“No complaints here.” I reply.
That grin appears again, and holds this time. When he smiles, the corners of Derek’s eyes crease in a pleasant way and I’m reminded again how much he looks like an older version of Kyle. They both have those same eyes, that confidence-inducing smile – when Derek bothers to use it – and strong, square jaws; only Derek has grown into his features, where Kyle still looks boyish and awkward most of the time. They’re amongst those fortunate men with good genes who are just going to grow more and more handsome as they age.
“What’s that?” Derek asks, nodding towards my hand before taking a slow sip from his cup.
I look down to see that the chain and dog tag have slipped out from under my top, my fingers rolling across the textured surface subconsciously. I shove it quickly back under my top, but I’m sure that my face betrays a flash of hurt because Derek looks away, offering me a moment of privacy to decide whether or not to answer. Although I’ve had a little insight into his more human side, being on his team, this is the first time Derek has ever posed a personal question to me. I wonder if the query is beer induced, or if joining him on this little adventure has made us friends.
“Just a memento,” I respond eventually. “Something to take to his Dad.”
“Dale, right?” Derek asks, and I nod. “Tim and Kimberly told us about you two.”
I can’t be sure why, but right then I decide to share with Derek details that I’ve only ever shared with Kimberly and Kyle up to this point. “We lived together in the store for a long time, then one day we were doing a fuel run, and we were attacked.” A vision of Aggressors bursting out of the crowd of Passives, barreling down on us, flashes through my mind. I drown it out with the rest of my glass, and then set it down.
Derek neither encourages, nor discourages, me from continuing. Instead, he refills the pitcher, and uses the renewed pitcher to top up my glass.
I pick it up, but continue my story without taking another sip. “He, uh...” I falter for a moment. “Dale... he made sure that I made it out okay. But he was hurt.”
“He wasn’t... uh... immune, like you?” Derek asks.
“No.” I squeeze the chain. “He wasn’t.”
“Can, uh... can I see it?” Derek asks, sounding, for the first time since I had met him, a little uncertain.
“See what?” I ask, dropping my arm back to my lap.
“Where it bit you,” he clarifies. “It’s just... I’ve never -”
“Oh,” I say, shrugging. “I guess so. It’s not much to look at.” I take a sip from my glass, and then set it down so that my hand’s free to pull off the sleeve Glory made me. I set the sleeve onto my lap, and extend my arm in Derek’s general direction. He shuffles closer to me and accepts my arm, holding it in both of his hands so that he can rub his thumbs along the series of jagged scars. He leans in to inspect the marks, close enough that I can feel his breath on my arm.
“So tell me about him,” Derek says suddenly, still inspecting my arm. “This Dale guy - was he a dwarf like you?”
The utter nonchalance with which Derek brings up this person whom I have obviously lost encourages me to remember… to imagine the distance as I look up at him in my mind, in a measurable way. “No, he was tall. Maybe five-eight… five-ten.”
Derek releases my arm and laughs. “I hate to break it to you, Short Stack, but that’s not tall. That’s actually pretty average.”
I pull my sleeve back on as I respond with mock insult. “From my vantage point, it’s plenty tall.”
“Yeah, well, from way down there, everyone must look like a giant,” Derek says, still laughing.
“They kinda do,” I reply jovially, then adding with mock distress, “It’s terrifying.”
Encouraged by this new and lighter mood, the two of us begin chatting casually about where we’re from, as we polish off what is, by my count, the sixth pitcher of the evening, including the ones consumed by the rest of the group. In true drinking tradition, casual questions turn into a silly game of ‘I never,’ during which we share little tidbits about things that we either have, or have never, done before. My lack of worldly experience makes me the champion... or the loser, depending on how you gage the game.
“We should go back,” Derek says suddenly, during a brief conversational lull. He stands up, steadying himself against the rail of the platform with one hand. “I only meant to have a quick drink, get a decent night’s sleep...” He trails off, then, looking over at me, feigns irritation. “So much for being a responsible adult. You know, you really bring out the worst in me.”
