especially not after the grueling workout I’d already endured.

  I stood there, balanced precariously on two separate rocks, wondering if this was how it would end—picked off only a few dozen inches from safety. Hell, maybe I deserved such a stupid death; I’d basically offered myself up on a silver fucking platter by coming down here in the first place.

  I flinched, shuddering, as the first Creeper to reach the death summit wrapped its hand around my ankle. A surge of adrenaline shot through me, and I gripped the edge of the cliff, digging my fingertips into rock and dirt. Shoving off the footholds, a groan built
low in my chest as I struggled to pull our combined weight up the wall; the groan echoing louder as I continued to lift us until it exploded past my gritted teeth in a roar.

  Dragging us those final inches to safety, I collapsed onto my side, my chest heaving from exertion, content to never move again. Even as the first set of spindly hands appeared over the edge, I merely blinked at them.

  Get up! I ordered myself. Get the fuck up! You didn’t just scale that cliff to die at the top of it!

  I fought to stand; my body shrieking and screaming in protest. Looping my arms beneath Willow’s legs, I took off running once again, much slower this time. Staying close to the edge of the ravine, I let it lead me back the way we’d come, only breaking away once I found the gap in the forest that would lead me back to the farmhouse.

  Running on empty, forced to push past pain in ways I’d never had to before, I lost myself out there. It wasn’t just the physical demands, it was the emotional ones as well; the combination of both requiring me to exist outside my body, outside my pain.

  Knowing I didn’t have enough strength to get Willow through our window, I entered the farmhouse through the front door, jogging sluggishly through the halls. Our room remained as we’d left it, messy and with Lucas’s things still lying around—our things now. The only things we had left.

  Collapsing on the floor, my hands were shaking as I fought to loosen the knots at my neck and waist. Bloodied and burning, my fingers couldn’t manage it, forcing me to slice the rope with one of my blades. Willow’s body thumped to the floor behind me and for several minutes, I just lay there.

  Eventually I forced myself to move, staggering as I tried to stand. My head pounding, my vision doubling, I stumbled in a drunken circle, finding Willow still in the tangled heap she’d fallen in. Dropping back down, I checked her pulse—finding it steady, I rolled her onto Lucas’s bedroll. Glancing around, I found Lucas’s canteen nearby; taking a deep drink, I tried encouraging Willow to do the same, only managing to get a few sips in her while she coughed and sputtered the rest onto the floor. Recalling the expired aspirin in the first aid kit I’d left for Willow, I started rummaging through the messy room, carelessly tossing things aside until I’d found it. After taking a handful of pills for myself, I crushed another handful, sprinkling the broken bits onto Willow’s tongue, and then forcing her to drink until she’d swallowed them all. She continued to cough and gag, fighting me despite her semiconscious state.

  Once she’d quieted, I began removing her clothing as carefully as I could manage, so as not to disturb her injured leg. Pausing to look at her wound; the skin was swollen and fiery red around the puncture mark, spreading outward. It was already much worse than it had been only an hour before.

  Cursing, I set to work washing away the sweat and grime caked on her skin, cleaned her wound, first with water and then dabbing with the remaining disinfectant. Then I cleaned the rest of her, hoping it might help to cool her fever as well. She slept through most of it—periodically moaning in pain and sometimes shivering. After cleaning her, I wrapped one of Lucas’s shirts around her injured leg, knotting it loosely in place, then dressed her in a T-shirt and sweatpants. They were both too large for her tiny frame—her hip bones were jutting out, her ribs were clearly visible; Willow looked quite a bit thinner than she’d appeared only days ago. My stomach flipped anxiously; I’d been so consumed with searching for Lucas, I hadn’t realized that she hadn’t been eating; nor had I noticed how sick she was. Another giant lapse in judgment that could be laid at my feet.

  Trembling head to toe from exertion, I collapsed on the floor beside Willow. Bone tired, my vision swimming, I blinked once, twice, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  I awoke with a jolt and I flipped over, relieved to find Willow as I’d left her. She hadn’t moved much since I’d cleaned her; her skin was still pale and sickly looking, though her chest continued to rise steadily with each breath. Pressing the back of my hand to her cheek, finding her skin still hot to the touch, I frowned.

  Sitting up, groaning as my sore muscles protested, I scrubbed the sleep from my eyes. It was late morning, I assumed, based on the location of the sun. Incredibly, I’d slept straight through the night without waking. Even more incredible was the door I’d forgotten to close and the window I’d never shut.

  Idiot, I thought, reaching for the aspirin. I shook a few pills into my mouth, swallowing them dry. Shaking out a few more, I nudged Willow.

  “Luke?” she whispered hoarsely, her eyelids fluttering.

  Ignoring the pang of pain my brother’s name evoked, I helped her sit up, propping her against the wall. Placing the pills on her tongue, I held my canteen to her lips and she drank eagerly.

