by R. K. Weir
Another figure steps up beside me and I'm so startled that I jump back, tearing the rug away with me. Sunlight floods in, blinding, and washes the figure away. I revel in the light, so bright that it's taken away my vision and I find myself stumbling back from its glare. Blindness is a gift, and I embrace it willingly, cradled in its safety. But it doesn't last long. The horrors are quick to follow me wherever I go and soon I find things materializing on the insides of my eyelids.
The figures start appearing again, at first there's only one but more come with it and there's no way that I can get away from them. Dark. Light. Eyes open. Eyes shut. There's no combination or state where I can find a semblance of safety. Already I can feel my heart hitching in my chest and my breathing becoming ragged. I need to calm myself down, but how? How do I calm myself down when my own mind is against me?
The world is spinning when I think of an answer. Think of something happy, focus on it until everything is over. It's a weak plan but what else do I have? At first I struggle to think of something – my pickings are slim – but then I remember the night I spent watching the stars. Not with Joey, but with my boyfriend, Max, before the infection hit. A lifetime ago. I was so happy. My eyes are shut so tight that I can actually see the star studded sky and it's like I'm right there with him all over again.
I felt safe then, wrapped up with him in the back of his pick-up truck. And I feel safe now just remembering it. But I can't make the memory last and already he's driving me home.
He parked in my driveway and turned to me after shutting the engine off. "Come on, I'll walk you to your door."
He got out but I hesitated, I didn't want the night to end. Noticing this, he came round and opened my door for me, a knowing smile on his lips. He always knew what I was thinking. It took a little goading, but with the promise that we'd do the same tomorrow night, he managed to get me out of the car. With his hand in mine, we walked up the porch and stopped just before the front door.
Neither of us said anything, and for a perfect moment it was just him staring down at me and me staring up at him. Then he began to lean forward the slightest bit, and I think he was going to kiss me but he never got the chance because my father threw the front door open. This is when the memory turns bad and I want to abandon ship and think of something else. But I'm so far gone in this weird haze that the memory is playing like a film and I can't stop it. I can't even rewind.
Drunk, like usual, my father spat curses at the both of us. The alcohol had enraged him and the sight of Max only nudged him further into his fury. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside only so that he could shove Max from the porch, yelling, "You stay the hell away from my daughter! Don't you ever think about coming back here!"
I didn't even have a chance to say or do anything before he slammed the door shut and stood in its way, barring me from leaving.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I asked. He was swaying, and the dim lights were playing with his face.
"I'm not gonna let you run off with him!" he snarled, "I'm not gonna let you leave me like your mother and brother did." He swayed then, and his face twisted. "Everyone's left me, you can't leave me, Stella." His voice broke, but the fury did not leave, it only transferred itself to me.
"Or what?" I spat. "What are you gonna do! You gonna hit me like you hit Mom?"
This worked the rage back into him and he lunged forward, shoving me to the ground. I hit my head against the wall on the way down, hard enough for it to leave a purple bruise cruising up my cheek. He stood over me then, and from the floor he looked insane. The lights that played with his face before were now torturing it, pulling at the skin and twisting the bones until nothing human was left.
It takes me a minute to realize that this is no longer a memory, but a new hallucination altogether. Yet despite understanding this, it still doesn't save me from him. I open my eyes and that's when I find him standing in front of me. So real and terrifying that I'm paralyzed to the point where all I can do is slump against the wall and slide down to the floor.
It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. But when I look up and see him looming over me with that twisted face, there's no doubt in mind that it must be real. I shut my eyes to rid myself of his presence but I already know that this won't work and he'll find me in the dark anyway. He does, and that's when I open my eyes to find him leaning down, his face inches from mine. I shut my eyes again and the next eternity passes like this until everything is just black and I think I've passed out. But I can hear a girl screaming, loud in my ears.
