HOUR FOUR
"You're fidgeting," I hum. My eyelids are shut but I can feel the movement through my shoulder. Tap, tap, tapping on the pavement.
Nick's hand still by his side. "Sorry. Didn't realize."
"It's fine. I'm just… tired."
My head snuggles into the crook of his neck, sighing softly. Between the burns, mild head trauma, and slight claustrophobia buzzing through my veins every few minutes, I'm wiped out.
Am I still mad at him? Yes. Pissed, even. But I've said it before; he makes a good pillow in a pinch.
"Sleep, then." His head rests atop mine. "We got time."
I huff in jest. "Apparently. When do we leave?"
The man on the bench gazes through the crowd of people. "You'll know when you need to."
"Y'know, you'll need to tell us eventually."
"When you need to know, miss."
I crack open an eyelid. "Tina. My name's Cristina Waters."
He nods and stands from the bench, meandering through the cage. I find it funny a man like him is in a place like this. He walks with such swagger, such arrogance about him. And he chooses to spend his time with the sick and addicted?
"Most people give their name back," Nick says.
Our friend stops his movements by the cage's door, calm. "Most."
HOUR FIVE
"Let us out!"
"Please! I want to get out! I need to get out!"
"I miss my family! Please let me go!"
Our caged neighbors haven't stopped screaming. Some bang on the fence, rattling the metal. The added noise brings an extra throb through my head.
I didn't realize how large this room was. The fenced sections are right beside each other, so there are dozens upon dozens. The actual walls are spread so far apart that each cry echoes.
Parking garage? Comic con center? Wish I knew.
"Make them stop," I whine. My eyes shut tight and I press my hands to my temples. The cries and clanging metal and feet pounding concrete…
"If I could, I would." The stranger stares out to the crowd, eyeing the more unruly prisoners with disdain.
"You look important. Can't you just order them?"
"Not how it works, miss Waters."
"Wish it was," Nick comments. My eyes open a crack but they can't keep up with his constant pacing. From one wall to the next, back and forth, no breath between movement. "They're driving me up a wall."
"You're driving me up a wall," I say dryly. "Slow down, mate. Please."
"Gotta keep moving. I'm too antsy just sitting around."
"Don't draw unnecessary attention." The stranger instructs smoothly. Long fingers readjust the tie on his shirt as Nick finds his gaze.
"I'm losing my mind. I thought that house was bad." He strides past me again and I sigh. No rest for the wicked.
"Picture you're somewhere else. With a needle in your arm."
Through my half-awake haze I glare at the stranger. "He's supposed to be getting clean. That doesn't help."
"Don't like your boyfriend using?"
"Seriously, bloke, not my boyfriend."
His eyes flicker to Nick when he passes between us. "And what say you on the matter?"
Nick shrugs. "I'm not."
"Right." The stranger's eyes gleam in amusement from Nick's face to mine. "Because you came all the way here, from a safe, gated community being guarded by armed soldiers to the slums for a friend."
"Piss off."
I bring my knees close to my chest, ignoring the stiffness of my arms as I sling them around the bend. "Find someone else to profile."
The suit-clad stranger sighs. "Fine by me." He turns to Nick instead. "Where's home?"
"Close. El Sereno." Nick answers, for once resting his back against the fence. His arms cross as he listens to the stranger.
"Oldest community in Los Angeles. Predates the city. Vibrant. Blue-collar. Diverse. I'd gentrify the shit out of El Sereno."
"What about you?" I ask. "Where are you from?"
He chuckles. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"No name, no home. Next thing you'll say no birthday."
The stranger leans to me from the bench. He replies, "You'll know what you need to know."
HOUR SIX
The room goes completely silent when the lights flicker and die. Loud cracks of gunshots fill stunned air. The beeping of an alarm adds to the cacophony.
"What's that?" Nick asks, immediately straightening from against the wall. The stranger pulls himself from the bench, going to the closest corner of the cage to the door. The sound of screams echo as Nick and I trail close behind.
"My name is Strand." Nonchalantly, he pulls away from the corner and rests along the fenced door. "Time to go."
"So where are we going?" Nick whispers.
Strand doesn't answer but brings his hand to his breast pocket to fish out the key. Then his pants pockets. And back pockets. Then he begins to pat himself down looking for the bloody thing. Where the hell did you put it?
"What's wrong?" Nick inquires. Then, with a sly grin, he brings a hand up from his own pocket, key in hand. I grin. Brilliant.
Strand stares—a mixture of angry and impressed—and yanks the key out of Nick's hand. With ease he twists the key and opens the door.
We follow close behind, silently walking as every person runs up to the fences in their respective cages. They all burn in my side, but I keep my mouth shut.
"Let us out, please!"
"Please! Please help us!"
More pleads fill my ears, but I make no reply. The deal is for me and Nick, no one else. And it hurts.
"The key is not one size fits all." Strand replies smoothly to the cries. He continues striding to the compound's door, unfazed. We walk past the cages, and curiously I look to the locks. I'm willing to bet that's a lie.
"We'll die in here!" One shouts.
"My friend, you are more likely to die out there."
A flash of anger pangs through my chest, directed at Strand. How dare he pawn away their lives like this? They have as much a right to live as us.
"We're not gonna help them?" Nick questions, gritting his teeth.
Strand nods. "We're not gonna help them."
"… Tina?"
At the sound of my name I whip my head around, eyes searching through the surrounding faces. "Who said that?"
