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Here There Be Monsters

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As it turned out, Mercedes could not have been more wrong about traveling through the pitch black of the desert at night. Not because it was any more dangerous than daytime, but because at night the desert was simply anything but pitch black. No clouds blotted the sky. There were no tall trees or nearby mountains to block the view, and so overhead was nothing but space. Even with only a half moon there were billions upon billions of stars illuminating the vast expanse of sand and rock and dust. The sweeping brushstrokes of the Milky Way painted a glittering river low along the horizon, the constellation Cygnus pointing downwards to the edge of the earth while the Big Dipper hung suspended close to the zenith. The stars showered an astounding amount of light onto the desert, lighting up the road ahead as well as any streetlamps, and it was easy to see the road signs informing them that they were now crossing the southern tip of Nevada.

Mercedes and Puck were both walking alongside Mr. T, as they had agreed to leave more space on the horse's back for carrying supplies. It had been four days since they had begun traveling at night, much to their collective relief — their sunburns had begun to fade, they no longer felt constantly dizzy with dehydration, and even Mr. T wasn't perpetually covered in sweat.

But it was strange to travel in this place.

While the desert was more hospitable beneath starlight, it was filled with an ageless oppressive silence, like far-off thunder. There was an unending soft breeze echoing hollowly across the sand as it whispered through the leaves of the sparse Yucca trees, and having such a boundless view of the universe condensed into what Mercedes could see with her own eyes made her feel strangely claustrophobic. She had the odd sensation that she was trapped between the knitted layers of earth and space, suspended in limbo, stuck between two dimensions. Above, an infinite sea of almost-tangible light, and below, the shadows of countless lizards as they slithered onto the warm pavement from the sand. Neither side felt real. The silence was seeping into her very pores, and it seemed almost criminal to break it.

And so, as the hours after hours of walking passed, she and Puck didn't speak. The only sound was the steady clip-clop of Mr. T's hooves on the highway pavement as they followed it east. Each night they waited for the soft line of the horizon to glow from the impending sun before they would retreat into the first gas station they came to for the day. Once they and Mr. T were inside and protected from the scorching sun, they would sleep and stock up on whatever was left on the station shelves, waiting once again for dusk.

It was a stable enough routine, but the lack of conversation left Mercedes' mind to wander unhindered. This in turn left a ball of anxiety sitting heavily in the pit of her stomach, imagining all sorts of nasty fates that could easily have fallen onto her family members back in Ohio or her two brothers who were off in college. If she could have had God listen to only one of her prayers, it would be to know whether her family was safe and sound, a thousand miles away. She didn't even need to see them — she just needed to know.

She supposed that there had to at least be a reason for the blackout. After all, God worked in mysterious ways and it wasn't as if she'd never had hard times in her life. Nothing quite like this, to be sure, but Mercedes' mother had always said God never dealt out anything a person couldn't handle. Considering how many corpses Mercedes had seen just lying in the road since leaving Los Angeles, though, she wasn't sure she still believed that. She wasn't sure she still believed in anything.

But maybe — just maybe — this was happening simply because God felt like destroying everything. It certainly would fit the biblical canon. The great flood of Noah's ark, the plagues of ancient Egypt, the blackout of 2014. It all had quite a terrifying continuity.

And still, as she trekked eastward across miles of desert beneath an immeasurable heavenly display of celestial bodies, her faith was slowly trickling away like sand through an hourglass.

DAY 17

Artie and Caitlin had been staying with the Andersons for a little more than a week now, and it… wasn't bad. Blaine was usually good company, and his mom was hospitable. Tim seemed like he would go out of his way to avoid talking to his guests, though, and Artie was feeling more and more every day like Pamela's hospitality was only surface-deep. Add to that the fact that Caitlin still hadn't spoken a word and that he was unable to help out with grunt work like chopping wood, and Artie was beginning to sense that he and his sister were gradually becoming unwelcome.