“You’re welcome,” I sing, setting my glass down with the others. I look up at Derek thoughtfully. “You know, six pitchers deep, you’re practically tolerable.”
Derek smirks and rolls his eyes, then holds out his hand to help me to my feet.
I reach up and lean forward to grab his hand, but stumble and just end up clutching at his pants leg instead. “Whoa,” I mutter as I realize that my balance has gone out the window. Probably flitted away two glasses ago, if I know my own tolerance. I reach up and grab the rail, hauling myself to my feet in a jerky motion while Derek laughs at me, still steadying himself against the rail.
“Lightweight,” he accuses playfully, jabbing me in the shoulder as though he could tip me over that easily.
I wave him off sharply and begin making my way across the walkway, pointedly avoiding the rail to prove that I don't need its assistance.
“What did you have - two glasses?” Derek asks, keeping pace with me easily.
“It was more than that!” I shout unnecessarily. I’ve no idea why I feel the need to defend myself on this topic. No one gives out prizes for drinking the most stale beer, but rational or not, I continue making my point. “Besides, you're a giant, remember? Ounce per pound, I'll bet I drank just as much as you.”
“Sure you did,” Derek says. He jogs a few sloppy steps ahead of me, then turns around and continues to walk backwards as we talk.
I swat at him twice, but he avoids me easily. On the third attempt I still miss, but manage to cause him to lose his balance and trip. I grab the rails and lift my legs up enough to hop right over him, and then head for the access ladder. I grab onto the first rung of the ladder and try to pull myself up with little success. A moment later, Derek catches up, grabs my hips and boosts me up onto the ladder. “Need a lift?”
“I was doing fine,” I drawl, then continue up the ladder, paying careful attention to each step as the bars seem to soar in and out of focus before my eyes. “Just gimme a minute.”
“Move it, Short Stack!” Derek demands from below me on the ladder.
I turn to look down at him, playful irritation in my voice. “Stop talking about pancakes! Your stupid nickname’s making me hungry.”
Derek groans and tugs on the edges of my pants where they have popped out of the top of my boots. “How about Dwarf? Or just Short Stuff?”
“You can do better than that,” I urge him. “Think of a decent nickname, or you don’t get to use one at all.”
“I'll get back to you.”
Once out on the roof, we stumble over to the short ledge where the board should be, only to find a whole lot of nothing. Derek peers over the edge of the roof to the ground below. Several stories down, the plank that we had used to cross over from the adjacent building lies in the alleyway.
“Huh,” Derek comments. “I guess the others knocked it over somehow.”
“Now what?” I ask.
Suddenly, as though possessed by the spirit of adventure, or possibly simple jackassery, Derek steps back several meters, then begins to run, launching himself off of the edge of the roof and onto the next building, landing in a rough tumble that shakes up a swirl of dust around him.
“You’re a lunatic!” I shout at him.
“It’s not that far,” Derek insists as he dusts off his pants.
“Not for you!” I say, now laughing. “You’re a foot taller than me. No, no, no,
I’m using the door. Go down to the ground floor and let me into that building, then we can use the window ramps the rest of the way.”
“I don’t like that,” Derek says. “I can’t help you down there.”
“I’ll take my chances. It’s better than falling to my death.” Before he can argue, I head back to the access ladder, shouting casually over my shoulder, “Meet me at the bottom.”
Making my way back down the ladder is considerably easier than getting up it had been, but equally graceless. I finally get to the ground floor and find the front door of the brewery: a large metal rectangle, reinforced with a bar much bigger and stronger than the one that protects our home base. “No wonder no one ever looted this place,” I mutter to myself. I won’t be able to replace the bar from the outside, but as long as the door’s shut properly behind me, we should be able to take care of it the next time we come. I crack the door open, and slip outside, shutting it firmly behind me.
I can see the front door of the next building, but it’s not open so I call out to Derek. I receive no reply, but hear a low tapping sound like a pebble hitting the sidewalk. I walk to the far side of the building to find Derek sticking his head out the window where the board crosses into the next building.