"Me!"
To my left. I take three large steps, wide-eyed as I crane my neck to see through the masses. "Me, Tina! Down here!"
"Scott?!"
He's hidden behind a group of teenagers much taller, but he manages to shove his way to the front of the crowd. My feet pound the concrete as I run to his cage and grin.
"Hey munchkin!" I kneel on the ground and grasp the fence, looking to his tousled hair and squishy cheeks. "How're you feeling?"
"Better." His voice squeaks. I smile endearingly. "They said my fever's almost gone. And I'm not coughing a lot anymore!" He wrings his hands awkwardly, looking away. He may know me from the few times I hung out with Rhea, but he doesn't know me. That's okay. I'm still bringing him home.
"That's great, Scott." I look to the opening of the fence and jerk my head at it. "Let's get you out of here, yeah?"
"Please! I want to see Rhea."
"Let's take you to her." I hold my hand over my shoulder. "Strand, the key."
"No."
I whip my head to stare at him. "Strand," I say tensely. "The key."
"No, miss Waters."
"Why?!"
He turns to me, slowing his words to add emphasis. "Because helping him could hurt us."
"Don't leave us here." An older woman begs. She's close—the next cage over—nearly right beside the door leading into the compound. My heart breaks for her; for all these people.
"There's no value add." Strand adds, continuing his leisure stroll to the compound's door.
"Seriously?" Nick asks, aggravated. "He's a kid!"
"These are their lives!" I bark at Strand, standing to reach his height and resist the urge to swing at his smug face. "They have families, children, siblings to go back to!" I jerk a finger to point at Scott. "Scott Ardnois has loving parents and a big sister who misses him terribly."
"That's tragic."
My face beats red in fury. "You slimy—evil wank—"
"Look, don't make me out to be the bad guy. That's how this works. Save yourself. Let others drop behind. It's easier."
He sets the key into the lock of the next gate and slides it open. "The key is not one size fits all," my ass. Strand continues through the open door, slow enough for us to catch up but quick enough to understand he won't wait.
I'm forced to make a choice. Well, not exactly. The choice is made for me. With hands tightening to fists at my side, I turn and kneel back down to Scott's height. "I have to go, bud."
His little hands tighten their grip on the fence. "Tina, please—"
"I know, Scott." My voice wavers, bottom lip trembling as I fight back tears. "I don't want to go without you, but you'll be fine, okay? It's safe here, and they'll let you go back home when you're ready, and you'll see Rhea again, and—"
"T," I hear behind me, soft. A hand goes to my shoulder, resting it gently to bring me back to reality. Don't cry. I ignore the sting from my sunburn and set my hand atop Nick's, gripping it tightly as my throat chokes up. "Time to go."
"Yeah." It's barely audible. My other hand palms away a few escaped tears before I sniffle. "Yeah, time to go."
I pull from the ground, dropping Nick's hand in one swift motion, and turn away from Scott and his cage. I can't look at him; if I do, I'll start sobbing. "You'll be just fine, Scott." Quickly pacing myself, I walk to the door of the compound, Nick following behind silently.
"Tina." Scott calls. I scrunch my eyes shut, forcing myself to take a shaky breath. "Tina, please!"
One more step.
"Tina, please don't leave me!"
Keep walking.
The fence rattles; I can imagine Scott gripping it in his tiny little hands and shaking it. "Tina! I want to see Rhea! PLEASE! TINA!"
Nick closes the door behind us so Scott's cries are muffled, but they still reverberate in my mind. I don't think I'll ever get his screams out of my head. I'm so sorry.
We catch up to Strand quickly. If we didn't need his expertise, I'd choke the life out of him right then and there.
"So," Nick forces himself to take a breath. Judging from the glare he throws at Strand, he's just as mad as I am. "Where are we going?"
"We need a ride." Strand explains.
"And then?"
"Abigail."
Nick and I share a look of confusion. He voices it as we walk through the opening. "Who the hell's Abigail?"
"Left." Strand leads us to a hallway, lowly dimmed with flashing lights. Dull blue paint covers the walls, each door is white, and a brown carpet covers the floor. In the cages, we couldn't hear much over the cries of the masses. Here, the awful sound of a blaring alarm is clear as day.
"Did the dead break through?" I ask curiously.
"Can't be another explanation," Strand answers. "Right."
The journey through identical hallways three through five is silent as I mull through the words. Are we safe here? Is home safe? Is the community even standing?
The only hiccup we have is hall six, where we need to pass a stairwell leading up and down one level. Just as we begin to go through, the beam of a flashlight shines through the window of the door. Gunfire blares after.
Strand pushes Nick against the wall with a hand, flush against it. In turn, Nick's arm does the same to me. I hold back a groan of pain when his hand connects to the skin of my shoulder, instead focusing on biting my cheek.
I'm bloody terrified.
The stunned silence lasts a few minutes as we wait for the stranger to either kill the dead or become one. Strand cautiously peeks over the edge of the hallway, looming to the window. Once he deems it safe, he beckons Nick and me to follow.
In the span of three seconds, we open the door leading to the stairs, run through the open area, and close the door on the other side. Aces. Just ignore the pounding in your chest. You're fine.
I take a deep breath through my nose—a sad attempt to even out my breathing—as we continue down the new hallway. It looks exactly the same. If we didn't pass the stairs, I would've thought we'd gone in a circle. There's a faint beep behind as we press through a door to an open room.
