The Comatose

by Kate Myers

  Shuffling footsteps catch my attention from below. They’re all funneling into Max’s room, closing the door behind them like I don’t somehow realize they’re having secret little meetings behind my back. I’m the outsider, I get it. I probably wouldn’t trust me either.

  To give them some space, I grab my gun from off the dresser, holster it, and make my way down the stairs. I open the front door and the warm air from outside welcomes me kindly. I slowly stride down the few steps, landing gently onto the grass below. I inhale deeply, closing my eyes and soaking up the serene nature surrounding me.

  Something catches in my hearing, and all of my senses become on high alert.

  A thudding, and maybe even grunting.

  Almost immediately, I take off in a sprint to the cellar, the sound becoming louder the closer I get. I lift the old weathered hatch and quickly draw my weapon, preparing for the worst. It takes a second for the light to funnel in and my eyes to adjust to the carnage.

  The deranged man, pounding his fist into the comatose woman.

  He must have somehow gotten loose from his restraints, a task that never should have been assigned to Wiley.

  The savage man settles his eyes on me and stops beating the visibly deceased woman. Still in a crouched position, he hobbles on his heels to face me, letting out a low groan. Without giving him a chance to react, I pull the trigger rapidly, one to the chest, another to the head.

  His bulky body falls to the floor, and the military man in me recognizes I have to clean up the mess I made.

  42

  Wiley

  I open my mouth to speak but am startled and cut off by the sound of gunshots. Two to be exact.

  Keith’s eyes widen, and then he speaks. “Girls, stay here.” He points in my direction. “You, come with me.” He grabs a gun from the nightstand drawer, checking the chamber and then flipping the safety.

  With a fluid and cautious motion, he turns the knob, opening the door and using the barrel of the gun to pry it farther open. Cowering behind him, I do my best not to step on his heels, following close. We make quick progress on the first floor and, arriving in the kitchen, Keith snatches a concealed gun from behind a cabinet door.

  Extending the gun to me, he says, “Here.”

  I swallow deeply and wonder why anyone would trust me with one of these things.

  I awkwardly take the gun, and he nods like he doesn’t somehow know I have no idea what I’m doing. I fake confidence and do the same movements I saw him do only moments earlier.

  As I head toward the backdoor, panic starts to rise. There’s a level of safety within the cabin and willingly stripping it by going outside doesn’t seem much appealing. My heart races, and uncertainty creeps in, sinking its teeth into me.

  Keith places his hand on the knob at the same time it moves on its own, Alex bursting through on the other side. Keith raises his gun in a flash and holds it steady while Alex throws up his arms and starts to speak, walking backward slightly.

  “Whoa there, it’s just me,” he retorts.

  Keith eyes him suspiciously. “We heard gunshots.”

  With his arms still in the air and the gun still drawn toward him, he defends, “I went outside, to get out of the house for a bit and heard a noise. Ran to the cellar and found the deranged man beating the comatose woman to death. I had to put him down.”

  Christ, how did that even happen? I secured him well, but maybe not well enough. I always manage to screw everything up, even the times I’m trying my best not to.

  “And the woman?” Keith asks, gun still raised.

  “She’s dead. She was dead before I got there. I don’t know how long he’d been at her.”

  “Show me.” Keith motions with his gun toward the cellar.

  “A little courtesy if you don’t mind?” Alex nods at the gun.

  “Oh, right.” Keith lowers the gun but doesn’t put it away just yet. He turns to look over his shoulder. “Lock the door behind me. Go let the girls know what’s going on. Don’t open the door to anyone except me.”

  “O-okay,” I stutter, shutting the door and watching intently while he walks away. Once he’s out of eyesight range, I run straight to the bedroom and fill the girls in.

  “Holy crap,” Skylar mutters. “And you just let him go?”

  “Have you ever defied Keith Sinclair? He’s more of a do-what-he-says kind of guy.”

