A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1)

by R. K. Weir

  "Definitely not one of the funnest places I've been to; we were visiting his family."

  My mind reels with another whirl of dizziness, a memory twisted in with the nauseating pirouette. The night we spent together at the school, and her indifference towards it the next day. Does her fiancé have something to do with that?

  "What happened to him?" I ask, "your fiancé."

  "Dead, hopefully." There is no emotion in her voice. "He's the only reason I know where the hospital is in this town."

  She doesn't look at me as she says this, choosing to keep her head hidden under the hood. I don't ask her to elaborate. I don't need her to. And I can't imagine that she'd want to relive that part of her life anyway, like I don't want to relive my time in hospital, recovering after my failed suicide attempt. I remember how uncomfortable everything was.

  The hospital bed sheets were itchy, pulled up over my chest. But I embraced the irritation, holding it close as a distraction from the body that stood by the side of my bed.

  With my head tilted as far away from her as possible, I concentrated on the slow dripping IV. Imagining the bag as a pool that I could swim in, and trying to feel the ripples.

  It wasn't long before she cleared her throat, a soft sound despite the storm I knew was bottled inside of her.

  "Logan. . ."

  I didn't turn to her, I couldn't.

  "You need help, Logan."

  Still, I focused on the drip. Constant, reassuring.

  "Your daughter needs you."

  The world slowed, as if for that instant in time, it had decided to stop spinning. The drip turned ugly. Reminding me of the tears I had last seen on her rosy cheeks, and the crystal eyes that brimmed with them.

  She may have needed me, but I couldn't help her.

  I didn't help her.

  "You alright?"

  I shake my head, the memory disappearing with the movement.

  "What?" I ask, reaching out to grip the bus for support. A blur of movement catches in the corner of my eye, and I turn to see what it is.

  "Are you—" She stops abruptly, pulling herself away from the bus as it purrs with sputtering life. "Oh my god!" she shouts. "I did it!"

  But I'm not listening to her. My attention has fallen on the two people down the road, running towards us. Like antelopes, afraid of getting trampled by the herd of wildebeest stampeding behind them.

  "We have to go, now," I breathe, not taking a moment to share in her victory.

  "What? Why? I still have to make sure tha—"

  "Aaron!" I shout, cutting her off. "Aaron!" I've abandoned the delicacy of silence, not caring who or what might hear me. Rocket takes the urgency in my tone and turns in the direction I'm looking, her joy bleeding out. She slams the hood of the bus down as the door of the house pops open. Aaron peers out from its doorway.

  He doesn't need to ask what's wrong. His eyes find the problem before he's even half-way out the door. He pauses, but only for the length of a stuttered heartbeat before he's back inside, shouting.

  I look back to Stella and Joey, and the horde that is behind them. They're close enough that I can hear their footsteps now, faint but growing. I don't worry that the horde will catch them. They're far enough ahead that I know they'll be safe.

  I worry that the horde will catch us, before everyone is on the bus.

  "Shit! Shit! Shit!" Rocket curses, throwing her scattered tools into their box and heaving it onto the bus.

  The door of the house bursts open. Aaron holds it that way while everyone else pours out, stumbling over one another to reach the bus first. They act like sheep, flocked by a clan of wolves.

  "Let's go! Let's go!" I shout, distracting them from the approaching swarm and waving them up the steps. The bus jostles from the movement, knocking the golf club over from its rest. I bend down and pick it up, brandishing it in the air as I swing around, expecting them to be upon us by now.

  Stella charges past as the round lady waddles from the house. "Why are you on the bus? We'll be trapped!" she yells, slowing her pace but not stopping.

  "It's fixed, get on!"

  She hesitates but doesn't question me. Once the fat lady has hoisted herself up, Stella jumps on and Joey follows.