An admissions area?
It certainly looks like a waiting room. This open concept area, with two distinct levels meeting in the way of a ramp and a small set of wide stairs, seems to have been important. Many dead bodies cover the floor—men in the signature camouflage of the US army.
The gunshots. A fight took place.
"Shit!" Nick curses, shoving his hand out so I don't walk further. It takes me a second to understand why.
Some greenies already turned. I can hear their moans, see twitching limbs. Some of the original turned survived the onslaught. They feast—mouths gaping, coagulated blood staining grey skin—on the entrails of those who should long be dead.
I can't muster any energy to gasp, or cover my mouth in shock, or pull away from Nick's grasp. My eyes— are they glassy or wide? I'm not sure anymore—stare at the dead.
This is the world now. Live with it.
"You okay?"
The gentle words register slowly, and I look up to Nick's eyes. I open my mouth to speak—to say I'm fine, but nothing comes out.
I shake my head, and one of his hands cradle the back of my neck, pulling me close to his chest. I don't pull away.
The shift in movement behind him gets my attention, though, and I twist my head to watch Strand take a few tentative steps to one of the dead men.
"Are you crazy, man?!" Nick hisses. "What are you doing?"
"It's alright." Strand says softly. "They're slow."
Are they? The only ones I've seen were Susan and Mr. Dawson.
It seems true enough. With their hunger satisfied we're not given any attention. One digs its hand deep into a soldier's chest cavity. I unconsciously gag as it rips through flesh and brings the bloodied hand to its mouth.
Strand takes a few tentative steps towards a particular soldier on the ground, his leg in the mouth of one of the dead. His eyes are still wide with terror. A gasp escapes me as he twitches in pain. He's still alive.
"Strand." He manages. "Stran-ah, please, Strand…"
"Oh, my god…" I gag as the blood curdles in his throat. There's a huge bite mark in his neck, a stream of blood flowing through and making the muscle movements very visible.
"Don't look." Nick's hand settles on my shoulder as he attempts twists me out of its view.
"No." I protest with a swat at his hand. "Let me see it."
This is the world now. Don't hide from it.
Strand pulls something out of the dying man's pocket—cuff links?—and tells him, "Keep the watch."
"Kill me." The soldier gurgles.
Strand leans close. "You're well on your way."
Fuck, what did this guy do to get on Strand's bad side?
"Shit." Nick mutters, pulling away quickly. "Strand!"
A door on the other side of the room—most likely broken from the fight—holds no barrier between this area and outside. The dead pour into the room by the dozens. Bollocks.
"How do we get out of here?" I ask quickly.
"Fantastic question." Strand replies. He ruffles through the dying man's hunting knife sheath from the strap on his side, quickly finding a set of keys. "Melvin was my ride." He also grabs the handgun by Melvin's side, briefly checking the ammunition before snapping it shut and stuffing it in his waistband.
Strand takes the lead as he barges through the door leading back to the hallway. No slow, deliberate movements this time around. We run, sprint, through the hallway, to the door leading to the stairs. I expect it to be easy; push the metal bar to unlock, like we did last time.
Instead, I'm met with immense force.
The wind is knocked out of me as I shove my whole side on the door. My shoulder collides with the metal and I curse. Nick and Strand have the same response.
"No." I gasp. My fingers haphazardly slam the bar, desperately trying to unlock the mechanism. The sound of dozens undead growling grows louder behind as we try to open the door. Then I remember the beep I heard when we first got in. It manually locked. We need ID. "No, nono. C'mon, you bloody!—"
"That's unfortunate." Strand says, trying to keep his voice calm, but failing as it quivers. He goes to another door nearby, jiggling the handle as Nick body slams his whole side into the door a good ten times. I follow Strand's train of thought; I try another door close by, but the next set is too far close to the dead for me to attempt.
We're stuck. Oh god, we're going to die.
In desperation, Strand yanks out the gun he grabbed earlier, aiming it at one of the dead and shooting. He barely hits the chest of what used to be a man. The third bullet manages to get the head, but there's too many to take pot shots at.
We're going to die.
I don't want to die. But we're going to die.
"Mom! Mom!" Nick shouts behind me, banging his hand on the window of the door. I run to it, taking the right side as I gaze through the glass.
Madison, Travis, Ophelia, Daniel. Friendly faces. They all run to the door on their side, Madison closest when she runs up, screaming, "Nick! Nick! Open it!"
"It's locked!" I pant. Even though I know it's useless, desperate fingers clench around the bar and slam against it.
"Travis, open it!" Madison commands in fear. Travis pulls a heavy-looking wrench to the locking mechanism on the wall, trying to bust it open. "We'll get you out!"
Travis' effort seems to have no effect on the damn thing. He slams and slams and slams to no avail. I hold back a sob. The dead amble dangerously closer and my heart resigns its fear and desperation.
We're going to die.
"Look out! They're coming!" Madison bashes on her side of the door with an axe; no effect. This bloody lock. "No, no!"
The dead are close, too close. The door won't open.
We're going to die.
"Alycia." My voice is soft as I look to Ophelia. "Tell her I love her, okay?"
Ophelia looks to me, wide-eyed and terrified, but gives a grave nod. My bloody dying wish.
Madison screams out, banging her axe fiercely against the door in vain, and Nick places his hand on the window. "Mom. Go." He nods, giving permission. Save yourselves. "It's okay."
This is where we die.
