by Tracey Ward
I take a shallow, shaky breath and look at her with tears streaming down my face. I’m so tired of them. Of needing them, of fearing not having them.
“I think so. I don’t want them, but I need them. They’re important,” I croak, crying in earnest now.
“How often do you need them?”
“Once a day.”
She nods kindly and caresses my hand with her soft, wrinkled one. “Then I’ll see that you get them. Let’s take one now. You’ve been out almost a full day.”
She goes to a drawer and pulls out a bottle, pops one of my familiar pills in her hand, and brings it to me. I’m just swallowing it down when I hear footsteps hurrying down the hall toward us.
“Here he comes,” the woman says with a smile, and exits the seat beside me.
Jordan comes jogging through the doorway and smiles in relief when he sees me. He nods to my elderly caretaker and takes the now vacant seat beside me.
“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly, his voice hushed as though we’re in a library.
“Like an idiot,” I say.
I’m still sobbing a little and I’m trying to get it under control, but seeing his face and how genuinely happy he is that I’m alright cuts me to the core. I feel like I’m lying to him and I hate it, and most of all, I hate myself. For so many reasons.
“Hey,” he says gently as I throw my arm over my eyes again and weep silently. “You’re not an idiot, Ali. Are you in pain? Meredith,” I hear him turn in his chair to address the old woman. “Can we give her anything?”
“I’m not in pain,” I mumble and try to take deep breathes. I feel like such a wimp. I’m tougher than this. At least I thought I was.
“Is it your pills? The ones in your pocket?” Jordan asks and, God bless him, he doesn’t even ask what they are. “Do you need one?”
“She just took one,” Meredith says quietly. “She’ll be alright in a bit. Let her breathe.”
Jordan does as Meredith tells him. He stays silent, waiting for me to calm down, and presses his hand softly on top of mine. I concentrate on breathing, on locking this emotional outburst down. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel raw and like such an unbelievable wreck. Maybe it’s the drugs or the relief of finding my drugs or the aftershock of being cornered in that hallway, but I’m worried it’s because I haven’t taken one in too long and I’m already spiraling. Stress can bring on an episode and maybe my meds aren’t strong enough to combat the stress of the end of the world.
Finally, I take my arm away from my eyes and attempt to smile weakly at Jordan.
“You should go,” I tell him, and I’m proud that my voice is firm. “Evey said you were helping Taylor on the door. That’s more important than watching me cry.”
He grimaces and shifts uncomfortably.
“I probably should get back,” he admits reluctantly. “Evey took my place so I could come here, but she and Taylor… they don’t get along.”
I remember the conversation yesterday about what Taylor had to do to Evey’s brother and I grimace as well.
“Yeah, you need to get back. Now.”
He stands and hesitates, staring down at me. I’m sure I look a mess, but I try to look as solid as I can, my eyes unwaveringly locked on his. I don’t want him worrying.
“You’ll be okay, right?” he asks, and I know from his tone that this is our “talk” about the pills in my pocket.
“Yes,” I say, and I don’t think of it as lying. More like hoping. “I will be okay.”
He watches me for a long moment and I continue to hold his gaze, determined to be strong for him the way he has been for me. I’m surprised when he leans down and swiftly presses his lips against my forehead. Then he’s gone.
***
I’m in the makeshift infirmary for another two days before Meredith says I can walk around without tearing my stiches. Jordan visits me often, pretty much any chance he gets, and he’d sleep in here with me if Meredith would let him. She orders him out at 9pm on the dot each night. I don’t mind her keeping him away at night, not really, because I’m still weak emotionally and Meredith tells me that when I was out that first night I was talking in my sleep. Not the best habit for a secret keeper to have, so I like the solitude in my unguarded hours. I also think Jordan will actually sleep if he’s away from me, if he knows someone else is keeping watch. Someone always is, too. Meredith sleeps in one of the offices just next door to this room and when she’s not near me, Evey is. I’ve gathered that Meredith was a nurse in her youth and then became a doctor late in life, which I can understand because the woman is brilliant. She’s training Evey to be a nurse as well and the girl is smart but she could use some work on her bedside manner. She’s sour and sullen, and I understand because her brother was killed in front of her and if anyone has sympathy for that, it’s me. But she could be a little less of a jerk and I wonder if part of that wasn’t in her before.
“Well look who’s back!” Taylor calls, smiling at me as I hobble onto the sales floor.
The targets are still set up and my five students are waiting for me, bows in hand. Jordan takes my arm and helps me the rest of way where I collapse into a chair they’ve brought over for me. My leg burns a little bit but I try to ignore it, smiling widely at all of them.
“Alright, let’s learn to shoot,” I say happily, and when Taylor hands me my bow, I feel excited and strong.
“You sure you should be the one teaching us?” Evey asks dryly. “You almost got taken down by just one.”
Pulling my bow into position, I reach down and grab an arrow from my quiver at my feet, notch it and sight a mannequin easily over a hundred feet away. I fire and my arrow sinks deep into the face, right between the eyes and snaps the head off.
I smile at her sweetly.
