“How long have I been out?” I ask her.
“Ten minutes.” She smiles at me. “The longest ten minutes of my life.”
Over the new few minutes, I manage to stand, sling my pack over my shoulders, and take a few steps without too much grunting. The fact that I can stand and walk means I haven’t broken my back, though running right now would be impossible.
“All right,” I say, “let’s g—”
The pain flares up suddenly, the same vicious, stabbing, ripping, grinding…
“Oh God fucking damn it,” I say as my legs give out again.
I fall to my knees and struggle to remain upright, as if doing so is a way of resisting the truth: that this is the end of my road, right here. Once I collapse, there will be no getting up again.
One thing I need to do first, before the end.
“Run home,” I tell Melanie. “Don’t argue. Just go.”
I sound like my father in his final moments: defeated, faced with certain death, and ready for it.
Melanie falls to her knees in front of me, adoring green eyes roaming my face.
“I’ll wait,” she says. “You just need more time. The smoke will keep away the virals for—”
I cut her off. “Shut up.”
A wounded look comes over her. “I’m sorry, Kip.”
I fight back a surge of self-pity. When she’s gone, I’ll let myself cry.
“There’s something you should know,” I tell her. “I don’t love you. I was going to hurt you. Rape you. And kill your mother and sister so I could take your stash. I’ve done it before.”
“You’re lying,” she says with a few quick shakes of her head.
“I’m not. It’s the truth. So get out of here.”
Her eyes fill with tears. She is still shaking her head—more slowly now, as if in addition to shock and sadness, she also feels disappointment. My face remains as hard as I can make it. The constant sting and throb in my gouged right eye makes it easier to feel like a monster, like Wheels, whose spirit I pretend has possessed me.
“Kip…”
“I said shut up. Don’t you get it? I would’ve followed you home to your stash. That’s all I cared about. I don’t feel anything for you. Just go away so I can die in peace.”
The words ring hollow in my ears. My heart shivers instead of beats, pumping ice-cold blood that chills the rest of me. That same chill washes over Melanie. I can tell by the way her eyes widen slightly in disbelief.
“Go away,” I tell her. “This is your fault.”
“Is it?” she says with a sniffle. “Then just tell me one thing.”
“Aren’t you listening to me?” I yell at her. “Just go! Fucking get out of here!”
She blinks but doesn’t budge an inch.
“That’s all I needed to know,” she says.
“What are you talking about?”
My entire body is trembling now, my back painfully stiff. Another minute and I’ll be on the ground again. She can’t be here when that happens. She might never leave.
“What are you talking about?” I ask her again. “Why won’t you just leave me here?”
“Because,” she says, blinking away fresh tears, “you truly love me.”
Before I can say anything, she leans forward and kisses me.
My resolve vanishes. I don’t want to die, I just want to be with her. My body conveys the message by trembling all the more fiercely. After a moment, our lips part, but our foreheads remain pressed against each other as we both start crying. I place a hand on the side of her face and caress it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I know that. You’re a bad liar, Kip. That’s why I love you.”
I want to respond, but I heave at a sudden onslaught of pain. She catches me and lowers me to the ground.
“Your eye,” she says. “I’ll take care of it. Just breathe, let your muscles relax.”
She goes for her pack and digs out a handkerchief and a tube of anti-bacterial ointment. She spreads the ointment over the handkerchief and gets to work wrapping it around my head to cover my right eye.
“Get up,” she says.
“No,” I tell her.
My voice is soft and calm. There’s no use arguing. I silently tell my father that I know exactly how he felt when I went for that medicine. Why bother?
“Please,” Melanie says, her eyes pleading. “Don’t give up.”
“I’m—done,” I manage to say.
She throws herself over me.
“I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to be without you.”
I push her away and look down at my chest.
“The gun,” I say.
Sobbing uncontrollably now, Melanie nods and says, “Okay.”
She pulls the 9mm out of my chest holster and stands over me. I raise a hand to pause her for a second as I push myself up to my knees. A sharp ache and a spell of dizziness nearly force me back down, but I hold steady and look at her, shivering.
“Pull the slide,” I tell her. “Don’t be scared.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod gravely at her. “I’ll slow you down.”
“No you won’t. I can—”
“Stop. This is how it is.”
Melanie nods again before yanking back the slide.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m luckier than anyone.”
“I’m glad I met you. I’ll never forget you. And—and I love you.”
My heart breaks. I look down at the weeds and close my eyes against a surge of hot tears.
“I love you, too,” I tell her.
CHAPTER 15
Melanie never fires.
Instead of a gunshot, I hear the low rumble of an engine.
My left eye shoots open. I look up at Melanie, feeling like I’ve awoken out of a nightmare. She swings the pistol in the direction of the warehouse. I twist to see what might be there and my back gives out again. I fall to my stomach, gritting my teeth in anger.
“What is that?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say between grunts. “But get down.”
She drops to one knee. The engine noise grows louder. It’s coming from farther up the road that leads out of the industrial park—a battered truck engine, it sounds like. My uncle Frank had an old pickup that made a noise just like it.