"MADISON, MOVE!" Liza bursts through the first set of doors on the stairs, shoving through the crowd and getting to the lock. She swipes her ID with vigor. The thing beeps, but glows red.
"Hurry!" Madison screams.
"It's not working!" Liza slides her ID. Again, and again. Red, red, red.
Green.
"OPEN IT NOW!" She demands, and Nick, Strand, and I push through the door at lightning speed.
Oh my god. Oh my god, we did it.
Just as Strand shoves through Travis goes to shut the door, but the dead overpower him. Too bloody many.
"Down!" Liza instructs; we listen and shuffle down the stairs at a speed I didn't think possible.
The new room at the end of the staircase is a kitchen. Stoves, fridges, cabinets full of cans and MRE's flood my vision. The prepping tables—with every other item of use in this room—are a dull silver. The only pop of color is the food packaging, spices, and plates.
Safe. Not completely, but safe.
"Oh, gracias a Dios." I vaguely hear from behind, and a warm pair of hands turn and envelop me. Ophelia.
I hug her back tightly, still shaking from the shock. I quietly hum in greeting, and a smile beams on my face. "Missed you."
"Missed you, too." She replies, giving one last squeeze before pulling me at an arm's length. "Have you seen mama at all? Do you know where she is?" I notice Daniel a few paces behind us, his gaze on me as they await my response.
I shake my head. "No, I'm sorry. I was in the cages with Nick and Strand before hell broke loose." I wait a beat before adding, "Was that you?"
Ophelia nods. "We needed to get you all back, no matter what."
We share a quiet moment together, finally taking a breath. Then she screams, "Move!" before lifting the wrench in her hands. I immediately pull to the side with a squeak as she slams the wrench heavily to the face of the undead, bashing its skull before it drops to the floor in a heap.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it." Ophelia pants, and another scream grabs our attention. Liza.
Ophelia runs over (she is the one with the weapon,) and whacks at the dead that traps Liza against a prep table. Where are they coming from?
I shift my gaze around the room, giving it a once-over. There's the stream from upstairs that we narrowly missed. Some are shambling down the steps, but Strand takes them out slowly with his gun to keep the threat low. None could get past him without us knowing. Then where?
Short answer: everywhere.
Long answer: since this bloody kitchen is for a huge building, it makes sense that this open-concept room—with no locked doors—is huge. The infected have easy access here. Could be one trickling in from the left, and three dozen on the right. I don't know. All I am certain of is that we are not safe.
"Where do we go?" Travis asks Liza. She shifts around, searching the different directions and hoping to find the right way.
As if we aren't surrounded enough by the dead, the unmistakable threat of grinding teeth and groans sounds to my right. In that vicinity is Strand, taking shots into the crowd of undead on the stairs, but this one is on our level. Not the stairs. Not in front of Strand. Behind him.
"Shit, Strand!" I scream. I can't let him die.
In a split-second I look to the tools on the silver prep table. Knife set, okay. Tongs. Two spatulas. My hand fumbles for one of the knives in the set, but I note that one: I'd need to get close to the undead. Two: I don't even know if this is strong enough to break through human skull.
Then I look above the prep table. Pans. Skillets. Big, small, and in between on hooks, hanging proudly.
I grab the biggest one I see and barely register the weight in my hands.
"HEY!" The undead falters in its staggering toward Strand; I count that as a win.
Like I'm about to hit a baseball, I pull my arms back as far as I can, and—SLAM the back of the undead skull.
The mess of pale gray skin and coagulated blood splatter over the pan as the body staggers forwards. It's close to losing balance but manages to keep steady.
Gross.
I pull the pan away from the back of its head and repeat the motion, growling at the intensity of the second swing. Then the third. By the fourth it's on its knees, skull caved in and brain chunks mashed.
Shit. I just killed someone. Granted, they're already dead, but fuck.
With one hand I let the pan swing in my hand at waist-length, panting heavily. My sunburned arms ache from the heavy movement. That took a lot of energy. Shit.
Strand pulls away from the stairs and grabs at one of the smaller prep tables on wheels, parking it in front of the crowd. It also helps that the dead bodies he's created leave a small but effective barrier for the rest of the undead by the top.
"I knew I saw something in you."
"You didn't." The pan clutters to the floor, a loud CLANG! reverberating around the room. "I'm an obligation. Nothing else."
"One I'm glad I have." He almost sounds earnest. "Thank you."
With a huff I turn away and join the rest of my group. Strand follows, keen to leave the undead masses as much as me.
"Over here, guys!" Liza calls from the far corner of the room. "C'mon! Run!"
We pull through a set of wide swinging doors that I assume constitute as the main entrance for the food bussers and wait staff. The door leads to a small hallway that brings us to another large room.
"Where's Chris?" Liza asks Travis as we push through some heavy-set office equipment.
"He's safe."
As a group we book it behind the pair, keeping up as Liza leads us. I have no idea where, but anywhere sounds fantastic.
"WHERE?"
"Outside the compound with Alycia." I sigh in relief. At least two of us are safe. "We got to find another way out of here."
"We get back to the medical ward." Liza explains fast as we near the end of the room and push through another door. "We get back there. Exner will know."
For safe measures, the swinging doors behind us have a mop set between the bars, acting as a barrier. Strand's the last of the group, so he's the one to shove it in.
"Who the hell are you?" Madison asks, stepping away from the rest of us. Daniel takes the front by Liza as they trudge down a set of stairs.