On top of all of this, the worst part was the boredom. The last time he'd been to Blaine's house before the blackout, the two of them had stayed up until midnight slaughtering each other in Call Of Duty IV, but obviously that was no longer any source of entertainment. Everything Artie enjoyed or was good at — video games, movies, music, everything — relied on electricity and that had been stripped from his grasp without warning or recompense. Now, he was unavailingly lacking in skills that provided any sort of purpose, and therefore he felt completely and utterly useless. He was just a lonely parasite, taking up space in the Andersons' home and leeching off their resources.

As useless as he felt, however, it was actually the loneliness that at last pushed Artie to ask Blaine if he could go out on one of the routine supply runs into town. Artie immediately felt his stomach twist as Blaine stared at him for a moment in hesitation. It wasn't hard to see the question written across Blaine's face: are you really able to help, or will I have to watch your back in addition to mine?

"I can carry a ton of stuff on my lap," Artie added quickly before Blaine could awkwardly decline. "And — and we can always hang a couple of extra bags on the back of my chair." He swallowed, praying Blaine would accept. God, he really needed something to do.

Blaine considered this, and then nodded. "Yeah, man," he said, shrugging an empty backpack onto his shoulders. "I could use the company. It's creepy being out there by myself."

A wave of relief washed over Artie in an instant. He then realized that he hadn't felt such an urgent need to prove his abilities since the first year or so after his accident. The pressure was familiar and entirely unwelcome.

Blaine handed Artie a few canvas bags and a backpack, letting Artie stack them in his lap before they headed outside. Blaine shouted a quick goodbye to his parents, letting the door swing shut behind them. Artie shivered for a moment; it was bright and sunny but still unusually cool for May. A crisp breeze wafted past them, making the hairs on Artie's arms stand erect.

"So where are we going to go?" Artie asked. He carefully rolled his chair down the makeshift ramp Blaine had constructed out of a wide slat of plywood, nailed over the front steps so that Artie could make it to the outdoor latrine without assistance. (Artie hated plenty of things about this new version of the world, but not having working toilets was close to the top of the list.)

"There's an abandoned truck from Target over on Yoakam Road that I saw last time I was out," Blaine said, tightening the straps of his backpack around his shoulders. "I'm hoping there's food in it, but even if there's not we might find some useful stuff if we can get it unlocked."

Artie nodded. "Sounds good," he agreed, ignoring the tugging in his stomach telling him that Yoakam Road was a little too far. He kept his mouth shut instead. He had to pull his weight, wheelchair or no.

It took nearly an hour to cross town southward and make it to Yoakam Road, mostly because Blaine had to walk slowly to allow Artie to keep up. Artie hadn't been through Lima since the day he'd gone home with the Andersons, and he'd hoped that things would look at least a little better by now. Instead, nothing had changed (and really, he shouldn't have been surprised). The streets were littered with abandoned cars, some just sitting in the middle of the street, others overturned or blackened and burned. Occasionally, the driver's seat was still occupied.

Was it just Artie's imagination, or were there twice as many crows in Lima as there had been before the blackout?

Overhead, the sky was a brilliant blue, blotted with thick rolling rain clouds that cast slow-moving shadows over the road ahead. A flock of crows flapped up from a clump of trees by the road's shoulder, squawking and swooping into the air and making Artie jump in his chair.

"I feel like I'm in 28 Days Later," Artie muttered bitterly. His arms were killing him — he had impressive upper body strength thanks to his wheelchair, but he was pretty sure he'd never had to make it this far without a car or someone pushing him.

"Tell me about it," Blaine agreed, hooking his thumbs through the straps of his backpack. His gaze ceaselessly jumped from place to place, scanning their surroundings for anything — mostly people — that could be a potential threat.

Artie didn't like living with this level of anxiety. He wondered briefly if this was what it was like in places on the other side of the world that had been leveled by war — Iraq, Afghanistan, Rwanda… Maybe it was just America's turn to be brought down a few pegs.

"Well, if zombies show up, I'm tripping you," Artie joked nervously.

"That's fair."

"I'm glad you understand."

"We're here," Blaine announced, lightly grabbing Artie's shoulder to direct him to the right turn onto Yoakam Road. "There it is."