  “How do you feel?” I asked.

  Slumped against the wall, she stared groggily across the room, her lips glistening with spilled water. “Bad,” she eventually replied in a rough, hushed tone. “Really… bad.”

  “Yeah…” Sitting back on my heels, I scratched at my beard. “About that… I’m pretty sure your leg is infected—you probably need antibiotics.”

  “Great,” she murmured.

  “There’s a town nearby,” I said. “There might be something there.”

  Her bloodshot gaze met mine, surprisingly discerning, considering how sick she was. “Funny,” she whispered hoarsely.

  I dropped my gaze. Her sarcasm was warranted; there was almost zero chance of finding anything resembling medicine. Right after guns and ammunition, medicine had been next on the list of highly coveted items to rapidly disappear from what remained of the world. We still came across the occasional bottle of expired vitamins or over-the-counter pain pills, however, medical-grade pharmaceuticals were long gone.

  When I looked up again, Willow’s head had rolled back against the wall, her eyes closed once more. With a frustrated sigh, I rose to my feet and scrubbed my hands over my face. If Lucas were here, he would be beside himself, begging me to do whatever it took to help Willow. And he would hate me for how I’d treated her yesterday—for the horrible things I’d said to her.

  I found myself pacing the room, eventually making my way into the hallway. I looked around blankly, my heart stuttering in my chest. I had to do something, but what? Searching for antibiotics would be a fool’s errand, but I at least had to try. How though, I wondered, knowing I couldn’t carry her again; currently my sore muscles could barely carry my own weight. Neither could I leave her here—immobile and unable to defend herself.

  I found myself in the middle of the kitchen. Hands on my neck, I stared up at the ceiling, wondering how I was going to get from here to the town; wondering how I was going to fix this mess.

  Dropping my hands, I barked out a hollow laugh.

  I’d never actually fixed anything, not one single thing—our current circumstances were proof enough of that. I’d simply been slapping band-aids over gaping wounds and ignoring the seepage. I was everything my father had said I was going to be—I was just like him: full of holes and utterly helpless to fill them.

  Gunshots echoed in my memories—one, two, three. I recalled the look of madness on my father’s face shifting to one of surprise. I recalled his hand gripping his chest, as if he could somehow stop his blood from leaving his body.

  I recalled having to use a sled to haul his body from the room, and the thump-thump as the sled descended the stairs. I remembered Willow was crumpled on the floor, her young face frozen in horror, and Lucas, with tears streaming down his cheeks, had run from the scene as fast as he could.

  Not me though; I hadn’t been afraid or in pain.

  I’d been angry.

  And I’d been angry ever since.

  It was the culmination of a life lived under an iron fist, and the by-product of having your world ripped from beneath your feet. And it was the consequences of an eighteen-year-old who’d been forced to take responsibility, not just for himself, for the lives of two other teenagers.

  My hand shot out, gripping the countertop.


  We’d never had a chance. All these years, traveling across a dozen different states, working us to the bone, I’d only been prolonging the inevitable. This was always how it would end, because none of us had ever truly left that house—Lucas was still gone, Willow was still crumpled on the floor, and I was still angry.

  Angry and still dragging my dead father along behind me.

  My head jerked, the smothering deluge of emotions instantly clearing. Taking off across the kitchen, I flung the garage door open and ran inside. My boots ground to a halt in front of two flat-bottom kayaks.

  I had a sled. Now all I needed was some rope.

  Willow

  One minute I was trudging slowly through the ravine, desperately trying to keep up with Logan, and the next…

  I was running up the walk to Lucas’s house, excitedly knocking on the door. Overhead, the porch light flickered while mosquitoes buzzed around my ears. Waiting, I ran my hands down the front of my dress, smoothing out its wrinkles.

  A thick head of blonde curls peeked from behind the curtain, a wide smile appearing. The door popped open and Lucas’s mom exclaimed, “Oh, just look at you! Now if you’ll just let me fix that heavy eye makeup…” she trailed off as her gaze reached my feet. Her wide eyes raced back to mine. “Willow! You can’t wear combat boots to the homecoming dance!”

  “Oh my god, Mom, stop it.” The door opened fully, revealing Lucas wearing the three-piece suit we’d found at the local thrift store the previous week. It was a dark twill pattern and, according to the saleslady, a European cut. It was also far too short on him, showing a good portion of his striped socks and several inches of his arms.

  Kissing his mother quickly on the cheek, Lucas rushed onto the porch, grabbing my hand. “Bye, Mom!” he called over his shoulder, tugging me down the steps.

  “Lucas—what on earth are you wearing?” she called after him. “What happened to your Sunday suit? Lucas—you look like Huckleberry Finn in those floods! Lucas? Lucas, get back here!”