by Tracey Ward
When I reach the water’s edge, I’m desperate to keep going. To walk right into the streaming, dark water and keep walking until it takes my feet out and whisks me away with the current. I want to be washed away like an infected, unable to stop myself, driven purely by one single minded goal that I can never be dissuaded from. Right now, I envy them and the simplicity of the life they lead. There are no complexities, no emotions, no decisions, no hesitations. No doubts. They want what they want and they give everything in their being toward achieving it and never have to struggle with whether or not it’s right or wrong. What a simple freedom that must be.
If I were an infected, I wouldn’t worry about my mind, and not just because someone ate it. I wouldn’t worry about what’s real and what’s not. I wouldn’t worry about the pills and not having them. I wouldn’t worry about Jordan and whether he’s right or wrong about Snickers. I wouldn’t wonder if we should take a boat or a car or go into that building or risk running through the streets or if I should risk losing an arrow or counting how many I have left.
As I stand there beside the river, it occurs to me how enticing it sounds to cut loose, tap out, and spare myself the trouble of all these worries and just walk into the river until I’m gone and forgotten, even to myself.
It also occurs to me that I have now been off my meds for almost a full day and I take a step back from the river. I back into a warm wall and I jump, startled. Jordan’s hands take gentle hold of my upper arms to still me and let me know it’s him, and I take a calming breath.
“Sorry.” he says quietly.
“It’s fine.”
It’s not fine. Who sneaks up on someone at a time like this? I want to yell this at him, but I’m spent and the fight is simply not in me at the moment.
“Not just for scaring you.”
I nod and repeat, “It’s fine.”
“I’m always going to wish we’d saved her.” he tells me, and the “we” in that sentiment is not lost on me.
“Me too.” I agree.
He wraps his arms around me, crossing them over my chest, and I lift my hands to hold onto him. When he rests his head on my shoulder, I press mine against it and feel suddenly so weary I could fall asleep right here, standing just like this.
“Let’s get back to the fire.” he says, his voice as tired as I feel. “We need to get some sleep.”
“We need to find a boat.” I mutter and I don’t know why it’s so important to me now, but I need to get into or onto that water somehow. And soon. I squeeze his arms a little tighter and hear the hiss as he sucks in a sharp breath. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” he says dismissively, and pulls his arms away.
“That’s right. She scratched you. Let me see.”
“It’s nothing, it’s fine.” he tells me, keeping his arms out of my reach.
“Jordan, I need to bandage them at least. Your rule, remember? No open wounds around them.”
“There are none around, I’m fine.”
“Another of your rules. Just because we don’t see them doesn’t mean they can’t show up anywhere at any time.”
“Wow, you really listen to me.”
“You’re pretty adamant about your zombie rules. I’m compelled to listen.” I take his hand and pull him back toward the fire. “Now let me bandage your arms and then you get a shot at tossing and turning while I stand guard.”
I have to build up the fire again to see his arms, and when I do, I suppress a gasp. The scratches are deep, really deep, and I’m worried he might even scar. I use more antibacterial swabs to clean them out, causing Jordan to hiss some more from the pain of the sting, and wrap both his arms in sterile white gauze. He promises to wear a long sleeved shirt he lifted from the house to help cover them while they heal, then he lies down to try and sleep. I hope he fares better than I did, but deep down I know he won’t. I don’t speak to him though. Instead, I pretend he’s out and I try not to listen to the constant music of the river trying to either lull me to sleep or into its arms. Either way, it’s a dangerous Siren and I wonder again why I want to go to it so badly.
I’ve been sitting there for what feels like hours when I catch movement to the right of the fire. It’s quick, too quick to be an infected, but it was pale as Death itself. It was a blur of white and gold, and my blood runs cold.
No, no, no. I think to myself, but it’s too late.
I’ve made my bed and it’s time to lie in it.