  “True.” Quinn snorts.

  “Anyway, I’m going to go stand guard by the door, I guess, wait for him to come back.”

  I head to the kitchen much slower than I made my way to the bedroom, pausing to lean against a barstool during my wait.

  Gun still in my hand, I place it gently on the counter to wipe my palms on my jeans. Moments pass, and worry consumes me. What if this is some weird ploy to kidnap Keith? What if Alex knew what we were up to and eliminated the problem like we had tried to eliminate him? What if he’s taken him already and will hold him captive until Keith solves the massive epidemic? What the hell would I do without Keith? What will happen to Max? I can’t continue to sit here like a bump on a log and do nothing; I have to go after them and make sure he’s okay.

  With a deep breath, I straighten my posture, picking up the cold, solid gun and take it firmly into my grasp.

  A simple twist of the deadbolt and turn of the knob, and I’m outside. The sweetly humid summer air fills my lungs in an instant. Without allowing too much thought, I start my voyage to the cellar. One footstep followed by another, gingerly and fearfully moving toward the unknown.

  “Ah, what the hell?” I overhear Keith say angrily.

  I pick up my pace, holding the gun out ahead of me, hands trembling. I round the corner and spot Keith and Alex carrying the large deranged man clumsily out of the cellar. Relief floods through me, and I’ve never been so thankful to see a dead person, or, well, the right dead person.

  “Just in time,” Keith sputters, partially out of breath. “Go grab a shovel.”

  43

  Skylar

  In the evening, I make my way to the kitchen to find a drink, hoping there is something warm to soothe my aching body. In the chaos of everything, I’ve managed to push away how I’ve physically felt, concentrating only on Max. Now that I’ve spent so much time doing nothing but willing him to wake up, exhaustion fits me like a glove and refuses to let go. Every muscle in me throbs, and my body feels drastically heavier than it should. Not to mention the immense sadness locked inside consuming me that only Max holds the key to.

  In the cupboard next to the refrigerator, I locate a few different boxes of tea. Earl Grey, green, and chamomile. I decide on the latter and open two more cupboards before I remember where the mugs are. The white floral oversized mug grabs my attention, but even standing on my tiptoes, I can’t seem to reach it.

  While retrieving a chair to stand on, Alex walks into the kitchen and offers his help—his long, sturdy arm able to reach the highest section of the cabinet with ease. He hands me the mug.

  “Thanks,” I say gratefully. “Tea?”

  “Sure, yeah. That would be great.” He says the words with a hint of sadness lingering.

  I’m reminded of how little I know about him.

  Once I’ve filled the kettle and placed it on the stove, I lean against the counter and study Alex. His endlessly dark eyes are piercing, the frown lines between his eyebrows permanently creased.

  “So,” I say to kill the awkward silence that’s formed between us. “You’re leaving in the next couple of days?” I watch closely and note how he appears seemingly unfazed by my questioning.

  “Yes, ma’am. I need to report back. I hadn’t anticipated being gone this long.”

  “Understandable,” I reply, side-eyeing the stovetop to double-check I turned the right burner on. “Do you have a family you’re returning to?”

  In the slightest, he flinches and regains composure, only a hint of response that most people might not even notice.

  “No,” is all he say
s, such a small word that means so little but also so much.

  “Everyone tells me you’re pretty private, you keep to yourself when you’re not busy devising plans and playing superhero.”

  At this, he laughs faintly. “That pretty much sums me up.”

  “Hmm, so tell me something about you, something you haven’t told the group yet.”

  His frown line wrinkles itself. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like none of us really know anything about you. Tell me something. It could be anything. Your favorite color or favorite food.”

  He squints like he’s trying to find the trick to the question. “Black, and lasagna.”

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I say, offering a smile to ease the tension from his lack of wanting to share personal information.

  “Only a little painful,” he responds with sarcasm I didn’t know he was capable of.