  Aaron is running across the lawn when they reach us. I swing the golf club at the one nearest me, knocking its jaw loose with a crack. It stumbles to the side and makes room for the next in line. What once was a skinny man throws itself at me, like a bundle of bones. I jab the club at its chest, knocking it back far enough for me to raise the club and bring it down atop its head. It slumps to the ground as the other one gets up.

  Aaron reaches me with one of them clinging to his arm. He tries to shake it off but only brings its mouth closer. I swing at it, the club catching in its open mouth, breaking teeth and forcing them down the back of its throat.

  It falls away as I retreat up the steps of the bus, swinging at any infected that gets too close. Aaron reaches the bus just as one barrels into the side of him, knocking them both to the ground. He lets out a yell and I think it is too late for him when I step down and throw my leg out, kicking the infected man in its side and knocking it off.

  "Get up!" I yell at him, my voice lost amidst the sea of howls. There are too many for me to stay outside now, and more are still coming. I swing the club once more, clearing a path for Aaron before I stagger up the steps of the bus. I turn back to make sure that he is following. He is.

  "Come on!" Rocket yells, revving the engine.

  His hand reaches out for the railing, ready to pull himself up when an infected crashes into him again. He manages to stay upright as its teeth drive into his forearm. Blood bubbles out around its lips as Aaron shouts out. I don't register what has happened, I just swing the club down, leaving a dent in its skull, like a sinkhole, pulling hair down. It falls slack against him, it's teeth still in his skin. He stands frozen, staring down at the body beside him. I push it off of him and pull him on board, just as another infected appears behind him. Rocket shuts the door just in time.

  The bus lurches forward, struggling against the fence of bodies piled against its front. It knocks them down, several falling beneath the wheels while others retain a semblance of sense and stagger out of its way. Every limb is pointed towards the bus. Their screams almost overruling the cracks and snaps below its wheels.

  The bus rocks violently as it passes over the living graveyard. My breath catches as the engine sputters a noise in protest, but churns on anyway, only returning to its usual groan once the bus stills.

  The infected fall behind us, but I don't look back at them. No one on the bus looks back at them. Every head is pointed towards the front. Every eye falling heavily on Aaron and I.

  And the bleeding bite that is on his arm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Stella

  It's been ten minutes.

  Truthfully, I don't know how long it has actually been. It feels like forever, but I know in reality it’s only been a short while. No one has said anything since it happened. No one has even coughed, or so much as swallowed loudly. It's as if the presence of blood has staled the air, thickening it to the point where sound is impossible.

  His eyes are blank. Having picked a spot on the floor, they have rooted themselves there ever since. There is no shock or anger, only the hint of understanding.

  Aaron knows that the timer has started. Counting down to the inevitable. Every second a brutal eternity. Every tick of the clock a resounding reminder.

  There is no way of escaping it. Taking only seconds for the infection to spread through the bloodstream, it renders amputation or any other method useless. Your fate is written the moment you are bitten.

  Joey has not noticed that his brothers time is limited. Not yet, anyway. After getting on the bus he found a seat, sat down and put his head in his hands. He has not moved since. I don't think anyone has. Only once the silence has built a formidable presence does Logan decide to shatter it.

  "Aar
on. . ." The word is small and practically abandoned. Thrown out the window and left to fall behind with the infected. "I'm—"

  "I know," Aaron cuts him off, his eyes picking up from the floor. Emotion has fled from his face, retreating from the cold eyes that are already dead. I almost flinch when they turn to me. "What happened?"

  "I. . ." The words struggle to come out. Not because he's angry. He isn't angry. He isn't anything. But I feel like a part of him will blame me, like a part of him does now. The rucksack is still on my back, so I move to put it down on the seat next to me, anything to give me time to think.

  "The infected in the hospital heard us," I don't tell them of Joey's confession, because they don't need to know something that they already do. "They alerted others and by the time we were outside there were so many blocking off the road that we could only run back to the bus."

  His eyes convey no understanding, not even acceptance or accusation. They're just blank, like the shell he will become. He drops his gaze to Joey, but doesn't speak. He watches him for a long minute before sucking in a breath, taking some of the tension with it.