She emerges from the shadows, stepping out carefully from the trees. I can barely make her out through the shimmering, hot air and smoke rising from the fire, but I know it’s her. I know that long blond hair. I washed it and it’s a mess again, streaked in black blood. I can’t see her face and I’m thankful for small favors. Just seeing the shape and color of her is making me tremble.
“Jordan.” I say, not meaning to, but my voice squeaks out in a high, strangled cry.
“Hmm?” he asks sleepily.
I don’t take my eyes off her, and even though I can’t see them, I know her eyes are on me. I can feel the hate and anger rolling off of her, hotter than the fire dancing between us, and I would squirm beneath her stare if I could bring myself to move.
“I’m so sorry.” I whisper.
“Ali, we’re fine. I understand.” Jordan mumbles, thinking I’m talking to him.
She backs into the woods again, the eerie paleness of her disappearing in stages until there’s nothing left. My heart is hammering in my ears and I feel tears pouring down my face. I’m not sure I’m breathing.
“Hey,” Jordan says, trying to get my attention. “You okay?”
I nod my head.
I am not okay.
***
In the morning we both look like hell. I didn’t sleep at all. How could I? I sat all night, staring at the trees where Snickers disappeared. When we broke camp, I steered clear of them, afraid small, strong hands would reach out and grab me and never let me go. I, of course, told Jordan nothing. Things still feel shaky between us and I can’t bring myself to add fuel to the fire.
After eating a packet of Pop Tarts each, we stumble around like infected trying to repack and get our feet moving under us for another day of walking. I can’t believe we have been at this for a day and still haven’t seen a single boat. At this point, we’d be happy with a two person paddle boat. Preferably one with a canopy, but looters can’t be choosers, and we’d take anything.
Going into Salem is a scary prospect for two reasons. One, it’s a major city. The state capital, and while it doesn’t have the population Portland did, it’s still big and its location makes it a hot spot. Which brings us to reason two; it’s situated both on I-5, the route the infected have been following humanity on, and the river. Anyone with our same idea has been through here too and boats might be scarce. Also, anyone heading north out of Corvallis or Albany, looking for refuge, would have come here. Greater population means greater risk of infected and an easier climate for the infection to spread. If Portland has fallen, Salem is doomed as well. I have serious doubts about the reports and rumors that Eugene is still clean.
The one consolation of coming here is that the river runs entirely on the west side of the city. Most of Salem is farther east, straddling the interstate, leaving the river relatively deserted, unlike Portland where the Willamette wove through downtown. If we were forced to enter downtown Salem to search for a boat, I doubt Jordan would agree to it.
We hear Salem before we see it. The alarms sounding in the distance are a quick reminder of Portland’s last days. Apparently Salem held out longer, but it doesn’t matter because it’s burning now. When we round the bend of the river and make our way toward the city, we can see the chaos unfolding. There are infected everywhere. Mostly it’s the shamblers, which means The Fever has been here for a while now, but I see a lot of the fast ones, the ambulatory runners that indicate a fresh wave of infection rolling through the city. None of them can be more than twenty minutes old, and the fact
that there are so many is terrifying. The population of Salem had to have swelled due to people running from smaller areas to hide in the city which, to me, is a crazy prospect. This is the last place they should have run, but cars are piled in the streets and fire alarms, car alarms, home security alarms are all wailing wildly, and I see plumes of smoke beginning to rise. It’s pandemonium and it’s going to get worse before it gets better.
We’re scented by infected immediately and Jordan tenses at my side.
“Run toward them or away from them?” I ask, my voice clipped.
Jordan looks at me sideways. “Can you run?”
“Not fast enough to get away. But I’m strong enough to fight.”
He nods once and pulls his bat into his hands. “Let’s get our backs to the water so they can’t circle us.” he says, and takes my arm, pulling me toward the river.