A few hundred yards ahead, sitting diagonally across the street and effectively blocking traffic (not that there was any real traffic to block) was an eighteen-wheeler with the large Target logo printed on the side.

Expect more, pay less! it cheerfully promised.

"What do you think's in there?" Artie asked as they approached, dwarfed by the truck's shadow. The back of the trailer was padlocked.

Blaine grabbed the driver's handle and heaved himself up to the cab, opening the door. Artie watched from the ground. "I'm hoping for a piping hot pizza and a chocolate milkshake," Blaine answered, leaning into the cab to rummage for the keys. "What about you?"

"Popcorn with extra butter," Artie replied, grinning. "And cold root beer."

"Nice."

"Did you find the keys?"

At this point, only Blaine's feet were visible from Artie's position on the pavement. Blaine had climbed almost all the way into the cab to root through the glove compartment. "No, I don't see them," he called over his shoulder.

"Check the sun flap," Artie suggested. "That's where my mom keeps hers."

Blaine backed up, perching on the driver's seat to pull down the sun flap. The keys fell into his lap. "Got 'em!" He pocketed the keys, then swung out of the cab and jumped back onto the pavement.

Together they circled back around to the back of the trailer, and Blaine deftly opened the padlock. "Fingers crossed for milkshakes and root beer, right?" he said with a smile, and yanked the doors open.

The metal hinges squealed slightly as the doors fell back against the sides of the trailer, and Artie's jaw dropped.

"Whoa," said Blaine, his arms falling to his sides.

Inside the trailer was a wall of boxes, untouched, unpacked, and unspoiled. Labels printed on the boxes' sides jumped out at them one after the other… Oatmeal. Canned soup. Condensed milk. Corn flakes. Canned vegetables. Bagged potato chips. Protein bars. Flour. Chocolate chips. Tomato sauce.

Blaine tapped Artie's shoulder, pointing to three boxes near the top.

Popcorn.

Artie immediately began laughing out loud — he sounded hysterical, he was sure, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "Did — did we—?"

"Hit the motherload?" Blaine finished. "I think we did."

The further they traveled into western New Jersey, the more sparsely populated it seemed. Kurt didn't know if it was just that the towns were smaller and further apart, or if as the days since the blackout began to tick by, people were simply disappearing. He didn't want to think too deeply about it, to be honest. It had been days since he'd seen anybody other than Dani, Santana, and Rachel. There was nobody else on the roads — no people traveling in groups, no lone stragglers. Every house they passed (there weren't many out here) had been either raided, the doors kicked in and the windows smashed, or simply… abandoned. Their food supply was running dangerously low.

For the past four days, Kurt, Dani, and Santana had all been scouting vigilantly for pharmacies, hospitals, smaller doctor's offices — any place that would have unguarded medical supplies. There was nothing. Every single facility had been gutted through and through — there weren't even bandages left behind to replace the dirty strip of cloth Rachel had been using for more than a week.

Kurt wasn't worried anymore about their decreasing speed. Instead, all of that worry and fear and anxiety was directed toward Rachel. Her condition was worsening quickly. She couldn't keep up with the group, even at a snail's pace, and her breaths came rapid and short even long after they'd stopped for the night. Her teeth chattered relentlessly — not just when she was sleeping — and her sense of balance was deteriorating. Kurt could see her repeatedly correcting her direction, veering slightly away from the road ahead only to shake her head and pull herself back on track a few seconds later, as if she was too dizzy to properly see where she was going.

It was more than enough to make Kurt wonder if they should just stop and not try to walk any further until Rachel was better, but it was out of the question. If they stopped, it would only become certain she would never receive medical attention.

So they trudged onward, until they passed a sign reading Welcome to Stewartsville! Population: 349. Another tiny town that was in all likelihood left behind by all three hundred and forty-nine of its natives.

