Nick was bored.
He'd never had pneumonia before; he thought it would be like having a cold, but instead it had come from out of nowhere and knocked him flat on his ass. It had been a long time since he'd felt so bad. For a long while his body had him alternating randomly between dizzying fever and chills, sometimes both, rarely neither. He'd felt pretty good the first few days, but late in the morning on the third he'd started to feel worse than ever — he remembered Isaac telling a joke about something, then thinking about how strange it was to feel so hot and so cold at the same time — and after that he knew only a slow whirlpool of gray and black which his sense of time had become.
The fevers were the worst part. He wasn't sure what the hell he might have said during those strange, murky, hot hours where it had been strongest. All he could remember — or thought he could remember — was Sean's voice, murmuring softly to him, but it might have been Dustin's, too. Or Isaac's. Or even Elaine's. It was impossible for him to grasp anymore.
But, on the fourth day, which might have actually been the fifth or sixth, he'd woken up and was surprised that he hadn't immediately wanted to die. The pain was still there — it was going to be there for a long, long time — but there was no fog in his head, no ice in his body. Sean had been there, checking his temperature and looking hopeful, even for him.
"Welcome back," he'd said.
And Nick had mumbled a curse around his dry tongue.
"You're a stubborn old bastard," Sean had continued. "Finally decided to drag your scrawny ass back to the land of the living, Nick?"
The fuzzy, interminable first week trailed into the second.
Now he was bored.
He slept a lot, mostly because he had nothing else to do. Sean or Isaac were sometimes around, but lately the now-eldest had been going off on his own, and after Isaac had been taken off the line his mother had swept him away and he rarely came by any more. Every once in a while the doctor — Dustin — would make an appearance, but Nick wasn't very fond of him. The feeling seemed to be mutual.
Well, he still had Rob. The dog never wandered very far from his side, attached to him just like when they'd first ran into each other. He slept at the foot of Nick's bed and only got up when the man did.
At least the dog was housebroken.
Tap-tap, tap-tap.
Nick pulled himself out of sleep at the noise nearby. He tried for a gentle stretch, and every part of his body protested it. Sleeping half-upright was the worst idea he'd ever had.
Besides going to Savannah, of course.
Tap-tap, tap-tap.
He opened his eyes and took a look around. Isaac was out in the hall, balancing carefully on a pair of crutches. He'd gotten pretty good with them. Nick blinked as the little boy hobbled just past the door, turned carefully, and went the other way.
His stomach growled. He wasn't sure if he'd missed breakfast. He was never sure of the time anymore, although it felt like late morning. The new cycle of sleeping and eating and sleeping again felt alien and strange after the journey he'd made so far.
Isaac turned again, crutches tapping on the linoleum as he came back around, tongue held between his lips in concentration. When he noticed that Nick was watching him, he stopped.
"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?"
"No. You're fine."
Nick scratched at the IV line leashing him to the bed and yawned, dragging a hand through his hair. At least he'd gotten to shower. All of them had. Nick thought he'd almost used a whole bar of soap, showering until the steam threatened to make him pass out. He'd considered making a break for it since they'd taken the line out of him for the shower, but Sean had hung around outside the bathroom like a mother hen, ready to intercept any escape attempts. The kid was pretty determined to get him better.
He got up off the bed and dragged himself to the bathroom, taking the IV pole with him. It wasn't much more than a broom handle stuck in a shoebox to keep it upright. Still, it was a massive pain in the ass, and it had been ever since he'd started feeling less like a puddle of goo and more like a human being.
But now he could walk here and there without feeling exhausted, and while his ribs still hurt him like a bitch, he was at least breathing a bit easier, and the cough had even let up a little. The magic of IV antibiotics.
Nick leaned against the small counter in the infirmary bathroom, running the water until it was warm and splashing it on his face. The bad eye got really gunked up when he slept, especially recently, when he'd been actually getting eight or more hours a night without being woken to take a shift. That is, if he wasn't shocking himself awake with dreams of icy lakes and subway tunnels.
It had been ages since he'd been able to have a routine, besides 'go to the bathroom in the nearest available toilet, tree, or ditch, and try not to die.' It felt good. Brushing his teeth was something he thought he'd never do again, but here he was, with the little travel tube of toothpaste that Elaine had given him. He was pretty sure he preferred the taste of 'white mint' over the taste of vomit, or blood, or even his own spit after a day without eating.