"This is Strand." Nick answers. "He saved our lives."
"Niceties later, running now!" I hiss and shake my hand to point down the stairs. Most of us are already sprinting down the steps. Madison nods in agreement.
The next area we go through is the remnants of a locker room. The room is disgustingly filthy; mold visibly grows in the corners. Some lockers are pushed over, leaning on one another. Some are opened, doors swinging; others bent, some still locked. The stench is awful.
I press to the front, wanting out as quick as possible.
Thankfully, we don't stay long. The room is right beside what Liza and the other doctors use as a med bay. The room itself is vast and impressive; there are huge glass units of medication and medical equipment when we first walk in. The cabinets are a good seven feet high, and the inside is lit up in fluorescent blue. Transport equipment is all over the floor. Vital sign machines, small x-ray units, and other machines my brain can't comprehend are everywhere.
Dead bodies are, too.
Liza stares, her mouth agape in shock. Each patient has a small hole in their temples, blood slowly seeping onto their beds. All of her patients gone in the span of an hour.
Fuck.
The only person alive is the doctor that took Griselda and Nick from the house—Exner. She sits on the edge of an occupied bed, beside one of the dead men. In her hands is another piece of medical equipment; I can't describe it much. Looks like an oxygen tank; a pressurized canister to be released from a handheld gun. I have no doubt it's what made the holes in all these soldiers.
Madison immediately jogs to one of the open cabinets and reads the labels of pill bottles. What she deems important she shoves into the backpack previously slung over her shoulder. I scan my eyes over the medical bandages, isopropyl alcohol containers, and first aid equipment on the desk close by.
I rack my brain to remember the EMT book. What's most important?
I get my hands on the last sealed isopropyl alcohol container and shove it to Madison, who in turn shoves it into the pack. Next comes as many sealed sterile gauze packets that I can and squish them in my pockets. Finger splints, ACE bandages, and slings go into Madison's bag. Two rolls of medical tape and a set of medical shears. I rummage through the desk drawers and grab a couple EPI pens and small, loose alcohol preps.
"… You can get out." I hear Exner say, and Madison and I stop our rummaging before making eye contact. This will have to do.
Travis heads to the door, and we slowly trickle behind him as he shoves it open. Liza stays behind, looking to Exner's tired form.
"Come with us." She offers. It sounds more like a beg than anything. "There are people you can still help."
Exner's mouth forms a thin line. She doesn't offer any reply. I frown. Madison gently pads over, resting a hand on Liza's shoulder.
"Liza. We have to go." She leans to Liza and whispers, "She's lost."
Ruefully, Liza pulls away and the two trudge our way. We pull back through the locker room—gross—and head east of the building, where Exner said was safe.
"So, what's the master plan?" Strand strides to Madison, hand pressing at the front of his suit jacket like he's ready to strike a business deal. "Assuming one exists."
"What'd'you mean?" Madison responds, bored and mind otherwise occupied.
"Have you decided on a destination; an end point?"
"We're heading east. The desert. Should be safe there."
"It's not." We trot down a few steps and Madison turns to look at him.
"And what do you suggest, Mr. Strand?" She politely snaps.
"Go west." He answers smoothly. Why?
"What's west?"
"I have a home on the water."
Oh, a boat! That's actually an amazing idea. The cogs turn in my head. We could fish, so we'd have food. Away from the land, away from the undead. Never-ending supply of water that we can purify. It's perfect, honestly.
"I have supplies." Strand adds. "I'm prepared."
Madison's stare back at him is unreadable. She doesn't want to, that's for sure. But I think she's weighing the pros and cons just as much as I am.
Then she turns away without a response. Conversation over; back to finding a way out.
Travis pushes through one last door on our right, and sunlight peers through. Oh, sun, how I've missed you!
I turn my head to the sky, closing my eyes as the morning rays gently beat on my face. Sadly, I turn away after a moment. My poor skin is still very burnt. Experimentally my index finger goes to the tip of my nose, and my skin protests at the motion. It's so warm and stiff. Bollocks.
As I clear my head and follow the group, my eyes land on gigantic piles of dust, positioned a few feet away to our left. Smoke comes off the top of the piles, billowing in the dry breeze.
I stop in my tracks as soon as I note the circular shape in the dust pile.
It's not dust—it's bones.
Burned bodies. These are burned bodies. More skulls, femurs, feet and hands protrude among the pile. No.
There are more piles as I walk through the yard. Everywhere. What's worse is there's a forklift by one of the piles, dust still inside it. No, not dust—ashes.
I faintly hear the sound of sobbing behind me, and I turn to see Ophelia crying by one of the piles. Daniel brings an arm around her comfortingly. It clicks in my head that her mother must have not made it. I'm so sorry.
I leave the two alone and scurry to the rest of the group. We find a garage opening marked, "A1," and Travis runs inside.
"Chris?" He yells out, voice echoing in the empty space. There are about a dozen cars inside, all spread out. I try to find any vehicle that looks like Madison's, or a truck like Travis', but my eyes fail me.
"Alycia?" Madison calls out. "Where's the car? Did they leave?"
"Oh, no." Travis murmurs, worry growing. "Chris?! Alycia?!" Madison joins in, calling out for the two before Daniel comes into the garage.
"Lower your voices!" He says to Travis. "The dead will hear you, they will come."
Travis all but pushes him aside as he calls out for his son. Liza calls out, too, and I start hollering for Alycia.