It isn't until something shakes my arm and my eyes fly open that the shouting stops. My throat is so sore that it doesn't take me long to figure out I was the one screaming. My arm shakes again and I look over to find a hand clasped around my wrist. I follow the hand and when I look up and find Logan's face it's as if I've woken up from a bad dream. I don't even question how he's here or if he's real – I just scrabble into his arms.
He lets the hug last only an instant before he's pushing me away, his blue eyes scouring over me. "Are you hurt? You're covered in blood!"
He's talking so fast and my body feels like it's been torn apart, but the world is sturdy. I've collapsed beside the window, on top of the rug that used to hide it. The light is still so bright but it doesn't hurt my eyes like it did before. I look down at myself, only realizing now – or only remembering now – that I'm without a shirt. Dried blood covers most of my front and is smeared all across my chest. I vaguely remember where it came from.
"It's not mine," I say, more to myself than to Logan. The drug must be wearing off now because, slowly, I'm beginning to remember everything that happened. The blood, the knife, the stabbing. Piece by piece everything is coming back to me, and with every slashing memory I wish it wouldn't.
My mind is beginning to reel when Logan pulls me into another hug. "I'm glad you're okay," he says. He's holding me so tight that I feel I might shatter in his embrace, but the safety I find in his arms is too good to lose and I'm willing to take the chance of breaking. Just like before, the hug ends too soon and he's pulling away again.
"Stella are there any more?" he asks. It takes me a moment to realize he must be referring to the bandits. I manage a nod.
"They're upstairs," I say, my voice is croaky, weak.
"We should go now before they come investigating the screams."
"They won't come," I say, breaking eye-contact and looking down at myself. There's so much blood on me that I don't think I'll ever get it all off.
"Why not?" he asks. I look back at him.
Because they think I'm being raped.
Even though I don't say it out loud, he manages to find the answer in my eyes. It forces him to stand up from where he was crouching beside me. He looks down at me with eyes so intense that I think he's turned to stone.
"Did they. . ." A new voice emerges and then trails off. Logan shifts to the side and reveals Rocket and Joey standing behind him. Rocket was the one about to ask.
"No," I say, a little forcefully. The three of them share a look and I know that they don't believe me. I don't care, I just don't want to think about it. Logan offers me a hand and pulls me up from the floor. I still feel out of it and balance doesn't come to me until a few seconds after standing up.
"Can you walk?" Logan asks, keeping a steady grip on my arm as I threaten to fall over. My legs feel weak but I'm sure they'll hold.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I say. Rocket shrugs off her jacket and throws it around my shoulders, holding it up so that I can stick my arms in. Her orange hair, although faded and discarded of its retro-style, is a strangely welcome sight. Once the jacket is around me she zips it up and places a hand against my cheek. A gentle gesture that I wouldn't have expected from her, but like Logan's hug, it calms my nerves with the safety it offers.
"Let's get out of here, yeah?" she says. I nod at her and my eyes find Joey next. He looks terrible, but smiles at me nonetheless. I can't bring myself to smile back at him, I
just don't have it in me. I briefly consider asking him what drug they gave me – I'm sure he'll know – but I think against it. As long as the effects are wearing off, I don't care.
We begin walking. For the first few steps Logan keeps a cautionary hand on my shoulder in case I topple over, only relinquishing his hold once I prove to him I can walk fine by myself. Even then he's hesitant to stray far away, jumping forward every time I stumble or wobble. We pass the hotel room where they took me and I stagger to a stop in front of it. It's door is only open a crack but the sight of it detonates a bomb in my head and the memories of what happened in this room all come flooding back to me, clear as day.
"Let's keep moving," Logan says. He tries to nudge me forward but I root myself to the spot. Stabbing, constantly stabbing while giants wrestled and the world fell apart. I remember that. But what happened to Jacob? A sick feeling in my stomach tells me that I already know, but I have to be sure.
"No," I say, "I need . . . I need to check something." Logan begins to protest but I'm already opening the door and stepping inside.