When he spat out the used toothpaste, he straightened up and studied himself in the mirror for a few seconds, forcing himself more out of curiosity than vanity to see how he looked. It was still pretty bad. The beard was rough. He'd have a hell of a time if he ever tried to shave it, he thought, scratching a bald spot on his cheek and running an idle finger down the scar that had caused it.
After a second, Nick blinked and leaned closer to the mirror, tilting his head and peering hard at the scruff on his chin. Was that —?
Oh God, it was.
A gray hair.
There were a few of them, actually. He thought about counting them all and then changed his mind. It wasn't really that important anymore. Who the hell cared how he looked anyway? Definitely not Isaac and probably not Sean. And they were the only two whose opinions really mattered.
Nick made his way back to the recovery room. He stopped and stared out a window for a few minutes, looking at the late morning snow falling amongst all the other buildings, the cars, the ticket booth they'd entered through. Eight Springs was huge, for a simple safe zone. Everything past its walls lay dead and barren, stretched all the way to the horizon. He wanted so badly to leave and check it out, even just walk around for a few minutes, anything to shift the scenery away from the recovery room of the infirmary.
Nick was surprised to find that there really wasn't anyone in charge here. Everyone contributed in their own way — the cook, the ticket booth guard, the doctor — but nobody ordered anyone else around. It didn't seem like a very smart plan, Nick thought. If there were ever a serious attack by zombies or the military or whatever, it was going to be chaos.
But Eight Springs seemed to be functioning just as well without someone in charge, although it seemed Elaine of all people was the one everyone else went to for help. He'd seen other survivors - strangers - coming around multiple times to ask the woman a question or advice on one thing or another. She'd answered all of them with the same soft smile and quiet voice.
Now, the mother had come around from whatever it was she did in the late hours of the morning, seeking out her son, who only really hung out in one of two places when she was busy: her hotel room, or in the infirmary with Nick.
Isaac was still hobbling around on the crutches when he made it back to the recovery room. He grinned widely when Nick pushed open the door and stepped inside. Elaine, on Isaac's bed, did the same. God, they were like bookends.
"Good morning, Nick," Isaac said as the man made his way back to his comfortable, too-familiar bed.
"Hey, Iz."
"Feeling any better?" Elaine asked.
"Tired."
Isaac laughed softly as Nick sank down carefully onto his bed. "Aren't you always tired?"
"Well, I'm gettin' old."
"Oh, pfft. No you aren't. You're younger than my mom!"
Elaine raised her eyebrows. A look of shock settled over her face.
Isaac began to look afraid. He knew he'd said the wrong thing. "What? Mom, it's true."
"Izzy." Nick rubbed his forehead and waved the boy closer to him. He spoke quietly while Elaine stared at them with suspicion. "You never comment on a lady's age. They hate that."
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah."
Isaac glanced at his mother, and then back to Nick. "What would you say?"
"She doesn't look a day over twenty-five. Say it."
The boy turned back to his mother. "Nick says you don't look a day over twenty-five."
Nick's jaw dropped. "What? Not me! You're supposed to say it!"
Elaine's smile returned. She was trying not to laugh. "Oh, Nicholas, that's really sweet of you." Her blue eyes were bright. "I would have never thought you were such a charmer."
"I'm not," he grumbled, glaring at Isaac.
The boy smiled innocently at him.
An hour later, it was lunchtime, and he was devouring a plate of chicken salad while staring down at the book he'd been working through — 'Care and Maintenance of Large Breed Dogs.' Sean had found it for him.
Isaac came around and sat on the other side of his bed, flopping down on his back.
"Whew. Too much walking. I need a break."
Elaine hadn't come back with her son this time. Nick hadn't been seeing her as much these last few days. He wasn't sure what to think of her. Sometimes she seemed happy to see him, and other times she wouldn't so much as give him a glance. She tended to waffle between polite indifference and graciously kind most of the time. For the first day, she'd been wary of him, despite what he'd done for her son, as if she expected him to turn on them or lash out at any second.
When he'd finally come back out of the fever, she seemed to be more relaxed around him - allowing Isaac to stay alone with him instead of keeping him under constant supervision.
Being bedridden gave Nick plenty of time to study the people around him. It was something he was good at and would always be good at, even if he couldn't catch things thrown at him anymore or see in the dark.