  "What's done is done." He turns to Logan and offers him a clap on the back, "we need a plan for now, someplace to go and. . ." His eyes dart to the bite on his arm, "rest, for a while."

  "We can go to my place," Logan says, "the neighborhood was always quiet, so there shouldn't be much trouble."

  "Is it close?"

  "Very," Logan nods. "It's just on the outskirts of Las Vegas, we could get there within the hour."

  This should comfort Aaron. The infection will have taken his motor functions by then, but at least he will have someplace safe for what little time he has left. A luxury most are not afforded.

  Yet still his face remains blank, giving nothing in return but a nod and a simple, "Sounds like a plan."

  He doesn't even cover the wound. He leaves it free for everyone to see, to let the blood trickle down and drop from the tips of his fingers, like dew falling from the point of a leaf. It's already darker than it should be.

  His eyes fall again on Joey and he begins making his way down the bus towards him. I move out of the way, giving him enough room to slide into the seat beside him. Joey doesn't stir, only flinching once Aaron places a gentle hand on his shoulder. Joey lifts his head up now and, as if knowing exactly where to look, his eyes find the bite.

  It feels wrong to watch them, so I turn away and walk to the front of the bus where Logan stands beside Rocket. I want to think of something else, anything else.

  "How's your wrist?"

  He shrugs, "it's alright." A hesitant pause takes his voice, as if he's not sure whether to continue or not. "Did you find antibiotics?"

  I nod and a small wave of relief washes some of the lines from his face.

  "Do you have them on you?" he asks.

  "They're all in my bag."

  He turns to look down the aisle, his gaze falling on Aaron and Joey. I do the same, noticing that everyone else on the bus has turned to look out the window, gifting the brothers with a semblance of privacy.

  They throw themselves into a hug, probably the last one that Aaron will be able to give. It's almost a strange sight, considering I have never seen them so much as shake hands. But they hold still in their embrace, neither daring to loosen the hold.

  "We'll get it later," Logan decides, turning back towards the front of the bus and telling Rocket to take a right.

  The next half hour passes in relative silence, only broken by the murmurs shared between Aaron and Joey and the occasional direction uttered from Logan. It feels too soon when he announces that we've arrived.

  A string of housing complexes, identical in every aspect and packed together so tightly that the walls almost touch, I wonder how Logan can even distinguish which one is his. But his memory must serve him well because he tells Rocket to stop outside of one. The rumble of the bus dissipates and silence again digs a trench around us.

  We know what this means.

  I turn to look back at Aaron. His eyes are no longer brown, his skin no longer pink. The shades that once colored him have faded to gray, life already leeched from his appearance. He stares out at the house we have parked beside with a neutral glare; appraising what will soon be his tomb.

  "I'll make sure the house is clear," Logan says. He winces as he steps down from the bus, gripping the railing for support.

  "I'll come with you," I say.

  "No, I . . . I need to go in alone first. You just stay here and. . ." His eyes carry again to Aaron and he doesn't finish the sentence. I watch him shuffle up to the front door, picking out a key from the potted plant beside it and disappearing inside.

  I don't expect that he'll find anything. Glancing around the street, the area looks clear. But I have been fooled before.

  Without driving as her distraction, Rocket stands up from her seat and moves to stand beside Aaron. She crouches down beside him, whispers something in his ear and offers him a hug. He doesn't hug her back. His arm stirs in effort, but slackens in defeat. His time is short.

  As cool and reserved as ever, Rocket stands up from him, offers a final smile and leaves the bus. I watch her go and lift up the hood, only to dive inside. I don't think she is actually working on the bus, she hasn't even taken her tools. She just needs another distraction. The bus goes quiet again and I wonder if I should approach him.

  What would I say?

  I'm sorry you're slowly and painfully dying, shit happens. I'm sure that's exactly what he needs to hear to feel better. No, I decide, I won't talk to him. Not when I have nothing to say.