In an instant my body goes numb. I haven't even made it all the way into the room before my legs lock and I can't go any further. Blood, everywhere, blood. Splattered across the walls, pooled on the bed sheets and soaked into the carpet. I tear myself away from it hoping that maybe this is just another hallucination. But when I look back and everything is the same, I'm forced to accept this is reality.
My eyes drop to the bodies that cover the floor. So many dark stab wounds stain their flesh, and the thought that I could have done this – that I did do this – sickens me. I would have been stabbing long after they had died. Despite my uneasiness, I force myself to count the bodies. One, two, three. . . Four.
My heart sinks when I see his red hair and his body curled up in the corner of the room. Like the other three men, he's been stabbed repeatedly and I know without a doubt in my mind what this means. I killed him. He was trying to help me, and I killed him. I expect an overwhelming guilt to burn at me, or maybe sadness. But I don't feel anything, only cold and numb.
Before I register what I'm doing, I'm stepping over the bodies towards him. When I reach Jacob, I roll him over and flinch at the expression carved into his features. His eyes are still open, but I can't stand to look into them so I close them gently. "I'm sorry." My throat chokes on the word and there's nothing to save me from feeling like a monster in this moment. There's also nothing I want more than to get away from him and what I've done. So I stand up and begin to leave the room when a thought strikes me.
Rob, the cause of all of this, had a gun on him. I'm kneeling over his body and fishing it out of his back pocket before digging my hands into his other pockets. He was going to go scavenging before he found me, which means he should have the keys to the Jeep on him. I have to roll him over to get to his other pocket, but once I do, I find them, coated in dry, crumbly blood. Standing up on shaky legs, I take a moment to look down at him.
A strange emotion falls over me, one I wasn't expecting. I thought I would despise him for what he's done to me, but instead I find myself hating him for what he's done to Jacob – for what he made me do. I can't stand looking at him any longer, or any of them.
With the keys and gun in hand, I flee the room, desperate to leave this nightmare behind me.
CHAPTER SIX
Logan
Broken. That's what Stella is. Whatever those goddamn bandits did to her, it's left her like an empty shell. That room was a bloodbath. I don't want to think about what happened in there. It takes Stella a few moments to reply when I speak to her – if she even does reply – and even then it's only in mutters. And her eyes. . .
They're blank. The gaping hole in my chest only grew when they looked up at me. I can't even begin to imagine what those scum must have done to her. When she went into the hotel room she came back out with a gun, and there was nothing I wanted more – nothing I still want more – than to take that gun and put a bullet in every single one of them that are left. Not in their heads or hearts, but in their limbs first. I want them to suffer, more than they've made her suffer.
But like a determined china doll that's been shoved from its shelf and shattered into pieces, I can see that she's making an effort to glue herself back together. Color has returned to her cheeks and she's not as skittish as when we found her, at least that's something. I risk a glance at her in the passenger seat. She's been quiet for a while and it only reminds me of how talkative she was when we were first in the Jeep together. I decide not to try and force her and instead focus on following the bus.
I managed to get one conversation out of her though, where she revealed that she's still adamant on going to the coast to find her friend. And after everything that's happened I'm not willing to let her go alone. I haven't told Rocket or Joey yet, there was no time during our hasty retreat of the hotel, but I think Rocket suspected something when I insisted on taking the Jeep rather than getting back on the bus.
Stella shifts in her seat and my eyes dart to her instinctively, as if with every small move I expect her to disappear or break. There are so many questions I want to ask her. Why did she leave? What did they do to her? Does she even want me going to the coast with her? But I know now is not the right time to ask them. She stirs again in her seat and I find myself watching her from the corner of my eye.
"Just get it over with," she says, turning to look at me.
"What?" I ask.
She sighs. "I know what you're thinking, so just say it and get it over with."
Hesitation snags my voice and I find myself staring down the road at the back of the bus for a long while before deciding to spit it out.
