Without Guilt

Chapter II: Hoard

Otis was convinced that on any other day he might have appreciated the cold water, but on a day like this and with the aches in his body the cold only settled the stiffness deep into his bones. He had no choice but to layer up, trying to ignore the throbbing wound in his side as he zipped up his jacket.

The first thing on his list had been dealt with even if it wasn't how he wanted it to be.

The next thing had him heading for the kitchen, ignoring the pile of dishes left in the sink and opening the cupboard where he kept his rations.

Being a Hunter for as long as he had, he'd learned several things:

1) If you didn't make clear what was yours from day one, you could expect it to be gone by day two.

2) Someone would always get desperate, so keep a separate stash.

He stared at the empty cupboard, his mind briefly going to a very dark place.

"I meant to tell you." Dorothy perked up from behind him with a mousy voice.

The thought of going without food for an hour longer was just as exhausting as trying to find out who did it. He didn't have to guess though. The resident thief had left a note. "Tell me what?" He demanded to know as he collected the scrap of paper.

"It's been kind of desperate down here." She fidgeted with the sleeve of her cardigan. Like the rest of her clothes, it dwarfed her small figure, and the constant fidgeting had worn holes in the cuff of the old garment. "Layla's been dishing out the supplies that her group got from the last two weeks' runs, but she's been kind of… difficult." She seemed to be picking her words carefully.

Otis was only half listening, glaring at the words:

'We need to talk. -K'

"Why did Layla's group go out twice?' He asked Dorothy, the low rumble of his voice containing a warning of his temper as he turned to her. He was trying not to be angry at Dorothy. She'd only been trying to help, but the way she was trying to diffuse him told him that there was more to her sudden care about him than just pity.

Dorothy knew something was going on that Otis wouldn't like and she was trying to find a way to tell him.

This wasn't usually what she did. She was more than content hiding behind Dominique.

"Because our group asked them to take our rotation." She answered quietly.

The response was so bizarre to him that his irritation was replaced by frustration. "You're not making sense. Why the fuck did you ask them to go?" He demanded to know. "You know we need those supplies."

Every supply run group was eager to take as many rotations as they could – the more you went out, the more supplies and gear parts you could keep for yourself. It also meant that it you didn't have to go out further each time to find something since the nearby areas were all ransacked or too full of infected to even attempt.

"Otis, Dom was sick." Dorothy replied, trying to stand her ground instead of shrinking back as he walked towards her. She did well, not even budging an inch when he stood over her.

"Move." He demanded.

"Wha- no. It's not the time to start fights, Otis!" She frowned at him.

"Move." He told her, indicating the floor tiles.

Her frown deepened in confusion as she looked down then up at him for a clue, shifting when he ducked down to pry the tile out from under her foot. "What are you doing?" She seemed to gape at him as though he might pull out a machete and go kill someone.

The tiles were set aside neatly for easy retrieval, exposing a small under-floor hole where a wooden crate was hidden under some tarp. Otis pulled back the tarp to reveal a collection of dusty cans and jars. There were at least twenty in there with a weathered journal for inventory, loose pieces of paper sticking out thanks to the broken spine that barely held together.

He heard Dorothy gasp behind him at the sight of the supplies. "Keep this quiet and I'll let you pick two for yourself." He told her, bringing out a can of potato and leek soup and the coffee tin before looking to her expectantly.

It was evident she hadn't eaten for a while because she was still staring and swallowing back her saliva. "… Really?" She asked with quiet suspicion. "What do you want in return?"

He almost laughed. She'd learned that nothing was free around here. People always wanted favours – the old 'scratch my back, I'll scratch yours'. "Call it a trade. You need to keep this quiet and tell me what the fuck has been happening while I was gone."

Dorothy seemed to be burned by his request, her hands squeezing her stomach to keep it from rumbling in embarrassment.