"We're here!" Alycia answers, and the supply closet door busts open. She and Chris scramble out and run over to our group.
Oh, thank god!
I can barely register the words from both parties. Madison, Travis, and Liza all run to meet their kids in the middle, and all are nearly crushed in tight hugs.
Chris tries to explain what happened to the car. I process the words, "Soldiers. Took. SUV." one at a time. It's a troublesome thing, and a very big issue, but I'm so glad that Alycia and Chris are safe that it outweighs the problem.
"Okay, we must go now." Daniel instructs. And while the parents don't want to cut their reunion short, he's right. We still need to hotwire a car and head east/west, wherever the fuck.
Just as Travis and the others begin to pull up to Daniel, I hear the sound of a gun cock behind me.
"SALAZAR!"
I whip around to the voice, and a very rough-looking soldier has a handgun pointed straight at Daniel's head. Cuts and bruises litter his form, and his arm is heavily wrapped in gauze. Bloody hell, bloke. I want to say he looks familiar, but I don't remember him so injured.
The happy mood immediately flips to fear, and we all slink a few steps back. Ophelia, lying against a support beam on the ground by her father, quietly calls out, "Andy?"
Oh! Andrew Adams from our Safe Zone. Her kinda-sorta boyfriend. What the hell happened to him?
"Andy." She repeats, and she stands up. She takes a few cautious steps forward to get close to her father. "Andy, hey."
"Ophelia." Daniel barks. He holds a hand out behind him, willing her to stay away.
"Andrew." Ophelia says softly. She brings her hands up and gently tries to reason with him. "Put the gun down. You don't have to do this, okay?"
I feel a hand wrap around my wrist from behind and pull me backward, farther away from Andy. I'd recognize the soft skin anywhere. Alycia.
I take a few backwards steps, taking a place in between her and Nick as we watch, terrified. Her hand grasps at my own tightly as she shrinks into her mother's side. Fuck.
"What are you doing?" Ophelia asks Andy. "Just put the gun down."
He doesn't. He keeps his stance rigid as he brings his other hand to the gun, steadying his grip.
"Andrew, please don't do this." She begs. "Please, please, please."
"Andy." She says one last time, and he twists the gun at her.
And he shoots.
I jump at the noise, and Daniel screams, and Ophelia falls to the ground.
NO! Not Ophelia! Not my friend.
My grip tightens on Alycia's hand, and I let out a whimper of shock. Please be okay.
Multiple things happen at once. Travis runs to Andy, side-checking him to the ground. The gun flies away from Andy's hands, and Travis begins to beat him down. Not just one strong punch to knock out. No; he pummels into Andy. Fist after fist, connecting to anything he can hit. Face, nose, jaw, chin. Blood pours from newly formed cuts, covering everything from Andy's face to the pavement beneath to the tanned skin of Travis' knuckles.
Liza runs to Ophelia on the ground as Daniel drops to his knees beside her, looking at the fresh wound. I will myself to look at her. It wasn't her face. She can still be fine.
And thank the fucking lord, she is. It's her shoulder, and she's most definitely in pain, but she's still alive.
"Tina, you want to learn first aid?" Liza calls from her spot on the ground. "Hands on NOW, let's go!"
I let go of Alycia and nearly burst from my spot to the ground beside Ophelia, but before I do I yank Madison's backpack off her shoulder.
"Okay, okay, what do we need?" I say in one breath. I try to ignore the shaking in my fingers and Ophelia's pained moans.
"Step one, I need you to lift her shoulder. Is there an exit wound?" Liza instructs. Her voice is very steady, along with her eye contact. Breathe.
Gently I pull at the top of Ophelia's shoulder, and she cries out. I repeat the phrase, "I'm sorry," at least a dozen times as I pull her up steadily. Sure enough, there's a hole in her skin on this end, too. "Yes. Next?"
"Next, we sit her up straight." Ophelia mumbles in protest, but Liza shushes her. "I know, I know it hurts but trust me, okay?" Gently, the three of us pull her in a sitting position, with Ophelia's head lolling against Daniel's chest in support. "We elevate the wound above the heart so there's less pressure and less blood loss. If it was in her leg—"
"We would put a pillow or stand underneath it so it's above heart level and resting, I remember the diagram." I say quickly. She jerks a couple nods to me, saying "good," before I ask, "Next?"
"Remember those gauze pads you grabbed in the med unit? Rip 'em open and apply pressure to both sides. What kind of medicine did you grab?"
"I-I don't know." I mutter quickly. "Madison grabbed them. They're in the bag." My hands go to my pockets and yank out as many packets as I can. Then I grab one and rip it open, repeating the process and placing the pieces on Ophelia's chest first. Daniel follows suit, taking as many as he can and pressing them to the back wound. Liza takes the backpack and rummages around the pill bottles before ripping the lid off one and gently forcing Ophelia to take two white pills.
"Antibiotics—" Liza waits for my answer.
"Fight infection." She nods in approval.
I'm so wrapped up in Ophelia that I don't notice Travis nearly killing Andy. I don't notice the rest of the group hot-wiring two cars—an SUV and a truck—and then packing our gear and telling us to move.
I hop in the back of the truck with Daniel, Ophelia, and Liza without a second thought.
Thank god she'll be okay.
Strand's house is huge and by the water. Not that I'm surprised. He carries himself as a wealthy man; he has reason to.