Kurt sighed, watching Rachel lurch on her crutches behind him, struggling to keep up. He didn't say anything; it would have been cruel to tell her that if he were walking any slower, he'd have stopped moving altogether. Dani had shouldered Rachel's bag, so now Rachel had no load to carry beside herself, but it hadn't helped for very long. Her lips were cracked and dry from dehydration despite the fact that she'd been consuming a vastly greater amount of water than them. And it hadn't escaped Kurt's attention that Rachel hadn't asked to stop for a bathroom break since yesterday.

"Rachel," he finally said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder (she was much too warm, even through her sweat-stained cotton shirt). "Honey, stop."

She did as he said, hanging on her crutches by her armpits as she desperately worked to maintain her balance. "What? I'm f-fine," she said through her chattering teeth. Her eyes were watery and unfocused, not quite able to pick a spot on Kurt's face to zero in on. She blinked sluggishly, a bead of sweat falling from her temple. Her bangs were plastered to her forehead.

"No, you're not," he countered with a shake of his head. He shrugged off the two bags hanging from his shoulders, ignoring the way the muscles of his upper back burned. He'd gotten used to being sore. "Hey, guys, can you carry these for a bit?" he said to Santana and Dani.

"What are you doing?" Santana frowned.

"I'm giving Rachel a break," he said. "Sweetie, give me your crutches."

Rachel's eyes widened as she realized what he intended to do. "Kurt, I do n-not need to be c-carried."

"Don't argue with me."

Her jaw clacked shut. He hadn't spoken harshly, but his tone made it painstakingly clear that he wasn't going to back down. She handed over her crutches, wobbling on her good foot and the toes of the other, and Kurt in turn gave the crutches to Dani. Before Rachel could sway too far and lose her balance entirely, Kurt hunched in front of her and let her cling to his back.

Standing back up, Kurt was shocked to realize that she felt lighter than the bags he'd been toting previously. How much weight had she lost?

He grunted slightly as he hefted her to a more comfortable position, allowing her legs to hang forward over his hips while her arms wrapped around his shoulders. In any other situation, he would be embarrassed by almost having to hold her rear end in order to keep her from falling, but after more than two weeks on the road all four of them had adjusted to a distinct lack of privacy.

"Better?" he asked as he, Dani, and Santana set off again, heading into the center of Stewartsville.

Rachel's arms tightened almost imperceptibly, her whole frame shaking with exhaustion. "Thank you," she said under her breath.

He smiled. "Just get better soon, okay? I'm not carrying you all the way to Ohio. Only you would figure out a way to still be a diva with all this crazy stuff going on."

Rachel giggled faintly, her chattering teeth loud in his ears. "Girl's g-gotta be herself," she said, the air hitching in her chest.

As it turned out, Stewartsville was barely more than a main street and a central intersection, and almost as soon as the group had reached the crossroads in the middle of town, Kurt suddenly felt Rachel's grip on his shoulders go slack. She slumped, her head lolling forward.

"Rachel?" Kurt said, halting in his tracks to give her a shake. "Rachel!"

A few steps ahead, Dani and Santana had both stopped in alarm. "What's wrong?" Dani called. "What happened?"

"I — I think she passed out," Kurt said, trying desperately not to let Rachel fall. It was much harder to hold her up than when she had been doing some of the work. "Help me, please—"

Santana immediately dropped Rachel's bags, rushing over with Dani to help Kurt lower Rachel onto the street curb. Kurt gently caught Rachel's head so she wouldn't crack her skull on the cement. Her eyes were closed. "Rachel?" he said, shaking her shoulders. He held her hand and squeezed her fingers. "Sweetie, come on, wake up."

A wave of guilt crashed into him abruptly. He'd been the one to insist on leaving New York even though she couldn't walk, he'd been the one who was annoyed when she was slowing them down. I shouldn't have pushed her so hard.

Santana pressed the back of her hand to Rachel's forehead. "Jesus, she's burning up."

"Where are we going to find antibiotics?" said Dani. "Every place we've passed has already been emptied."

"I don't know, but we need to do something." Santana's forehead creased in a deep frown as she scanned the intersection for anything that might be of use. Kurt tightened his grip around Rachel's clammy hand. "Let's take her over there," Santana said, gesturing in the direction of a sign reading The Snug, nailed to a small building sandwiched between a barber shop and a bakery.