"Why would you let someone do that to you?" Otis asked. His voice was raspy from years of heavy smoking. He'd quit some 2 years ago when the side effects had become too much but his voice still held a lingering consequence.

"Do what?" She murmured, shifting a bit uncomfortably under his pale gaze.

Otis had done his fair share of interrogating prisoners. He knew all the tell-tale signs of distrust, lies, fear, and desperation. More than that, he knew exactly where to stick the knife and when to twist it.

Pushing Dorothy like this would likely make her escape. She was too good-natured to bribe into giving up whoever she was protecting. It didn't matter to her if the person had led to her starving, but those were exactly the traits of someone who wouldn't last a day in this kind of world alone.

He wondered how she'd even made it as far as she did. Whoever that man had been with her when the Hunters found her 5 years ago had definitely not been a friend. If he had to guess, the reason she never protested his death was because she was grateful to Otis for killing him and yet that gratitude had made her feel guilty for being relieved at the death of another person.

It wasn't his business to ask either way.

He retrieved a second can from the crate before tossing it to her. "Catch."

"What? Oh!" Dorothy fumbled, panicking a little and failing miserably to catch it. They both winced at the sound of it hitting the floor, the woman stumbling a little as she tried to stop it rolling away. "What's this for then?" She asked, her cheeks a bit flushed from her clumsiness.

"To keep this quiet." He replied, filling the kettle to get it heated for their food.

Dorothy squinted at him over her glasses, quietly processing the response. "Are you sure?" She questioned sheepishly, her thumb moving over the dent in the side of the can as she studied the label. It was a faded red colour declaring the contents to be 'Noodelicious!'. Noodles. She couldn't guess the flavour, but her stomach would have no qualms about eating anything right now.

Otis didn't care to answer her as he retrieved a mug for his coffee, stashing the tin back and resetting the tiles.

He didn't quite trust Dorothy enough to leave the stash where it was. Some pitiful fool would complain about how they hadn't eaten for days, and she would probably cave and feel that the food was better off shared than hoarded. He would move it at the next given opportunity.

Dorothy seemed to hover behind him, maybe contemplating how she should take this unusual act of kindness, but the soft whistle of the kettle snapped her out of her uncertainty, and she quickly went about pouring the can's contents into a bowl to pour some hot water over. She'd been hungrier than she'd realised, her attempt to stave off the hunger by taking a small nibble out of a saline cracker once every day then filling up on water having essentially numbed her stomach.

The chicken scented steam that rose from the bowl sent off a painful pang in her abdomen, her hands moving to rub over it to soothe away the cramps.

The realisation that she could soon sate it had filled her with a new kind of energy. She grabbed the dish soap and the wash pad and got to work on clearing the sink of dirty dishes – she'd only been after a fork, but it was on her way.

When she was done, she nodded proudly then took her fork and bowl to the small table wedged against the wall, pausing only when she realised that Otis was watching her. Her cheeks flushed again. "What?" She asked.

"Nothing." He looked away, focusing on his can of soup. He neglected utensils and was quietly sipping it.

She smiled, rolling her fork in the noodles. "You know what I miss? Going to this little Chinese place down the road from the university. They were open till way late so after a long shift in A&E we'd go and grab these big bowls of wonton soup, it was the best thing ever." She expressed, stuffing her face promptly.

Otis looked to her again but didn't really contribute to the conversation. He didn't think they were best friends for sharing a meal at 3 AM and had no idea why she was telling him this.

She'd pause and look back at him as she chewed her mouthful. "What about you?"

"Doesn't matter." He dismissed. "It's cans until the next tourist blows a hole in my head or I turn into a walking meat bag of fungal infection."

"Ew. Can you not?" She grimaced at the wording while she was trying to eat. "Just tell me. What do you miss eating?" She bounced back quickly, her loud slurping and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand making him wonder if she even got anything from the supplies that had been taken from the cupboard.

He could almost imagine her sitting behind a big bowl that completely hid her when she picked it up to drink the soup.