He tells us to park the cars by what I'm assuming is his front door. This piece of the house has walls with a beautiful brick design, but I can see from here that he has floor to ceiling glass windows on the corner by the water.
Damn. Rich bitch.
I hop out the truck's bed first, opening the flap and offering my hand to Liza to help her down. She takes it, and somehow manages to jump down gracefully.
"You go ahead."
I raise an eyebrow. "You sure?"
She nods as Daniel begins a slow descent of sitting and scooting down. "Yeah. We can take care of her from here. You helped a lot today. Thank you, Tina."
I nod silently and follow Strand, the Clarkes, and the Manawas to the front door.
Woah.
His house is beautiful inside. It's very open concept; not many doors. The general color scheme of the house is black surfaces, such as countertops, fridge, stairway, and chairs. Silver accents for general decor provides a chic contrast, and a sandy colored wall goes throughout the house. His couch in the living room is gold. Very posh. Mum would have loved this place.
"Anyone hungry?" Strand announces, striding into the kitchen. "Help yourselves."
Daniel and Ophelia head straight for the couch, setting her down in the corner so she can rest. Liza hands Daniel a pack of dressings, telling the two to change them on a daily schedule and to take the antibiotics that Madison grabbed. They murmur many thanks.
Alycia grabs at the shiny black fridge in the kitchen, searching for food. I follow close behind and give her a crushing bear hug.
"I missed you." I squeal.
She holds me back just as tightly. "I missed you, too."
I pull her to an arm's length, smiling. My brain flies back to the moment behind the locked door. And it's silly, I know, but I need to say it to her. To my best friend, one of the most important people in my life. "I love you."
Alycia smiles back, a kind chuckle escaping her. "I love you, too."
Chris rummages in the dark wooden cabinets for a cup and fills one to the brim with tap water. Oh, that's a good idea. Water sounds like heaven.
I let go of Alycia and head to the cabinet with the cups, grabbing the tallest I can find, filling it, and nearly downing the thing in one sip.
I hum contently, thankful, and go back for more. Just half this time. Damn, I was thirsty.
"Want a popsicle?" Alycia asks. She finds strawberry ones in the freezer, and I nod eagerly. She pulls a couple out.
The back of my hand wipes against my lips and cheek, and I find resistance against the movement. When I put my hand in front of my face, dried, dark red covers my skin. Blood.
I don't realize I've said it out loud until Alycia nods. "Yeah… you have some on you. Go wash up."
I nod back, adding, "Chris, you can have my pop if you want," before going down a small hallway past the kitchen.
"Strand," I call, quickly searching before finding his bedroom in the middle door on the right. When I step inside the doorframe, no further, I take note how he hardly has any personal items. His bed is made neat, desk kept clean, and two paintings hanging on opposite walls. But there are no pictures of family; no nostalgic items on the desk. It makes the room colder than I thought. It's been empty throughout the whole house. Maybe mum wouldn't like it as much as I thought.
I look to him by his open closet door, his hands shuffling on suit pieces that he's stuffing into a suitcase. "Where's your bathroom?"
"Other hallway, past the living room. First door on the left, you'll see it immediately." He directs. "There's some Aloe in the cabinet behind the mirror, if you're interested."
"Thanks."
Making the necessary changes in direction, I quickly trek to the bathroom door, slightly ajar. Without much thought I push it all the way open.
I'm an idiot. Why don't I ever knock?
Vowing to knock on closed or cracked open doors forever, I quietly greet Nick. "Hi."
"Hey." He's in front of the square mirror in front of a beautiful marble countertop sink, a wet, white rag in hand. Well, used to be white; he's cleaning off blood, too, so it's become pink with use.
I'm silent as I head to the mirror and swing it open, finding a small lotion bottle-sized Aloe, with the cap on the bottom. Then I close the door, and nearly gasp at my reflection.
The burn isn't what shocks me. I knew I'd be red; I'm paying for staying out in the sun, whatever. But the blood… There's a lot more than I was expecting.
Truth be told, it's not actually much. There's a splatter of it everywhere; little droplets covering portions of my cheeks and a couple dots on my nose. It's more congealed by my right ear, when I first swung the pan down on the dead and its head exploded.
My hand goes to the mess of blood by my ear. It's hardly sticky now. Just dry. Gross. It serves as reminder that I killed someone today. I bring my hand to the edge of the sink, fingers still shaking against the marble.
I killed someone today. Fuck.
Nick's eyes capture mine through the mirror. He takes a cautious step forward and presses the hand towel into my open palm. "Here." His voice is soft. "I'm done with it."
I nod in quiet thanks and put water on it, letting it soak before I furiously rub at my features. Then groan at the irritation against my sunburnt skin. Fine. Slow and steady wins the race.
Slowly this time, I take the cloth and rub soft circles near my ear, then my cheeks, and atop my nose. Better. Next time I check my reflection I look human again. Good.
I turn around to look at Nick, and he genuinely looks better than he has the past few days. Healthier. His skin, no longer ashen and pale. His cheeks, a rosy hue. No more sunken eyes. He looks good; like himself again. Like the Nick I first met when I moved to L.A. and Alycia introduced us.
I guess I stare at him a moment too long, because he asks, "What? There something on my face?"
I give a halfhearted chuckle. "No, you just…" I try to think of the words. "You look like yourself again."
He shrugs silently.
Then I notice a small tinge of pink on his chin. "Actually, you did miss a spot."