Elaine had been wronged by a man before, that much he knew for sure. Had it been Isaac's father? It would really explain a lot, but by the boy's behavior he had already assumed the father hadn't been around much. The kid was just too sensitive.
Nick would rather infer and guess to people's personalities than actually get to know them. There was less for him to lose that way.
Staring down at the book, he turned a page. His eye skirted the subtopic — 'Grooming' — and he continued on, glancing over the pictures.
Isaac scooted over to share the reading and leaned against his left side, where he couldn't see. Strangely, the kid's presence made him more relaxed instead of putting him on-edge. He realized that he liked to have someone over there, to keep an eye on what he couldn't, even though they were inside an infirmary and all that was on his left side was a wall.
"Oh, man, we should give Rob a bath, Nick."
"I don't think there's enough shampoo in the world to make that mutt smell good."
"I bet my mom would like him more if he were clean."
"Rob's fine. If we gave him a bath he'd just find something dead and ro —"
There was a crack and a bang out in the hall, like a gunshot, and they both jumped. Nick grabbed his IV stand and kept it in front of him, gripping the broom handle defensively with one hand. Isaac shrank behind him.
Outside, someone was making a low, moaning, pained cry. He heard three voices talking — one of them was definitely Dustin, the doctor. They sounded worried, all but shouting over the noise of whoever was screaming. Isaac tucked closer to Nick's side, looking out at the door to the hall.
"Did someone get hurt?" the little boy whispered, twisting his fingers in the loose fabric of Nick's sweater.
"I don't know. Don't grab at me like that," Nick hissed, pushing Isaac's hand away.
The noises traveled through the building, ending up at what he knew was the examination room. He couldn't decipher what the voices were saying, but the screaming had quieted a bit.
"Want me to go check it out?" Isaac asked, reaching for his crutches.
"No. Stay here."
As Nick was getting to his feet, the voices started to rise. It sounded like they were having an argument, with two separate parties yelling and a third shrieking in high tones. Nick thought he could decipher a 'Hey, hey, don't' amongst the muffled yells. The shrieking petered away suddenly, as if someone had punched the screamer in the stomach or slapped a hand over their mouth.
Then, it was quiet.
Nick looked back to Isaac. The little boy swallowed and stared up at him.
"Do you think someone died?"
"I dunno."
There were footsteps rushing across the hardwood floor in the hall, and then the door swung open. It was Dustin. There was blood splashed all up the front of his flannel shirt, and his eyes were pale and wide as he gave a cursory glance inside the recovery room, then asked breathlessly, "Where's Sean?"
"I don't know," Nick answered. "What the fuck's going on?"
"Byron. Byron got attacked out in town," Dustin said. He looked like he was about to throw up. "I need Sean's help." The doctor shook his head, glanced over the room again, and left. His footsteps drew away down the hall.
Nick frowned. "Who the hell is Byron?"
Later that night, and the man in question lay in the recovery room bed that had once been Isaac's. The big black man was, it seemed, part of a team of three that regularly left the safety of Eight Springs to scavenge for goods in the nearby area. They'd left early in the morning, before Nick had woken, and came back a few hours later, the big Ford truck screeching in through the gate and parking haphazardly in front of the infirmary.
They'd been attacked at the strip mall shopping area a couple dozen miles south, by a single zombie. Around here, they called it 'the Rider,' although Nick had always known it as a Jockey. He'd overheard the other two scavengers out in the hall, talking about it. How it had moved faster than any of them could run, how it had jumped on Byron from yards away. How there had been spines in its heels and elbows that it had dug deep into the survivor's skin, anchoring it tight to the man's body.
It had finally been killed when one of the three managed a lucky shot to its head, but although it had fallen limp on the survivor's body it hadn't fallen off — they'd had to pry it off of him afterward.
The man who lay in the recovery room with Nick had bandages swathed all over his head, from where the Jockey had scratched and scrabbled at his face. There were gouges all over his neck, and deep punctures in his chest and shoulders where the zombie had dug itself in for support.
"It sounded like it was crying," Byron said dreamily after he'd been brought into recovery. "Laughing so hard it was crying." He'd been given some kind of opiate, that much was certain. He obviously wasn't feeling much.