“It’s a truck,” I say. “I’m almost sure of it.”
The rumbling dies down until it cuts off completely, followed by the thin squeal of brakes as the vehicle comes to a full stop.
I can barely see anything. From down here, my view is blocked by a tangled mess of brambles between me and the parking lot. Crouching would solve the problem, but my back screams at me to stay put.
“Can you see anything?” I ask Melanie.
She rises into a crouch and gazes out at the lot.
“No, nothing at all. Not even virals.”
I let out an impatient sigh. Who knows what it could mean for us? The people in that truck could be killers or saviors.
I crane my neck to get a better view, but all I see is the black smoke billowing out of the warehouse’s busted upper windows. A plume of it escapes the hatch to form a dull smear across the sky. The building is still standing, but it looks oddly bent; I doubt it’ll be standing a month from now.
If I extend my neck a few more inches, I can look through a narrow slit in the brambles that allows for a limited view of the building’s far corner and a slice of the parking lot. Several seconds go by in which I don’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary, until finally something appears.
An infected man comes stumbling around the corner wearing a coat of flames, arms swinging around his smoking torso like he’s trying to clear the air of insects. A normal person would have dropped to the ground and rolled. Not this guy; obviously confused, he makes a series of irrational and erratic motions, like he’s stone drunk instead of on fire.
&
nbsp; Seconds go by. How is it that he doesn’t fall?
A rifle goes off. Melanie and I shudder at the sound.
Still covered in flames, the infected man lunges as if an invisible leash around his neck has been yanked. He falls flat on his face in a burst of smoke.
“Raiders,” I say. “But why—”
Melanie cuts me off. “Kip, I’m going to carry you. Let’s go.”
“No, wait.”
I can’t turn away just yet. There is still a mystery to solve.
What kind of raider would waste ammo on an infected person already on the verge of death? And why would they stick around when it’s obvious only a miracle could have saved any supplies that might have been inside the warehouse?
Unless the good guys have arrived, and shooting the flaming man was a mercy kill.
“I need to see who it is,” I tell her.
The next minute is torture. Who’s around that corner? Why are they taking so long to appear? Maybe they’re trying the side door, but that doesn’t make sense. The inside is clearly destroyed. All they can expect to find in there is smoke and debris.
“What if it’s raiders?” Melanie says. “A whole truck full of them?”
“The truck,” I say. “We might be able to take it.”
“You mean kill them? With the condition you’re in?”
The engine starts again with a rumble.
“Shhh…” I motion for her to get down.
Through the narrow slit in the brambles, I watch as something big appears from around the corner. It inches slowly into the lot. Even though all I see are isolated details—a curved metal plate, a muddy headlight, a side mirror above a dent in the door—I know enough to confirm my fear. The vehicle is a battered, dust-covered truck with a snowplow attached to the front, and it’s about to drive right over the corpse of the infected man.
I flinch at the sound of bones crunching beneath the wheels.
“Oh my God,” Melanie whispers.
My neck cramps up. I lower my head and slip out the clamshell mirror. I snap it open with one hand and lift it to catch a glimpse of the parking lot.
I’m just in time. As the truck crawls into view, I see a dark, hunched figure in the driver’s seat, a passenger’s seat that is thankfully empty, and a burly black man standing in the back. He leans against the roof and holds a hunting rifle.
My initial thought is that I’m looking at raiders, but that assessment quickly changes when I see the cargo being transported in the truck’s bed.
People are sitting against the sides, heads bowed in misery. They look to be all female, but as I twist the mirror to follow their movement, I catch sight of a man’s graying head.
Suddenly, Melanie grabs my arm and pulls it down.
“They might see the reflection,” she says.
“Good call.”
I ponder what their arrival means. Unlike raiders, these men didn’t come here to gather supplies. If that were the case, they would have taken off by now, uninterested in a fiery wreck. These men in the truck are seeking something else.
Melanie stares at my face. I slide the mirror into its pouch, avoiding her questioning look. The last thing I want is for her to panic.
“What did you see?” she asks me.
“Melanie, whatever happens, you stay down. Promise me.”
“Kip, who are they?”
I hesitate. “Slavers.”
Her face crumples in a look of terror. “Oh, Jesus. Oh my God.”
“Shhh… Just stay down.”
“But they know someone is here. The smoke…”
I know what she’s thinking. Someone had to light the warehouse on fire, after all.
There might still be hope, though.
“Not if they think the fire killed them,” I say. “If they think everyone was inside, they’ll go in, or leave.”
Melanie finds no relief in my words. She looks away, shaking her head slowly. I want to put a hand on her back and tell her they’ll be gone soon, but even I don’t believe that. Until now, the only thugs we’ve had to deal with are raiders, who know only three things: how to steal, rape, and kill.
Slavers, on the other hand, are a different breed.