I take a tentative step forward and place my hand on his cheek, gently moving him so I can get a better view of the splotch. I try not to burn under his gaze as I take the hand towel and rub a small circle against the blood, quickly cleaning it off. It's small—only takes a second to wipe off. The rational part of my brain tells me to walk away when it's done. The other part keeps me still, my hand perched on his cheek like it's frozen.
His hand wraps around mine holding the towel, and I look up to him curiously. Nick's chocolate brown orbs stare into my green, and his lips press against mine.
He's kissing me.
Oh god, he's kissing me.
And for that one precious moment, everything melts away. We're just stupid teens; there's no undead monsters, my friend's not shot, I never killed anyone, we're not in a stranger's house seeking shelter. We're just Tina and Nick, and we're kissing each other like its air and we need it to survive.
He pulls away slowly, hand cradling my cheek, eyes searching my expression. A silent, "Was that okay?" To answer, my hand drops the towel and pulls him back, crashing my lips against his with a fury I didn't know I had.
My hands find their way to Nick's neck and down his shoulders, pulling him to my height as I press my front against him. One of his hand's snakes to the back of my neck, cradling it to properly kiss me again, the other wrapping around my side to keep me close against his chest.
My brain, in a haze of thoughtlessness, vaguely realizes he's pushing me against the sink, trapping me. The cold marble of it is striking in contrast at the hot flare I feel running through my veins, each nerve lit up and blasting. My hands grip the edge tightly.
I smile when he pulls away, both of us breathless, but chuckling softly. Nick rests his forehead against mine, breaths intermingling before he lowly kisses me again. His hands grip my waist possessively as mine go to cradle his face.
Then his tongue glides along my bottom lip, asking for entrance, and my rational thoughts come flooding back. The past few days, Never Have I Ever, him using again.
And just when his tongue slips into my mouth I pull away ruefully, panting out his name breathlessly. "Nick, stop."
"Stop?" He repeats, as if he's trying to get his brain working again. "Sorry, too fast?"
"Stop." I push his chest, sending him back a couple paces. I turn quickly, rigid as I walk to the door—the furthest I can be from him—so I don't look at Nick; I can't look at his piercing gaze or his swollen lips, because I know if I do, I'll kiss him again.
"I—I'm sorry." Nick apologizes, sounding confused. "Did I read the signs wrong, or—?"
"No, no you didn't." I assure him, willing myself to be strong as I turn back.
"Then I… I don't see why—?"
"Because, Nick." I stutter as I try to get my thoughts out. "Because it might not be real."
He furrows his brows, and I run my hands through my hair as I try to explain. "Look, these past two weeks, they've been great. But then two, three days ago soldiers pound on the door saying you've been using again. And hearing this, I just thought—I keep thinking—"
I look up at him, desperately hoping he sees my point. "How do I know if you really want me, or if you're just lonely? If it was just the drugs talking? You lied to me; that doesn't just go away, and what if you're lying about that, too? And with the drugs, you might not even realize it, and…"
"It's not that," Nick says. "Tina, I'm not lying, or using you, I swear—"
I shake my head. "You can't prove that." Bollocks. My voice goes an octave quieter as I add, "I don't want to be another Gloria. I want this, I want us, to be real."
And praise all the deities in the sky, he answers with, "Okay. So, how do I prove to you that it is?"
My mind makes a thousand different calculations to answer that question. What would?
"Seven days." I say with vigor. "Seven days, we don't talk to each other. We stay apart. After seven days, if you still feel the same, if I feel the same…" I take a quick huff of air. "Then we go from there."
I look up to him, waiting for his response. "Deal?"
Tentatively, I hold my hand out for him to shake. The three seconds that pass utterly terrify me. But he nods, and gives a proper shake. "Deal."
He passes by me to the door and join the others, swinging the door halfway open to leave. But before he does, he turns back to me, a small smirk on his face. "Day one."
I just smile in response. When the door closes behind him, I release the biggest huff of air to recharge my thoughts. My hands messily run through my hair not once, twice, but three times in hopes I could get them to stop shaking.
My eyes land on the Aloe bottle, completely forgotten in the past five minutes.
I shake the confusing thoughts out of my head, but I'm still smiling as I pop open the bottle and squirt a bit onto my hands.
Once I'm lathered up in Aloe and deem myself presentable I leave the bathroom, bottle in hand. No way in hell am I leaving this behind when we get on Strand's boat.
I plop myself beside Ophelia and Daniel on the couch. I offer a smile, and she gives me a pained one in response. "How're you feeling?"
"Like I got shot," Ophelia replies. I let out a low snort. "I'll feel better when we—"
BANG!
A gunshot?
It rings loudly through the house, freezing us in our tracks.
Alycia and Chris, originally eating frozen pops contently, burst through the sliding door in the living room. I hop from the couch and follow close behind, jumping down spray painted rocks and patches of sand to get on the beach. It's doesn't take long to reach Travis, Madison, and Liza.
The next sound I hear is Chris sobbing.
His hands fist Liza's scrub top, clutching so tightly that his knuckles go white. The fabric crinkles with the movement, the blood of the undead stiff and dry, but the new blood? Her blood. It's everywhere; trickling down her face, into the sand, into her clothes…
I've seen so many dead today. So many infected trampling upon each other, so many piles of ash and bone. I guess I didn't think it could be one of us. One of our friends with a bullet in their skull.
It can.
Welcome to the new world, Cristina Anne Waters.
Get used to it.