Nick didn't talk. He wasn't enjoying being alone in the room with this stranger. Elaine had come and taken Isaac to her room in the hotel, and Sean was off talking to Dustin about one thing or another. The teenager had been the one helping the doctor with the survivor's wounds, although Nick wasn't sure how much the kid could do with only one working arm. He had no idea where Rob was, either. Isaac had taken the dog with him when he'd left.
Currently the survivor was turning his head toward him, trying to see with all the bandages around his face. "Sarah, is that you, there?" he asked loudly. "Sarah?"
"Nope. Just me," Nick mumbled, keeping his eye on the man.
"Daniel? Is it Danny?"
"No."
"Well, then who the hell are ya?"
"Nobody."
Byron was shifting around, grunting in pain. He was trying to get a look at him, and didn't seem to realize that his face was covered with gauze. With one hand, he reached up and started pawing at the bandages, making whimpering noises in the back of his throat.
"Hey, don't," Nick barked, straightening up. "Don't do that."
"My face. Oh, God, it hurts."
"Yeah, I bet it does. Calm down."
Nick glanced toward the door, wondering where the hell Dustin had gone. Or even Sarah, whoever that was. Someone needed to be around to make sure the guy didn't screw up whatever he had going on under that wrap.
But at his sharp words, Byron seemed to force himself to relax against the bed. He let out a long, loud breath that Nick felt envy for. "Where are the others?" he asked, softly. A low whine came from the back of his throat, then faded. "Why am I in here with you?"
"We're in the infirmary," Nick explained, trying to use as few words as possible. "I'm sick. Looks like you got your face ripped off."
Byron started shaking. "Oh, God. How's it look?"
Nick frowned. "The fuck should I know? It's covered in bandages." Why the hell was he talking to this guy, anyway? He didn't even know him, and it wasn't like Nick was exactly fond of making friends. Or meeting strangers. Even if he was one of the last of a dying species.
Which he was.
"My eye. My eye hurts," Byron whined. He reached up a hand to his face again.
Nick raised an eyebrow. The man's voice was really starting to irk him, now. He tried his best to suppress a cough that was starting to crawl dryly up his throat.
Byron went for his bandages again, his soft whines becoming louder wails. "My eye," he cried. "Oh, God, my eye, it really hurts!"
"Hey -" Nick started, and then coughed, hearing his own pathetic noises as he reflexively curled around the source of the pain.
The recovery room door opened and Dustin appeared. Nick hadn't ever thought he'd be glad to see the doctor again. He glanced at Nick, and then at the man on the bed, and hurried inside.
"Crap, Byron! Don't touch that!" He grasped at the survivor's hands, forcing them down to his lap. "You're going to screw up your face doing that."
Byron's cries turned back into low whimpers. "Dusty," he said weakly. "My eye hurts."
"There's no way it can hurt. It isn't there."
Nick wasn't looking at them — he was currently trying his best not to breathe and aggravate his ribs further — but he heard the words, and raised his eyebrows.
"What?" Byron asked.
"That Rider gouged out your eye. You don't remember that?"
"No — no, I —" the man sobbed. "Is my other eye still there? Oh my God."
"Yeah, you've still got the one. You have a ton of scratches on your face, they were bleeding. I wrapped them up 'cause I don't want them to get infected. Your other eye is fine, Byron."
Nick stared at them, wondering if the Jockey had started clawing eyes out on purpose or if it had just been a lucky scratch. He shivered a little. God, what would he have done if they'd run into one of those? They weren't as small as they looked; they would probably just crush Isaac and Sean.
Byron was crying softly as Dustin went and checked him over. He produced a full syringe from his pocket and uncapped it. "I'm gonna give you a sedative, okay, Byron? Just to calm you down a little." He slipped the needle into the man's right arm. "Go to sleep, bucko."
Byron went to say something, but trailed off in a slurred mumble and lay still and quiet on the bed.
Nick swallowed a sigh. Thank God.
Dustin turned toward him. "And how're you feeling?"
"...Like I want to get out of here."
"You still coughing?"
"Yes."
"Then not yet."
Nick scowled. He'd been on the line for ages already. It was enough for him to be trapped in the infirmary with nothing to do, but to be stuck with some stranger was a whole different can of worms. He just wanted out, he wanted to see something else other than drab brown walls and cramped storage shelves. The smell of disinfectant and dust had begun to grate on him; when he looked out the windows he could just imagine what it smelled like out there, all trees and snow and fresh air.