  It isn't long before Logan steps out from the house unscathed and gets back on the bus.

  "You ready, Aaron?" he asks.

  Aaron doesn't speak, he just stares ahead, not really seeing anything. I don't blame him for not answering right away. It's an unfair question. Who would be ready?

  He musters the strength to bow his head, the closest he can get to a nod. Joey stands up beside him and Logan moves down the aisle. Together, they help lift him up from the seat. I grab the rucksack from the seat next to them and quickly hop off the bus. Only once I clear enough distance from them do I turn around and watch, prepared to help if needed.

  The deterioration of character, of personality at such a rapid pace is always hard to witness. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. Looking at him now, struggling to walk even with the aid of two others, it's almost easy to forget what he once was.

  A leader.

  An expression dawns his features now, not of acceptance, but of resignation. He's given up, the only option afforded to him. Rocket doesn't move as they carry him off the bus, she keeps her head ducked, her face hidden from sight.

  I move ahead of them and hold the front door open, leaving it to close once they are inside. Logan steers them into the living room where they lay him down on the sofa, slowly as if he is made of glass, cracked all over and waiting to crumble.

  The front door opens with a click and the nice woman with the hijab sticks her head in. Everyone else from the bus has lined up behind her. They're waiting to say goodbye. Aaron notices this and waves Joey closer.

  "Joey," the word is croaked, as if his throat is a mineshaft collapsing in on itself. "Joey I need you to do something for me."

  With a clenched jaw, Joey crouches down beside him and leans in.

  "I want you to take everyone to Canada, I need to know that everyone will be safe."

  I repress a frown at this. Canada, a legend among survivors. Whispers have travelled suggesting that the infection can't survive up north where it's cold. I don't believe this, but even if it's true, Canada is far away from where I want to go.

  Joey takes a moment to process his request. Only once it has sunken in does he begin to shake his head. "I can't, I . . . they'll never listen to me."

  "I'll tell them to trust you," he pauses to swallow the coal in his throat. "I know that you can do this, Joey." His arm twitches as if he's trying to raise
it, but then realizing he can't, it falls still.

  Joey doesn't respond, but his back begins to warble with the soft assault of silent sobs. The room has submerged itself under the uncomfortable weight of emotion. A pressure I find too unpleasant to bear. Soon, Logan will say goodbye. And then the people outside will say goodbye. I have no intention of waiting and watching. So I turn away from them now, my eyes settling on the room across from us.

  Emotional exchanges have always made me uncomfortable, and I have no interest in being part of this one. I leave the room quietly and walk into the next one, a dining room with a sizable fireplace. The home is cozy, filled with dark browns and deep reds. Pictures line the walls, with rugs splayed out across the floors and heavy curtains hanging against every window.

  I step towards the fireplace, feeling the phantom warmth of a fire lit long ago. I can almost imagine Logan, in another life, huddled up with his family in front of it. Dropping the rucksack at my feet, my eyes sweep over the mantle, skirting over the framed pictures until my gaze settles on one.

  Logan stands smiling, holding a little girl in his arms. A little girl with no hair and skin so white that she could blend in with the snow around them.

  A noise behind me breaks my attention and I turn to see what it is. Logan has followed me, but his gaze too has fallen on the photo. His eyes hold a familiar pain, one I haven't seen since we were locked in that bar cellar. The memory tugs at me.

  I couldn't save her. . .

  And suddenly, it clicks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Stella

  "Your daughter died of cancer?"

  The words cause him pain, like I've just slapped him across the face. But with furrowed brows, he offers a curt nod, his eyes still pressed against the photo on the mantel.

  "So all those things you said, about how you couldn't save her. . ." The sentence trails away from me and I find myself looking back to the photo.

  They say if you ever met a clone of yourself, you wouldn't recognize them. But staring into her eyes, I can't help but feel as if I'm staring into my own. The only discernible difference is innocence. Where it swims in hers, it is barren in mine.