“I didn’t have my bow with me.” I look away to address the rest of the group. “And now we know. Rule One: Always have your bow. Rule Two is shut up and shoot. Who’s first?”
Taylor is first, and by the end of the two hours I relent to his pestering and tell him to try and mimic my shot at the mannequin. One of the other guys in the class, a man in his forties with a beer belly, jogs down the aisles, retrieves my arrow and balances the head back on the body. Taylor hits the thing in the right shoulder, which is actually still a good shot for a beginner. After he’s taken the shot, I notice that Evey has disappeared and I imagine she’s not as impressed with Taylor’s shooting as the rest of us.
Jordan and Taylor continue their task of barricading the open entry way, two stories of all glass, and I wonder if they will ever finish. I wander around the store aimlessly, testing my leg and looking for something to do. I find the camping section and discover an assembled hammock, which I gratefully park in to rest my leg. I don’t mean to fall asleep, but I must have dozed because when I hear my name and open my eyes, it’s getting dark in the building again.
“You missed lunch,” Jordan tells me, standing at the side of the hammock. “It’s dinner time.”
My stomach rumbles but I’m not interested in leaving the comfort of my hammock just yet. My leg is throbbing slightly and I know I overdid it today. I should have gone straight back to my cot after archery lessons. I look at Jordan to tell him I’m not hungry, but frown when our eyes meet. His face is drawn and his eyes are a little red. I can’t believe I didn’t notice this morning.
“Jordan, have you still not been sleeping?”
He looks away and shrugs, evading the question as he always does.
“Answer me,” I tell him, my voice suddenly stern. It surprises him, hell, it surprises me, and his eyes swing back to mine.
“No,” he says. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”
I move to get up and give him the hammock. “Here, get in and sleep. You can’t keep going like this.”
“Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself,” he protests, pushing gently against my shoulders and keeping me in the hammock.
“Fine,” I say, scooting over. “Then
you get in.”
“What?”
“I’m serious, get in. You’re taking a nap. Here, give me my bow.”
Jordan hands it to me and I lay it on my stomach so it runs the length of my body. “Now get in and go to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
I know for a fact that he’s exhausted because he doesn’t fight. He climbs in gingerly beside me, careful not to sway us too much or bump me around. Once we’re both settled in and lying on our backs, staring at the ceiling, I turn my face to his. He is so very close, it startles me a little. I can see his profile; his strong jaw, long eye lashes and the dark circles under his eyes. I remind myself that he has secrets too, things that keep him up at night, and I decide to make a trade.
“I’ll show you mine,” I tell him with a wry smile. “If you show me yours.”
He stares at me, his face shocked and very, very interested.
“Okay,” he replies slowly.
I nod and look away. “The pills I take, they’re because of an illness. A m… an emotional illness.”
The words leave my mouth and take all of the air in my body with them. I feel like I’m falling and my heart is thundering in my chest, and if this keeps up, I’ll pass out.
“Like depression?”
“Kind of, yeah,” I whisper.
“Is that why you were crying? Had you run out?”
I’m afraid I’ll cry again right now.
“I was running out,” I admit slowly. “But that’s not why I was crying. I was upset because… because I don’t want to take them anymore, I don’t want to need to take them, I hate depending on them and I hate feeling like I’m not enough, that I’m not strong enough or brave enough to face things on my own, to live my life without them.” The words are spilling out of me and I swallow, trying to stop them, to pull them back inside, but instead they keep coming. “My mother died and I was there and sometimes, if I’m not careful I relive it over and over and she’s with me and it should be wonderful but it’s horrible and a nightmare and I take the pills to keep the nightmare away but I wish I could keep it away on my own but I don’t know how. I don’t know if I can.”
I’m breathless, as though I’ve run a marathon, when in reality what I’ve done is share more honesty with him than I ever shared with my therapist. It’s terrifying and liberating at the same time. Jordan doesn’t respond right away and I wait patiently, letting him decide if he wants to show me his now that I’ve shown him mine.
“I lied,” he says eventually, his voice quiet and low. “My sister is dead. She died the first day. Probably in the first hour.” His voice becomes constricted and he stops for a second. “When I fall asleep I see her but she’s never… she’s not herself for long. She changes, becomes one of them, and she just stares at me. She sits in front of me and stares at me with those dead white eyes. And I’m scared of her. I’m ashamed of myself, but I’m so afraid of her.”
I close my eyes and feel a single tear slip out of my eye. I can’t seem to stop them lately.
“Is she why you stayed?” I ask, trying to find a fit for this puzzle piece that’s bothered me.
“Yeah. Everyone else left the building when it first started. I think some people hid in their rooms, but I doubt they stayed long. I was waiting for… her. I was waiting for her to come back from a tour of the campus.”
I swallow then ask quietly. “Did she come back?”
“Yes,” he says, his voice all gravel. “She came back, but she didn’t make it to me. An hour after it started things had gone quiet. Then I heard this commotion downstairs and I knew someone living was being attacked. The zombie at my door, the one you eventually killed, he left to go see what was happening.”
“And it was her?” I whisper, more tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes.
“It was her. By the time I got there, she was gone.”