Dustin was offering him a grin. It was one of his usual expressions - partly smug, partly mischievous. "I'll be sure to tell Elaine you said hello."
Nick scratched his chin. Hadn't dinner just been a little while ago?
"It's a bit late, isn't it?"
Dustin just smiled and turned to the door.
Nick knew the 'getting lucky' look when he saw it, and blinked. He hadn't thought of quiet, strong Elaine going for a guy like the doctor. Somehow he didn't see her putting up with his attitude. Isaac wouldn't approve.
He sat in the quiet room, leaning against the wall, and shut his eyes.
Nick opened them when the door creaked quietly open. When had he fallen asleep? It was dark, and his reflex was to panic, but someone had just turned the lights off. He saw Sean's shadow slipping inside; he could hear the click-tap of Rob's nails on the hardwood floor. The boy didn't turn the light on, probably to avoid waking the other patient in the room.
The dog crossed the space to Nick and set his massive head next to him, sniffing.
"Hey, bud," Nick breathed, reaching out to pet him.
"Hi, Nick," Sean whispered, turning toward him. "I didn't think you'd be awake."
"I'm a light sleeper."
"Yeah, I know. Did you meet Byron?"
"Unfortunately."
Rob paced a few times next to the bed and then jumped up onto it. Nick tucked his legs up closer to his body to allow the dog some space. Rob turned a circle before laying down, setting his muzzle on his ankle.
"God, you should have seen it. His face is messed up."
"More than mine?" Nick asked, trying to put humor into his whisper.
"You've at least got a good side."
"Very true." He paused. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be sleeping?"
"It's four in the morning," Sean said, sounding partly defensive. "I like to get up early."
Nick suppressed a yawn. It felt like he hadn't slept at all. Always a wonderful way to start a day.
Sean fumbled to the edge of his bed and squeezed in next to the dog. "How're you feeling, Nick?"
"Better."
"You're not coughing much anymore, are you?"
"No, not really."
"Do the ribs still hurt?"
"Like a bitch."
Sean chuckled. "I bet you want out of here, huh?"
Nick smiled, even though he knew the kid wouldn't be able to see it in the dark. "I thought the week down in D.C. was bad. This is worse." He scratched his cheek. "Is there any way you can convince Dr. Assface to pull the line? I think I'll be okay without it."
"I could, yeah," Sean said, and Nick felt a strong surge of hope, "but I want you to take care of yourself, okay? I don't want to have to follow you around and make sure you eat."
"I'm pretty sure I won't have trouble with that."
"Are you okay with taking more pills?"
Nick ran his fingers through the thick fur on Rob's shoulders. "If it gets me off this IV, I'd swallow a whole bottle at once for you, kid."
It was just after breakfast and he was enjoying the warm feeling of being full and the welcome quiet of the other man sleeping, when someone he'd not yet been introduced to came into the recovery room. It was a rather short woman with cropped brown hair and a black eye. She glanced over Nick, and then saw Byron sleeping in the other bed. She went to him, taking a seat in the same chair Elaine had used when Isaac was recovering.
"How long has he been asleep?" the woman asked, not looking at him.
He scoffed. "The hell should I know?"
She paused at his tone and turned her head a little, studying him. Sizing him up. "Who are you? Are you new?"
Nick threaded his fingers together behind his head and leaned against the wall. "Wow. Observant."
He watched her turn the chair toward him. Anger swept across her features, followed by curiosity, and finally mild amusement. "Yes, I would definitely remember your face."
"It's tough to forget," Nick agreed. A month ago, he'd have shot someone for a comment like that.
The woman seemed to think for a few seconds. "Wait." She tapped a finger on her chin. "Aren't you the guy... yeah, you're the one who brought Elaine's little kid back! Nicholas, right?"
"What, does everyone know about that?"
"News travels fast when there's only eight people to tell it to." She glanced back at Byron, assuring he was all right, before rolling the chair closer to Nick and sticking her hand out to him. "I'm Sarah. Sarah Peterson."
He kept his hands behind his head.
"Aren't you gonna shake?"
"I'd rather not."
She returned her hand to her knee. "God, you're weird. So should I call you Nicholas or do you usually go by Nick? Nicholas sounds a little archaic, don't you think?"
He brought one hand to his forehead and rubbed it. Sarah reminded him of Ellis, and not in a good way. The last thing he wanted around was another person who couldn't shut the fuck up. "It's Nick, usually," he said, absently tracing one of his scars with a fingertip. It had become somewhat of a nervous habit for him recently.