“What are you doing up there?” I ask, curiously.
“I couldn’t open the door. It’s bolted or something.” He says in as low a voice as possible, “Just climb up.” He motions for me to hurry, but remains silent, knowing that every noise he makes could attract the few Passives that wander in the street around us.
Fortunately, the ramp between these two buildings connects through the second floor, but it’s still quite high. I slowly saunter towards him, staring up for a moment at the distance between us. “Doesn’t seem very likely.” I comment, taking in the height of the board. I tap lightly on a drainpipe that runs up the length of the building, as though investigating its structural integrity.
Derek lays down on the board, reaching his hand down to me.
I stick my tongue out, assuming we’re still playing around, and take several steps back to the edge of the building to better assess the distance. “Still a ways to go… you might want to get a rope, or an elevator or something.”
“C’mon,” Derek says, pretending to sleep on the board. “You must be tired.”
“Maybe,” I say, stepping back into the street again.
Derek opens his mouth, I assume to utter a clever response, but to my surprise, he falls silent as his expression turns at once serious. He points to something in the distance and shouts at the top of his lungs, “Katie, run!”
Against better judgment, I turn to look in the direction that Derek is pointing, and spot a Passive – no, not a Passive – I spot an Aggressor across the street. He’s easily twice my size, with his arms outstretched and his teeth bared as he barrels across the asphalt directly toward me. I stand frozen on the spot for the briefest of moments, then, my flight instinct kicks in, and I turn and run as fast as I can for Derek. His hand is outstretched and ready to grab mine. I jump up at him, but tumble down to the ground, unable to reach his hand. I leap back to my feet instantly, ignoring the rattling feeling in my protesting skull, and jump for him again. But again, my hand finds nothing but air.
“Climb!” he orders.
I let out a cry of panic as the Aggressor reaches the edge of the building. He clings to the dirty brick for a moment, looking around the alleyway for his prey. I don’t wait to see what he’ll do next. Instead, I grab hold of the piping that runs up the building and push my feet against the wall to create enough tension to hold myself up. I shuffle my hands and feet up the pipe as quickly as possible, and then, once panic will allow me to wait no longer, I push myself off the wall and reach up. I have just one chance to reach Derek, just one opportunity to grab his hand, because if I fall to the ground again, there isn’t a thing in this world that will be able to save me. The whole world seems to shift into slow motion as my boots push off of the wall and my hand stretches out, fingers splayed desperately. My heart stops as I feel gravity clutching at me with icy fingers, but before she can claim me, Derek grabs my arm with both of his hands.
My shoulder wrenches from the weight it is suddenly burdened with, but I ignore it and reach up to grab his arm with my other hand. It’s at that exact moment that the Aggressor gets hold of my leg.
Thankfully, the Aggressor grabs onto only one of my legs, leaving the other free to smash and kick viciously at his face with the heel of my boot. I can feel my whole body thrashing back and forth and know that Derek won’t be able to pull me up like this, but I can’t stop myself. The Aggressor claws at my leg with his nails, but, so far, my counterattack has prevented him from getting a better hold.
Derek struggles to pull me up just enough that I can reach the plank, which I grab onto with both hands. From there, he reaches down, grabbing a fistful of my jacket with one hand, while the other remains on my arm.
I shriek as the Aggressor’s hand slides up my pant leg, his long and broken nails digging into my calf. My opposite boot connects with the Aggressor’s nose, causing his hand to let go of my leg for a moment. I take the opportunity to curl my core inwards, lift my legs, and flip one foot around the board, securing it behind Derek’s leg. Then, with his help, I manage to awkwardly pull myself up so that we’re both sitting, with our legs dangling on either side of the board, the Aggressor madly attacking the wall below us, trying to find a way up.
I launch myself against Derek, squeezing his chest in a thankful, desperate hug as my mind grapples with visions of what might have happened had he not been here. My hands are shaking from the adrenaline, my head is pounding, my leg aching, but I ignore it all.