"… I don't know." He finally answered, figuring she wouldn't leave him alone if he didn't.

"There must be something!" She insisted. "Pizza? Cake? Steak?" She offered, trying to guess at what he might enjoy. "Peanut butter?"

"Peanut butter?" He repeated back at her with a deadpan stare.

"Okay, maybe not." She laughed, eating some more noodles as she tried to think of what else there was that didn't come in cans. It was sometimes hard to imagine the abundance of food and endless varieties that had been available pre-outbreak.

"Mangoes." Otis decided after careful consideration.

Dorothy paused and blinked as though she hadn't the foggiest idea what that was, several emotions flickering across her face before the virtual light bulb finally came on. "Oh! Mangoes!"

He finished his can, washed it out then flattened it for easy disposal.

Dorothy reflected on his response as she pushed her sliding spectacles back up her nose. "I don't think I've ever really had mangoes. Not like… the real fruit. I had it in Jell-o."

"University students are always poor." He remarked, stirring some sugar into his coffee. Fortunately, it was the powdered kind that already came with the creamer, so he didn't have to worry about adding milk.

"Right?" She agreed enthusiastically, laughing at the shared moment.

"So…" He turned to look at her. "When were you planning to tell the Boss that you're not a qualified nurse?"

Her expression changed very rapidly to alarm; her mouthful being swallowed with difficulty. "I wasn't… I didn't- um…" She shook her head, setting her fork down. "I was in my graduate year when all this happened." She protested quietly.

He hummed to indicate he'd heard her response, taking his mug to head out of the kitchen.

"Otis!" She called after him, nearly running into him when he stopped suddenly. "Listen, I didn't hurt anyone, I'm trying my best to help out too, it's not like everyone knows everything in their job," She rambled, wringing her hands together. "Listen, I really don't want to get in trouble, please?"

She didn't understand how he could be kind one moment then cold the next. She felt all kinds of foolish at believing he didn't want anything in return for a little food.

"I'll start going out with the raiding party, just please-" She bartered, the lump in her throat growing.

"No." He finally said, confusing her. "I need you here. You should already know I treat my people good, Simmons. But you're hiding something from me, and I need to know what it is because if I get dragged out on the street and lynched, I want to at least know what for."

She shrunk back, guilt overwriting her expression as she contemplated the words.

She hadn't heard him speak this much in one go. Usually he gave one-word answers – a few strung together at most. "I can't…" She replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's not my place to tell." She added quickly.

"Then whose place is it?" He questioned firmly.

"Talk to K. That's all I can tell you." She said, offering an apologetic child. "I'm sorry, Otis."

Otis felt his temper threaten to flare again, though he turned to head for the bedroom of the small flat which belonged to Kumi and Dominique. He needed answers from the man, late night disturbance or not.

Dorothy followed him, her short legs struggling to keep up with him. "Otis!"

He gave three sharp raps on the door. "Kumi!" He called, pushing the door open shortly in his impatience.

"T?" A groggy William sat up from the bed, saliva still staining his bearded chin. "Listen, I was gonna tell ya-" He began scrounging the bottle of isopropyl from the bedside table as if to hide it.

"They're not here, Otis." Dorothy said from the doorway.

William paused when he realised that Otis hadn't come to wrangle him for stealing rubbing alcohol from the infirmary. "They moved out at the start of the week, figured they'd been saving up to trade for a better place. You know… being love birds and all, they'd want some privacy. Not that I mind, I got me a decent bed to sleep in."

Otis looked from William to Dorothy. "They took my things to trade them." It wasn't a question.

William scratched his neck, taking interest in the far wall. "I was gonna stop them…" He muttered.

"Kumi said you'd understand." Dorothy voiced. "I thought you had some kind of deal going on, so I didn't really try." She admitted.

Otis didn't understand. He didn't understand a thing.

Please R&R!