"Why did you leave, Stella?" The words come out harder than intended, accusing, and she turns to look out the passenger window. "You didn't even say goodbye."
Her shoulders lift in a weak shrug. "I didn't want you coming with me."
"Why not?" I ask.
"Because," another shrug, "I don't know . . . I just didn't want you risking your life for me when you could go to Canada with everyone else. I still don't."
This answer isn't one I was expecting, and it shoves me into silence. It's the genuine tone she's used that has thrown me off guard because I'm so used to her lying and manipulating. Or maybe it just surprises me because I didn't think she cared about me at all before now, and the realization that she does makes my response an easy one.
"Well that's not your decision to make," I say.
She doesn't reply, only stares out the window. But I'm more than happy to retreat into the silence she's built. So I focus on following the bus, swerving and weaving to match Rocket's path as she artfully maneuvers around the many roadblocks. Even though I can't see what's ahead of the bus, I know from memory that the highway stretches on forever, and the longer we follow, the further it'll take us from the coast. With a glance at the gas gauge, I start flashing the high-beams. The Jeep doesn't have much fuel left in her, it's fortunate there was any left at all. But I figure now is as good a time as any to let Rocket and the others know what the plan is.
The bus pulls over by the side of a motel and I stop a short distance back from them. This won't be something I'll enjoy; saying goodbye to Rocket and the rest of them. It makes me wonder briefly if I'm making the right decision, but one glance at Stella and my resolve becomes finalized. I don't know what she's done to make me place her above everyone else, but the thought of leaving her is almost an unbearable one.
Our conversation must have sapped what little energy she had left because she sits still in the passenger seat, head resting against the window with her eyes shut. I don't think she's sleeping, but I don't think she'll be interested in saying goodbye either so I get out of the car wordlessly and walk up to the door of the bus. It's already open when I reach it, and before I even begin climbing its steps, Rocket is pushing her way out.
With a hand placed against my chest, she drives me back and throws me against the side of the
bus where she keeps me pinned. "I'm comin' with you," she says.
I'm so startled by the aggression in her eyes that her words are completely lost on me. "What?" I ask.
"You took the Jeep, Logan. You took the Jeep," she hisses. "And I'll be damned if you're gonna take off and leave me behind to babysit Joey!"
The people on the bus must have heard her because murmurs break out between them. Rocket doesn't care, her scowl fixed only on me. It takes me a moment to actually process what she has said, and once I do, I'm confused.
"You would rather come to the coast than go to Canada?" I ask.
"I'd rather come wherever Joey won't," she says pointedly, letting her hand drop from my chest. There's more she isn't telling me, I'm sure of it. But the bus creaks as Joey steps out of it, and I figure now isn't the time to pry.
"What's the go?" Joey asks, a little cautious. Rocket's glare splits to him for an instant before looking back to me, her eyes demanding an answer. I don't need to think about it for long.
"Fine," I say, "but I'm driving."
She cracks a smile at this. "We'll see."
I smile back at her until Joey clears his throat and we both stop to look over at him. Somehow, I doubt he'll be as enthusiastic about our leaving. And I'm right. When I tell him the plan, he frowns for a long moment.
"She still wants to go to the coast?" he asks, "even after what happened?"
I nod, but my answer must not be enough for him because he brushes past us and goes to speak to Stella himself. I watch him knock on the window and wait for Stella to roll it down. Whether he's asking for confirmation, or pleading with her to stay, I can't tell. Either way it doesn't matter, I know that she's stubborn to a fault with her decision. Nothing he can say will change that.
So while they talk, Rocket and I say our goodbyes to the people on the bus. It's a quick affair, partly because I never spent much time getting to know any of them, and partly because it feels like I'm somehow abandoning them. Only to pour salt in the wound by taking Rocket too. Her farewell takes longer but she still manages to keep it brief – for that I'm grateful. The bus is like a cocoon of guilt and I'm eager to escape it.