We stay silent for a long time and I can’t believe I’m sharing with another person like this, that I told him about my mother and that he was willing to open up to me about his sister. We’ve known each other for only a matter of days, but there’s something about facing down death and the end of the human race that builds fast friendships. Jordan is vitally important to me now and I appreciate what a blessing and a burden that is.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” I tell him, wiping my eyes.
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
I turn to look at him again and find him already watching me.
“Go to sleep, Jordan,” I say softly. “I’ll stay with you. I can’t keep the nightmares away, but I swear I won’t leave you alone with them.”
He searches my eyes and a ghost of smile tugs at his lips. “Ditto.”
I grin at him and look away before I start bawling my eyes out. I’ll never hold him to that. He has no idea what it means.
“Tell me a story,” he says, and when I glance at him in surprise, I see his eyes are closed.
“What?” I ask with a chuckle. “A bedtime story?”
“I have one in mind.”
“There once was a man from Nantucket. He had—“
“Not that one,” he scolds, opening one eye to glare at me.
“Oh.”
“Tell me about the desert.”
I freeze, unsure if he means what I think. “What are you talking about?”
“You were talking in your sleep that first day you were hurt,” he explains, crossing his arms over his chest and getting more settled. “You said my name several times and you mumbled something about the desert and doors and stars. I like the way it sounds. I want to hear the rest.”
I blush but when he closes his eyes again I relent.
“I was hating walls at the time,” He smiles, but keeps his eyes shut. “It made me think of you. I thought we should go to the desert where there are no walls and no locked doors that you can’t hide behind. We could take this hammock and put it out in the middle of nowhere, where we can see for miles and sound carries the way it does across water; uninterrupted and perfect. We’ll swing in the warm, dry desert breeze, covered in grit and sand and not caring because we know now what real troubles are and sand and grit are not them. Everything will be sweeter, prettier because we strove for it. Because we appreciate it more. The sky will be a pure, velvety black above us, strewn with more stars than we could ever count in a thousand lifetimes, and we’ll take turns wishing on shooting stars. And we’ll both sleep through the night peacefully, and wake up in the morning to cool air and the yellow, pink glow of the sun rising on another day.”
“What do we wish for?” Jordan mumbles, and I can tell he’s falling asleep.
His head drifts toward me and I lean mine over until they’re resting against each other. He burrows closer to me, pressing his body the full length of mine.
“Whatever we want,” I whisper.
As his breathing deepens and his head presses harder against mine, his muscles going lax, I know what my wish is. And it’s not what I ever thought it would be.
Chapter Thirteen
It’s not until a week after that evening in the hammock that trouble arrives.
I heal up well because Meredith, as I have said, is a genius. I’m released from sleeping in the kitchen after my fifth night there, when she is convinced my leg won’t rot and fall off while I sleep, and I get my first peek at the rest of what I am beginning to consider a settlement. There are fifteen people housed here, seventeen including Jordan and I, but we privately don’t count ourselves. We aren’t staying. There are three children; two girls and one boy ages seven, ten and eleven. What they do all day is a mystery to me, but I see them every night when we all go to sleep in the stock rooms.
Well, all of us but those on rotation as guards on the roof. There are always people on the roof, always patrols running and it feels pretty safe. Jordan is still antsy though. We share an air mattress in the stockroom down one of the many isles of excess goods. It’s a pretty tight space, long though narrow, but when I offered to sleep f
arther down to give him more room, he brushed it off and told me to come to bed. There is something very intimate about the phrasing, but when we sleep it’s always back to back. He’s still having trouble sleeping and sometimes in the night I’ll feel him jerk awake, take a few deep breaths and go rigidly still until he’s out again. On our second night like this, when he startles awake, I reach behind myself and touch his hand. We never speak a word about it, but he’s taken hold of my hand before dozing off every night since.
The front windows and doors are finally finished. Taylor, Jordan and some of the others have brought all excess shelves, tables and fixtures from around the store to help block the entrance, and even if the glass is shattered, a person or infected would have to find their way through a labyrinth of metal and wood to get inside. It may not be a perfect solution, but short of building a new wall or welding, neither of which they are currently capable of, it’s as good as we can get. At the very least, it will make entry slow and possibly painful, which gives us plenty of time to defend ourselves.
I’m holding class, the last one I plan on doing, and I feel like everyone is excelling. Even Jordan. We’ve moved up from practice tips on the arrows to more elaborate ones. I finally got my hands on the chisel point broadheads I’ve been dreaming of since day one and I’m itching for a chance to try one out on a zombie skull. I’ve made sure Jordan has some as well because when we make our exit, hopefully soon, I want to make sure he doesn’t have to rely on too much accuracy. Headshots are hard enough, getting it inside the eye is a bear.
Taylor’s walkie suddenly goes crazy about halfway into class and we all stop to listen.
“Vehicle approaching! Vehicle approaching!”
“Everyone on point! Now!” Cal shouts in response.
We all scramble to grab every last arrow and Taylor checks the clip in his gun. He looks up at me and hesitates.
“What?” I ask.
“How are you with a gun?”
“I’m better with an arrow.”
“But you can shoot a gun, right? You’ve hunted with one before.”