The infected, a swarm of six, close in on us at varying speeds, which is fortunate. Most are shamblers, but one is very, very new. Jordan and I instinctively stay close together to make sure he can’t separate us and face him as a united front, all bats and blades. I’m worried about the fact that I don’t have a melee weapon again, not that the plastic boat paddle did me a lot of good, but this guy is running too wild and erratic and closing too fast for me to feel strong about shooting him. He comes at me first, probably because my heart is going a mile a minute and my scent must be off the charts, and Jordan takes a hard swing at him that nearly contacts with my own skull. I have to duck to avoid being hit, and while Jordan makes contact, he also sends another infected, a girl, flying toward me. With me hunched down trying not be a pop fly out of the park, the infected girl stumbles over me and crashes head first into the river. I hurry to spin around, intending to bring my blade down into her eye, but I stumble on the rocks and fall on top of her instead. Two seconds into this fight with a single infected and I’m already in mortal danger.
She grabs onto me with her incredible strength, the kind one can only use on another human being when they have no care whatsoever what kind of harm they inflict. I try to mimic her force, but come up short. It could be because I haven’t slept, but it’s probably just because I’m not bat shit crazy. She snaps her jaws at my throat, and I manage to at least hold her off, even though I can’t get out of her grasp and her deteriorating brain manages a last ditch effort at reason, much to my detriment. She rolls us over so that she’s over the top of me, and now that I’m submerged under water, she’s no longer fighting me on keeping me at arm’s length. This bitch is going to drown me and then eat me when I stop fighting her.
I’m thrashing and screaming into the water, the last of my air supply bubbling up above me and blurring my vision, and I can’t believe that just eight hours ago I was contemplating this very thing; being lost in the river. It seems far less romantic and noble now with a hundred pound Justin Bieber fan crushing the life out of me. Now, in the light of day, I want to live. I want to kick her ass. But it’s not in the cards. I’m exhausted and waning, even in the face of death, and I’m so pissed off that I don’t have what it takes to fight this, that I open my mouth to scream again, this time in rage, but I have no air left and all I manage to do is take on a lungful of water.
I’m half a second from lights out when a gun goes off, taking her head with it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m yanked violently from the water and feel myself skid across the coarse rocks that line the shore. My lungs are screaming for air, and I want to give it to them, but I’m gagging on water and don’t have the air in my lungs to press it out. I’m worried by the violence with which I was pulled from the water, the force that I was tossed down with, and I want to look and make sure another infected doesn’t have ahold of me, but I simply can’t move. I feel like a fish out of water, writhing on the ground and make useless gasping motions with my mouth, all the while waiting for someone to put me out of my misery.
“Spit it out!” I hear Jordan shout from a million miles away. “Any water in your mouth, spit it out! Her blood could be in it.”
I crumple in half and begin to hack and cough violently. Everything leaves my lungs and stomach and lands there beside me on the ground, and suddenly I’m gasping, breathing and seeing again.
“Get up as soon as you can.” Jordan says curtly, and stands, leaving me lying there cold and exhausted. “Shamblers are coming.”
I nod my head as best I can, and shakily hoist myself onto my knees. With trembling fingers, I take up my bow and pull an arrow from my quiver. As I notch the arrow, I begin taking slow, deep breaths, both to clear my head and to still my racing heart. I’m in no shape to make an accurate shot, but thankfully, these arrows don’t need me to. They will be at close range very, very soon, and if I’m seeing straight enough to count, there are only five of them. I know from experience that Jordan can handle two quickly, so I leave the closest one alone for him to take a swing at and take aim at Bachelor Number Two. I put an arrow through his cheek when I was aiming for his eye, which isn’t bad, all things considered. He goes down hard and I’m notching another arrow as Jordan is cracking the temple of the first guy and laying him down as well. Three more to go. Again, I ignore the closest one and leave him for Jordan, but I rush because I know the last two are mine, and I put the arrow in his neck which doesn’t even faze him.