They’re like those people that try to build utopias in the mountains, my father had explained to me once. Except they don’t recruit doctors or carpenters. They’re not interested in rebuilding society or living a long and healthy life. All they care about is satisfying their animal urges while doing the least amount of work possible. The unfortunate souls they take back to their camps become slaves—old men who can work without posing a threat; old women who can plant gardens, cook, and wash their clothes; young girls they keep for pleasure. That, my dear son, is why slavers don’t go out on supply runs, because supplies are temporary and finite. But people are the gift that keeps on giving.
I recall those words—the gift that keeps on giving—as I stare at the pistol in Melanie’s hands. Should those men find us, they will shoot me on sight, no questions asked. But Melanie they’ll keep, feeding off her youth and energy for only God knows how many years or decades.
“We’ll kill them,” I say. “Give me the gun.”
She hands it over.
“You can’t shoot them from here, though,” she says. “The trees.”
I believe her, but I look for a line of sight anyway. My lower back is still a knot of pain and stiffness. Lifting myself into a crouched position is too risky—my back might give out again—but I might have a clear line of sight through a path that lies between us and the back corner of the parking lot, where I can see some of the red tanks.
“Right there,” I say, gesturing toward it with a thrust of my chin.
Melanie studies the narrow space.
The truck is still moving. I can tell not just by the quiet rumble of the engine, which could simply be idling, but by the constant, quiet sound of wheels crunching along the pavement. My guess is they plan on turning in a wide, slow arc so the guy with the rifle can scan the surrounding woods from his elevated position.
“I need them to keep driving forward.”
“All the way to the back?” Melanie says. “What if they turn around?”
I lift the 9mm just high enough to answer her question. The look she gives me in response tells me she thinks I’m crazy.
We stare at each other, listening to the truck crunching toward the back of the lot. I aim down the length of the path. Maybe I can shoot the driver while he’s in the act of turning—assuming he enters my line of sight.
But that isn’t going to happen. Melanie places her hand on my arm and gently lowers it.
“What are doing?” I ask her.
She slips the bow off her shoulders and sets it aside, then reaches back to gather all of her arrows into one hand. She sets those aside as well.
“Melanie, don’t move,” I tell her in a fierce whisper.
I reach out to grab her, but I end up closing my fingers around empty air. Melanie is already on her feet. Within seconds, she’s standing at the edge of the parking lot, in view of the men in the truck—a healthy teenage girl with her hands up in clear surrender, not a weapon in sight, giving herself to a pair of men that might even be worse than the Colonel and his merry band of killers.
I want to shout at her to run, just run away, as fast as she can. But I keep silent. The man with the rifle has spotted her and has her in his sights. He could easily shoot me the moment I make a move. Then Melanie would truly be screwed, as my gun is the only chance she has.
She continues moving along the edge of the parking lot toward the back corner, and I watch as the truck makes a sharp turn and starts driving straight toward Melanie.
This might actually work.
I aim the pistol at the space in front of Melanie. With a roar of its shaky engine, the old Dodge lurches across the lot, coming to a stop almost where I need it to. Ignoring the pain in my back, I crawl on elbows and knees to get a better view, but not far enough to risk
exposure.
“Hold it!” a man shouts. “Stop right there!”
Melanie freezes mid-step.
“Don’t hurt me,” she says, lifting her arms higher.
I crane my neck to see around the tree trunk that’s in my way. The black guy with the dreadlocks leans over the truck’s roof, aiming his hunting rifle at Melanie. The weapon is dirty, with a worn stock, and his technique is utterly flawed—rather than tilt his head inward to sight along the barrel’s length, he tilts it away.
The driver-side door creaks open and slams shut. The driver appears from around the side of the truck opposite me, taking careful but confident steps toward Melanie as he tucks a shiny revolver into the back of his pants. He’s a fleshy, orange-bearded man with a protruding gut and a perfectly bald head. This tells me he’s from a camp where shaving—and its inevitable waste of water—is a habit instead of a luxury.
He wears a dark blue, plaid shirt that appears to be clean and is tucked into an equally fresh pair of jeans. His boots are muddy but intact. As he approaches Melanie, he grabs his belt around the sides and lifts his pants in a manly gesture. This is a guy who grooms himself and takes care of his clothes as if the Outbreak never happened—as if survival were not the most urgent matter.
Despite his manly strut, his voice is thin and high, and I detect the uncertainty of a man who never learned to wear his power with the same ease that comes naturally to men like the Colonel. It probably still comes as a surprise to him every time he beds a pretty girl, even against her will. Before the Outbreak, decent women probably ignored him.
I keep the 9mm aimed at him.
“Are you alone?” he asks Melanie.
She nods.
“You know what happened here?”
Another nod, this one more frantic.
“You feel like tellin’ me? Or do I have to, uh”—smiling, he throws a glance over his shoulder at the man with the rifle, then looks back at Melanie—“do I have to fuck the truth out of you? Huh, girl?”
His threat falls flat. He must know it did. But who is there to judge him in this new world, where men like him can make their own laws just by pointing a gun?
Hatred wells inside of me. It eats away at the knot in my back, restoring me, letting me to rise into a crouch.
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