"That's cool. I've never met a Nick. Plenty of 'Nicole's, though. Weird."
He was beginning to miss Isaac's jokes, which he took as a really bad sign.
Sarah continued speaking. "So what do you do? Besides rescue kids?"
Nick groaned softly, drawing his hand down toward his eyes. "I don't do much," he said, keeping his voice flat, hoping that if he were dull enough with his answers, she would stop asking questions.
Thankfully, Byron gave a low, shuddering moan on the bed behind her. She dropped the conversation as if it had never existed in the first place, and turned back to him. "Hey, 'By," she said. "It's Sarah. Can you hear me?"
He groaned. "My head hurts."
She began to explain to him what had happened, and Nick ignored it, even when Byron started sobbing about it again.
There was the rattle of the door handle being turned, and in walked salvation in an over-sized sweater: Sean, with medical tape in one hand and gauze in the other. He looked at Byron but walked to Nick. Sarah was holding the big black man in her arms, rubbing his back.
"Please tell me you're going to cut me loose," Nick said.
"It took some convincing, but he says he'd rather take his chances with you taking your pills than have to deal with your grumpy ass some more." Sean pulled around the chair that sat on the foot of the bed, and held out a hand. "Give me your arm, you big baby."
Nick stood on the stoop of the infirmary, staring out at the safe zone with a slight smile on his face. The sharp smell of pine trees drifted in on the air, fresher and cleaner than he imagined. Overhead, gray clouds threatened more snow. Eight Springs was a little bigger than he'd thought, but he'd only been able to look out windows at it. The hotel was simply massive, and that was what Sean guided him to, taking the lead through a well-worn trail of footprints through the snow.
They went up the ramp and to a set of stairs, and paused at the double doors to the lobby. The teenager placed a key in his hand.
"This is to our room. Number 1052."
"Uh, okay." Nick blinked. "What, I don't get my own room?"
"That's something you'll have to request later," Sean said, pointing out at a small building down the way. "There's the storage building. You can get what you need in there. Blankets, clothes, whatever." He motioned to another, taller place, with wide bay windows and a restaurant sign hanging from the roof. "That's the cafeteria. Breakfast is at seven, lunch at one, dinner at six." Sean turned back toward him. "You got all that?"
"I think so."
The teenager turned and started back down the stairs.
"Wait. Where are you going?"
"Back to the infirmary. I need to talk to Dustin about something." Sean stopped. "Oh yeah, Rob is with Isaac and Elaine. They're room 1012. Okay?"
And he was off again.
Nick watched him go, then turned back to the hotel and pushed open the lobby doors. It was the first large, open, indoor place that he'd seen in a long while that wasn't filthy, or filled with corpses, or cold and dark. There were a few chairs, and a couch in front of a television set. As he passed inside toward one of the main hallways marked '1000-1075,' he saw a glass door to his right. Through it, he could see a swimming pool. The water was frozen. He shivered and looked away.
On one wall there was a cork board, filled with missing persons reports, letters, things like that — like what the walls of the puny little safe houses had become. A few handwritten memorials to those who had died, and some pictures. Nick gave them all a cursory glance, and made to turn away when his own name caught his eye. Someone else had posted a photo on top of it; he plucked the thumbtack out to reveal the lined paper behind the old Polaroid.
It was his name, all right. He took the faded yellow paper off the cork board and read it, feeling his heart slowly crawling further and further up his throat.
'Nick.
Coach and Rochelle keep telling me your dead, but I dont beleve it.
I know your still out there somewhere Nick and if you read this I want
you to know that I havent forgoten. Remember when we crashed that
helcoptor into that swamp? I never got to thank you. and also for
when you shared your food with me in New Orlins. I miss you.
Rochelle and Coach seem difrent without you around, like they are
meaner to make up for you being gone. They miss you to I think.
How is your eye? I never told you this but I always thought it looked
really cool. Okay well Im running out of space on this paper so I
better stop writing. We came through here December 17th.
Still heading north, to Maine. Meet you there, buddy. If not..
RIP Nick, 1974 (?) - 2009
Ellis'
He felt frozen in place. The only thing he could move were his eyes, the good one flicking back and forth over the scrawled handwriting, over and over again. Still heading to Maine. They were alive. Came through here December 17th. They were okay. All three of them.
