Talker – Chapter Twenty-One: Better Off Alone

Author's Note: Short chapter. But important.

He had almost fallen asleep, a few times. Mostly, however, his pressing anxieties had kept him mentally pacing for hours. He distantly felt as though he was completely alone now, which in literal terms he was, but somehow far more than he had ever felt before on this island. It was comparable only to the kind of desolate abandonment he felt when he had first awakened to the disaster back in the city. That sick horror in the pit of his stomach like a little lost child locked in a morgue. But this time it was his fault, a consequence of his own misconduct, and that changed things. But damn, how could he have been so stupid? He sure hadn't meant to do it, he didn't even register making the decision to do it, it had just happened. That was not the way he normally behaved…he rarely had been so bold as to make a move like that, the five or six girlfriends that he'd had had always been the first to kiss him. Hell, maybe that was why they'd left…

It seemed like out of all he had learned about Ana, he had simply ignored it. He vividly remembered Terry's tale of Ana and her first husband, and then, in another gruesome twist of fate, Ana and Michael. He remembered it so clearly because it was the very first time that he ever truly felt more fortunate for being alone when he awoke. It was no surprise; he lived alone. And though he didn't remember getting out of his building or where he had gone or what he had been thinking, he at least knew that he hadn't watched a loved one suffer brutally and then turn to attack him. He had seen Tom in his ghastly final moments, but he hadn't felt any connection for him. He didn't mourn for Tom anymore than a poor unlucky bastard—one who had infected him in the process anyway. Other than that, he hadn't seen any zombies holding the form of someone he recognized or loved.

Ana, on the other hand, had seen more than any human being had right to see. How unfair that seemed. At every turn she was broken down a little more, had to see one more person she'd grown attatched to killed before she could save them. That with the memories of two lovers slain in the midsts of this crisis, he would be surprised if she hadn't run from him. This time he'd really made a mess of things. So what was he supposed to do now? He couldn't go back to them, not like that. He hated himself, he couldn't imagine how they would feel.

He fell onto his back in exasperation, ignoring the throbbing in his injured arm. He was now wrestling with a sort of 'this is the rest of your life' sentiment, thinking about how he would grow old if given the unfortunate chance. Being old…what a curse that sounded like. He used to think about old age lightly, wondering how much he would look like his father and whether or not he'd be a successful writer like he promised. If he'd have any kids of his own. At twenty-four, he had started to think about these things…but as quickly as he had started, it ended. He'd die young if he was lucky…he didn't like sounding so utterly depressing, but he couldn't help it. It was the way things were, wasn't it?

He froze up again when he heard someone approaching, horrified but hopeful to think it could be Ana, or anyone else for that matter. He never cursed being alone so much. As he sat up, however, a weight toppled from his chest and a sigh crunched under his lungs. Chips. So the lost crusader was back from his quest… The dog was staring at him from a distance, nose low and pushed a ways towards the sand. "Hey boy." Tyler greeted. "Guess you found me out, huh?" he slowly drew up his knees with a pained sigh and shook his head, lifting his hand a little to beckon the island mutt.

Chips growled.

…

Growled?

Tyler lowered his hand and furrowed his brow. "You too, huh?" but the words died in his throat as he studied the animal before him. Something was wrong…Why did he stand with his tail between his legs? Why was he growling with his head held low…? And that chalky white build-up at the roots of his tongue and teeth…? Oh shit. Tyler knew. He knew because he'd seen it before, when his dog Jailburd died from the very same thing. Rhabdovirus. Rabies…

Shit. Shit. He wondered how for a minute before he realized the small bite marks along Chips's muzzle…those ferret creatures he'd been chasing. Those mean little bastards with needled teeth. How ironic that Chips could be immune to the worst plague unleashed upon mankind in history, but was taken over simply by such a common virus…With a chittering outtake of breath, he began to back away, careful to move slow and away from him so as not to rouse aggression. But it didn't help. Chips snarled and saliva flecked from his jaws, jolting his body into a ready-to-pounce state and stomach rumbling with a broken growl that made Tyler sweat.

"Easy…easy boy, come on…" he crooned, holding up his hands as he rose to his feet. What did he do now? He couldn't lead him to the others—he might attack, and rabies was fatal, even to a human being. It was almost as bad as the other…disease. In fact, briefly he wondered if the two were related. But he sure as hell didn't want to get bitten, either.

The dog kept on growling low, form shaky. It was clear by the progression of the disease that he would be dead in a matter of days, if not hours, and right now Tyler's biggest hope was that he would forget about him and wander off in his mentally deteriorating state. But that didn't happen. Every movement he made seemed to enrage the sick dog further, spurring him to make a threatening mock-lunge. He backed up just a little, about to call out to the dog again and get him to stay where he was when some wayward gesture seemed to set him off.

The dog leapt forward, teeth snapping out at the human in his path.