  “We’re not bad people, you know. We’re just all guarded, and it’s hard for us to take you at your word when you say so few of them.” He doesn’t say anything so I continue, “We’re all we have left. This tiny group of people, that’s it. We’re broken and so incredibly screwed up, but we can count on each other and we are what matter to one another.”

  He stares at me for an uncomfortable minute, and I think that maybe he won’t say anything else. At last, his mouth opens, speaking quietly, “I lost my wife and daughter.”

  His declaration stabs me in the heart, and I have to fight back the urge to hug him.

  “The um, The Reformation took them from me.”

  I have no idea what that entails but deep down I know it’s terrible. The more I learn about this group of people who infected the water supply and caused this epidemic—who managed to nearly kill me and might kill Max—the more I realize how horrific they are.

  “They’re dead,” he confirms.

  The kettle on the stove whistles loudly, and for the first few seconds, I don’t recognize the sound over the deafening sorrow consuming the room. I make quick work of our tea, chamomile for both of us, and take a seat next to Alex, the tall stool creaking as I get situated.

  I struggle to find words, knowing nothing will bring him comfort.

  “I’m so sorry, Alex. I don’t even know what to say.” I trace the handle of the mug with my middle finger and watch the steam rise.

  He doesn’t look away from the cup of tea in front of him when he says, “I only want to make them pay. I need that.”

  His proclamation is justified, and when I piece together the minimal yet powerful information, his behavior and demeanor since he arrived becomes much clearer. He’s in pain. Alex has essentially shut off his humanity and turned into a robot with one thing on his mind, getting revenge. Here we thought he had some horrible secret like he was the bad guy, the puppeteer in control of this nightmare, but in reality he was hiding himself and the trauma he’s experienced. The man who is Alexander Sanchez is no villain, he’s just broken like the rest of us.

  Before I can form any type of response, Keith walks up behind us. I move sideways in my seat and notice his face is twisted in some mix between fear and uncertainty. Immediately my heart seems to drop into my stomach, dissolving into an endless pool of anxiety. I try to catch my breath, and it hitches, and I find myself unable to breathe normally. Alex’s eyes widen in response to my labored lungfuls, and his face turns from sadness to worry. He places his large calloused hand on my shoulder.

  “Are you okay?”

  I open my mouth to speak but am unable to form words. Mentally, I tell myself to stand, but can’t seem to get my mind to actually get my body to do what I want. I have to get to Max, something is wrong.

  Just when I finally convince my legs to work, my eyes lock on to the cause of Keith’s dismay. Like a flash before my eyes, a syringe plunges itself into Alex’s totally unaware neck. I gasp, reaching for the impossible, trying to form words, to tell Keith that we don’t have to do anything to Alex, that we can trust him, that he’s on our side.

  But I know it’s too late when Alex’s eyes bulge, and then close, his body slumping into his seat, bumping the cup of tea he never even got a chance to take a sip of.

  44

  Keith

  Although I’d like to believe that we could pull off faking Max’s death, Alex is too clever for that type of ruse. He would have wanted proof, or a blood sample, or something that would make the whole plan completely useless. I had to divert back to our plan B, locking him up until further notice. Not that it’s much of a plan, anyway, given I have no idea what we’ll eventually do with him.

  Wiley was right, Alex knows too much. He knows things that can compromise our safety and any chance of potential future survival. I couldn’t just sit there and let him leave, not if he’s clearly hiding something.

  Skylar’s reaction, although concerning, was the ideal distraction I needed to sneak up on Alex and render him unconscious. I had intended to spike the coffee in the morning, but when I caught a glimpse of the moment he and Skylar were sharing, I seized the opportunity.

  “W-what did you do?” Skylar demands through jagged breaths.

  “He’s okay.” I press my fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. I find what I’m looking for and ask, “Are you okay?”

  “Is Max okay?” she manages to say while holding her chest, breathing deeply through her nose.