“Damn.” I curse at myself, and take aim a second time, upset at how uncooperative my fingers are being, which makes my heart race and my aim will suffer again, I know it.
“I got him!” Jordan shouts with a grunt as he topples his second guy and closes on the third. “Get the last one!”
I shift my sight and aim for a woman running straight for me. What is it with women out to get me today? I take careful aim, slow my breathing, and put the arrow directly through her eye. It’s close range, too close actually, and I shouldn’t take any pride in the precision shot, but considering I was drowning under an undead just a minute before, I’m pretty pleased with myself.
With the threats gone, I drop my bow beside me, lay my palms on my thighs, and leaned over to take huge gulping breaths. I’m lightheaded from adrenaline, fear, relief and good ole fashioned oxygen deprivation, and air never tasted so sweet.
“You okay?” Jordan asks as he pulls arrows from my kills.
“Yeah.” I say weakly. “I think so.”
“Good, cause we’ve gotta move.”
“Why? They’re all down.”
He shakes his head briskly and pops my arrows back in my quiver then holds out his hand for me to take. I do, and when he pulls me quickly to my feet, the world spins and dips. I might vomit. I must start tilting because he grabs my shoulders and holds onto me until I right myself.
“The gunshot will bring more. We have to get away from here before they find us.”
“Speaking of,” I begin, the dots suddenly connecting. “Since when do we have a gun?”
“Since the mansion.” He’s avoiding my eyes so I lower my crouch down to enter his field of vision. He sighs reluctantly and shakes his head. “I didn’t have it on me when… it was in my bag in the car. It was stupid. I should have had it with me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you found a gun? That you brought it with you?”
He lets go of me slowly and again refuses to meet my eyes. Instead he takes hold of the feet of one of the male infected and gestures for me to do the same with the last one I killed, the woman. I frown in confusion, but follow his lead, and then we’re pulling them away from the water and toward the nearest cluster of trees.
“You’re not going to like this.” he says grimly.
“Why?”
“There are too many infected here. We can’t go walking around like this.” he gestures to himself and his clean clothes and washed skin. “We smell alive. We can’t smell like that going any farther into that city.”
I had thought he was answering me about the gun at first, but apparently we’re ignoring that question. Now we’re talking about dou
sing ourselves in infected fluids, and I don’t know what annoys me more; being ignored or being told to wear death juice.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the gun, Jordan?” I insist.
He meets my eyes calmly, and something about his calm returning makes me ache happily inside. But then he speaks and I just plain ache.
“I was worried what you would do with it if you knew we had it.”
His tone is so matter of fact that it makes me want to scream. He didn’t tell me about the gun because he’s worried I’ll use it to kill myself. He thinks I’m crazy. Ready to pop at any moment, and now he believes he has to hide weapons from me. It’s a hell of a time to have to try to save me from myself and he’s doing it without even knowing I’m already off my meds. What will he do when shit actually gets real? Take butter knives and shoe laces away from me? I’m like a toddler to him. Something that has to be saved from itself, and every independent I-Can-Do-This fiber of my being is torn nearly to shreds.
“I don’t know what it will be like.” he continues softly. “And I thought the gun would come in handy, and it did. I tried to hit her with my bat but she barely noticed. I tried to pull her off but she was insanely strong. If I hadn’t had the gun, I don’t know what would have happened.”
“No, it’s good that you have it.” I tell him cooly. “But don’t treat me like a child. Don’t hide things from me for my own good. I thought we talked about this back in the hammock at the settlement. For your sake, not mine.”
“If I brought this gun with us and you hurt yourself with it, I’d never be able to forgive myself.”
“That’s a loophole and you know it.” I say sarcastically, repeating his words.
He smiles slightly and the gap between us feels like it’s mending. I’m still mad about the gun though, but I imagine he’s still mad about Snickers, so the best we can do is break even and remain equally angry at each other.
“You ready to get dirty?” he asks, the smile still on his lips.