They thought he was dead.
Nick blinked back the sudden rush of warmth in his eyes.
"Hey, Nick, I forgot to tell you that —"
Sean. The teenager stopped talking when he caught sight of Nick's face.
"Hey, you okay? Nick, are you all right?" he asked, worry in his tone. He crossed the lobby to his side, saw the paper, and blinked up at him. "What's that?"
Wordlessly, he handed the boy the note.
Sean's sharp eyes flashed back and forth as he read it, eyebrows tightening down over them as he took in the scrawled words. "Nick, this... this is..."
"It's from them," he said hesitantly, as if saying it aloud would make it a lie. "They came through Eight Springs, Sean." The tears were painful in his eyes. He wiped ineffectually at the good one, trying to halt his racing thoughts as the kid returned the paper to him.
"They think you died, Nick."
"I know."
"They aren't here."
"I know."
"That note was written three weeks ago, Nick —"
"I know, God dammit!" He snarled, suddenly, and Sean flinched. "Do you think I don't understand that? Do you think I'm not aware of how fucking far away they are? Of how they — they —"
Nick couldn't talk anymore. He turned away from the teenager and forced a shuddering breath through his chest, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain from his ribs, leaning against the wall with one hand and pressing the other to his forehead. The paper crinkled against his skin.
"Fuck," he whispered. "God dammit, Ellis."
Sean was still there. "Do you think —"
Nick didn't allow him to finish. "Go away."
The teenager fell silent, but didn't move.
"Did you not fucking hear me? Get the fuck out of here, Sean!" In his anger he flung the paper at the kid; he felt the overwhelming urge to rip the cork board off the wall and throw that at him, too.
Sean's eyes met his for a split-second, terrified and sad.
Then he turned and walked off without another word.
Nick turned back to the wall, as if all his answers could be found there. He dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the tears welling up again.
Fucking pathetic.
The words in the letter played over and over in his mind. He could almost hear Ellis saying them.
I miss you.
His legs wouldn't hold him up anymore; he sank slowly to the floor, huddling against the wall, one hand twisting painfully in his hair.
Meet you there, buddy.
Why?
Why hadn't they stayed here? Why had they gone on? They could have lived here, in Eight Springs, warm and sheltered, and Nick would have found them.
The map, he thought, suddenly.
It was still marked with the safe zone.
The safe zone he was supposed to go to.
They'd gone there so he could find them.
RIP Nick.
Too late. He'd been too slow in his travels, and now he was never going to reach them. He thought of that road northward out of Eight Springs, the deep snow, the barren fields. That wasteland was what they had crossed, or had attempted to. And that was what he had to cross, too.
He squeezed the tears from his eyes — they were immediately replaced by more — and curled up against the wall, unable to stop himself from crying, unable to hold it back like he held everything else back, the pain in his chest and from his hand in his hair were the only things reminding him that he was really here, that he was really alive, and that they —
I miss you.
— were gone.
(A/N: The misspellings on Ellis' note are intentional, obviously.
Thanks to my beta-reader and super-spider-knitter, Kit. A very special thanks to Yaro, Sanides, SuperPineapple, Ekatii, Inamkur, Mojik, Annie, and Sydleys for making me some really fantastic fanart. You guys are just too awesome. [If ya'll want to see it, check my favorites on my Deviantart (link in my profile).] Realism Expert update: we are still stuck on The Mall, and I'm still obnoxious. I do not do Nick justice when I play him. He probably doesn't panic and run around in circles while screaming like a sissy when a horde surrounds him. Or, y'know, die constantly.
What constitutes as an 'incap,' anyway? Like how would that work in real life? Zombies pushing you down on the ground? Dazed? You got tripped? Seriously, let me know. Ellis laid there for like five minutes because we were too busy to pick him back up, but all that happened was he got slapped by three zombies. How does that even work?
Coming up next: The Pariah, Part III. Nick makes some decisions.
EDIT 2-8-11: Finally figured out how to get the long dashes [—] to work. I had to copy/paste them from my Tumblr, wat. I wish Wordpad would use them, or at least have ff.n not delete my double-dashes every time I upload, forcing me to go through manually and enter them. Now to do the same for the other chapters. [LOL like I have time for that /shot]
EDIT 2-12-11: I realized that the 'teaser' at the end of this chapter does not match up to the next one. Whoops!)