  “Yes, well, I mean, no. But there haven’t been any changes.” I add, “I didn’t mean to startle you. I simply saw an opportunity and had to take it.”

  She starts to calm herself down and she shakes her head. A second passes and she says, “His family.”

  I don’t understand. “What?”

  “The, whatever we’re calling them, they took his family, Keith. They killed them.”

  I still don’t understand.

  “He just told me, and Jesus, it explains so much. He lost…everything.”

  I scan her tired face and then shift my gaze to Alex, his body lying lifeless against the island countertop, his weight slowly sliding off his stool. I grasp his shoulders and position him so he doesn’t continue to fall.

  My thoughts run wild like a child in a playground, unsure of what to settle on.

  “And you believe him?”

  Her glassy eyes impale me.

  “You can’t fake that kind of emotion; the heartbreak he shared with me was very real.”

  I sigh heavily, now unsure of what to do. I thought I was making the right decision but now I’m not so sure. I only incapacitated him and I would be a fool to think he’s going to wake up anything less than pissed off. I should have made a better effort to get him to talk, to get him to confide in me what he did with Skylar. Then maybe I could have persuaded him not to tell his group about us—about Max and what he did for Skylar.

  But that’s not what happened, and I can’t just back out now, I have to follow through with my plan.

  “Wiley!” I yell down the hall.

  Within a few seconds, his bushy head pops into the hallway, followed by, “What’s up, boss?”

  “A little help, please.”

  His eyes focus on the mound of man drooping onto the counter. “What the hell?”

  “Help me move him, okay?”

  I grab on to the right side of his torso, and Wiley grabs the left. We hoist him slightly and begin to transport him away from his seat.

  We’re situating his body weight between us when a person commands from across the cabin. “You guys, come quick.” Urgency lines Quinn’s voice, sending Skylar into a panic immediately and forcing her to burst from her seat and bound across the room.

  My worst fear comes to life in the realization that I may have made a terrible choice in using Max to save Skylar, and the consequence will be him leaving me forever.

  Wiley’s eyes meet mine. “What do we do?”

  “Here, let’s drop him on the couch,” I say in a rush. I move the brunt of Alex’s weight as quickly as humanly possible.


  His body thuds onto the couch, one arm flinging itself onto the coffee table.

  “Keith,” Quinn bellows. “Get in here.”

  I urge my feet to move faster, rounding the corner to Max’s bedroom. Upon entry, my heart stops, hand slapping over my mouth in utter disbelief.

  I inch closer, blinking back the tears forming, all of the fear since Max fell asleep bubbling up and overflowing.

  “You okay?” a tattered voice asks. A flood of emotions pulsates through me.

  I had started to convince myself I made a mistake, that the testing I had spent so much time on was wrong, and I had been a fool for thinking this would ever come close to working. Skylar had been saved but at the cost of Max. A bet I never should have wagered.

  But, like a wild animal being set free, seeing his eyes flutter open confirmed that we did the right thing, I made the right choice. Skylar was safe, and now, so was Max.

  Like slow motion, the scene in front of me unfolds—Quinn begins poking and prodding, asking Max if this hurts or that hurts—Skylar latched on to Max’s arm, crying against his side—Wiley standing back, shock and disbelief lining his face.

  I soak in my surroundings and the awareness that we’re all here, that we’re all safe, settles like a soft, warm blanket on a cold winter night. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for the group of people crammed tightly in this room. They are my family, all I have left. And I will do anything in my power to protect them, at all costs.

  I take a step closer, leaning toward Max. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” I fight the urge to cry. Suppressing the notion that I might lose him has been a heavy burden to carry. But now that I know he’s awake, I feel confident his body will continue to fight the virus surging through his veins. I don’t know how close of a call that was, but I know we can’t do that again, and I can’t let the information of what his blood can do leave this cabin.

  My thoughts trail to the living room. Now I have to figure out what to do with Alex.