Derek holds perfectly still for a moment, then clamps his hands on my shoulders and pushes me away, holding me at arm’s length. At first, I assume that I’ve offended him in some way, or crossed an invisible boundary, but his face shows only concern.
“Are you okay?” he demands, scanning over me. When I don’t immediately respond, he repeats the question, emphasizing each word like it’s its own sentence: “Are. You. Okay?”
I smile in what I hope is a reassuring manner, but I can still feel the terror and am sure that it shows in my eyes.
Just as suddenly as he pushed me away, Derek pulls me back in, leans down, and kisses me.
Shock would be the appropriate response. Shock would be a perfectly reasonable reaction to a gesture that’s fueled by terror, adrenaline, and alcohol. But my body reacts before my brain catches up, and before I can overanalyze the situation, I find myself kissing him back.
Surprised, his grip loosens on my shoulders, allowing his hands the freedom to drift up under my jawline. His fingers splay out to encompass the sides of my face as he tilts my head to the side, deepening the kiss without breaking contact. Without regard to my own terror, adrenaline, or alcohol induced motivations, or the Aggressor that still lingers below us, I reach up through his arms and wrap my own around his neck, pulling him in as close as possible in our awkward position.
Derek rocks forward, causing me to tip back just enough to offset my balance. I instinctively lift my left leg and hook it around his right one to anchor myself in place, but Derek takes this as a sign of encouragement. One hand still on my face, he reaches for my right leg and hooks it around his left, then wraps both arms around me and leans back, pulling me up onto his lap in one smooth motion; my legs now dangle on either side of the board around his hips, and my chest is pressed up against his. I find myself lost in a pleasant world of touch, taste, and smell, as my hands dig into his short, blonde hair and the rest of reality falls away around us.
At the moment, oxygen feels like an afterthought, but the kiss eventually breaks anyway. Eyes still closed, and with my forehead pressed against his, we each pull in air in quick short breaths.
“Katie -” he begins, balling up the fabric of my shirt in his fists in a gesture that I immediately associate with lust.
&n
bsp; Before he can finish whatever he was going to say, I let out a breathy sigh, a single word escaping along with it. The moment the word passes my lips, I wish I could swallow it back down, but it’s too late.
“Dale.”
Reality returns to me instantly, and I assume this is the case for Derek as well as he falls shockingly silent for a man who just a moment ago was all but panting in an attempt to draw in enough oxygen.
I slowly pull back from him and look up to meet his eyes. Sorry somehow just won’t cover it, and I struggle to find the necessary words to take it back or to end this suddenly awkward moment, but before I find them, Derek apologizes in my place.
“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head and refusing to meet my eyes. “That was very inappropriate. I’m just glad you’re alright.”
I bite my lip and am about to say something when Derek looks up at me, the familiar expression of casual leadership restored to his eyes. He nods towards the far window. I untangle my limbs from his, careful not to topple off of the board, then begin crawling towards the next building.
The throbbing pain in my leg now demands my attention, but I studiously ignore it, as well as the Aggressor who caused it, until we are back inside the third floor apartments of our home building. I sit down on the edge of the plank and let Derek look at my leg. He pulls the mangled hem of my pant leg up to my knee and makes a wincing noise as he assesses the damage.
“That bad?” I ask, not entirely sure if I want an answer or not.
“Hard to tell, there's a lot of blood.” He tears the piece of shredded fabric away, and then turns my leg one way, then the other, following the long scratched lines with his eyes. “I think it’s stopped bleeding, but we need to get it cleaned right away.”
I pull my leg up and cross it over the opposite knee so that I can take a look for myself. In the brief moment that the Aggressor had hold of me, he had dug his nails deep into my skin, leaving a trail of red jagged cuts that ran from the top of my calf to the edge of my boot. I can only imagine the damage that he could have caused with more time. And honestly, I don’t have to imagine, because I’ve seen it. I know all too well what they can do, once they get hold of someone.
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