Kurt blinked. "To the bar? Why?"

"Just help me, will you?"

Kurt looped his arms underneath Rachel's shoulders, her head falling heavily against his chest. Santana lifted Rachel's legs, and together they hefted her upwards, carrying her with some difficulty across the street. Dani ran ahead and shoved the door to the bar open, holding it while Kurt and Santana awkwardly shuffled inside.

"Is there anything left on the shelves?" Santana huffed as she and Kurt lowered Rachel to the floor. Kurt sat down and leaned against the end of a booth, holding Rachel to his side.

"Besides the broken bottles on the floor, no," Dani replied from behind the bar.

Santana sighed, shrugging off the bags from her shoulders with a grunt. "Damn it."

"Oh, wait," Dani amended, bending down and disappearing momentarily below the counter. "I found a couple that rolled under the fridge."

Santana immediately brightened. "What are they?"

Dani popped back up, two bottles in her hands and another tucked under her arm. "Two beers and… a tequila."

"Bring the tequila," Santana directed, reaching down to unlace Rachel's shoe. "And the biggest bowl you can find."

"What are we going to do?" Kurt asked, his heart racing. He clutched Rachel's shoulders a little tighter, her skin almost painfully hot through the fabric of her shirt. He could feel her heartbeat, rapid and uneven, and could only be grateful that she was at least still alive.

Santana gently removed Rachel's shoe, tossing it aside before peeling away her damp sock and unwinding the bandage stained through with blood, dirt, and sweat. "We're going to soak her foot," she said without looking up.

"Won't that be painful?"

"Yes."

Kurt's heart skipped. There was a clatter from the back of the bar where Dani was rummaging through the storage cupboards. Santana lifted Rachel's foot to scrutinize it more closely. Although the bar was too dim to see anything with real certainty, Kurt could smell the infection eating away at Rachel's heel, and it was enough to make him suppress a gag.

Dani finally rushed over with a metal ice bowl, popping the cap off the tequila bottle and pouring it into the bowl. "Are you sure this will work?" she asked, handing the bowl to Santana.

"No."

Kurt's free hand whipped out to stop Santana from lowering Rachel's heel into the bowl. "Wait, then why are we doing it?" he insisted. "If it's going to hurt her, then shouldn't we be sure?"

"Kurt, I am not a doctor! " Santana spat, her voice abruptly rising enough to make the hairs on the back of Kurt's neck prickle. "Okay? I volunteered at the hospital in Lima twice like five years ago! I barely know First Aid! I don't know if this is going to work; I don't even know if it's going to help! All I can tell you is that alcohol kills bacteria, and if this doesn't get treated, Rachel is going to die ."

Kurt flinched, pressing his lips together. Santana's eyes were wide, miserable and angry and terrified all in one. She was on the verge of crying. For the first time, Kurt saw that she was panicking, and he had no idea what to say.

Santana's jaw twitched. "So, would you rather she die soon, or do you want to try and buy us time to find her some real medication?" she asked, her words shaking. "You're the one who said we should leave New York. You're the goddamn leader. You tell me what to do."

A boulder wedged itself between the walls of Kurt's throat, and he had to fight back tears. He couldn't be responsible for this.

"What…" he started quietly, struggling to keep his voice steady. "What do you want me to do?"

Santana let out a heavy breath, her mouth tightening for a moment as she swallowed. "Just… hold her."

Kurt nodded and did as he was told, tightening his fingers around Rachel's shoulders as Santana placed her foot into the bowl. The tequila splashed slightly around Rachel's heel and her leg flinched back, reacting even though she was still unconscious. Santana gripped Rachel's ankle tightly and held it so that the wound remained submerged. A whimper worked its way out of her throat and her face contorted in pain.

"Rachel?" Kurt said, his hand on her cheek. He kept his other arm around her shoulders. "Rachel, sweetie, can you hear me?"

Rachel's eyes fluttered, rolling in her head for a moment before she sucked in a gasp, her back arching rigidly. Her eyes snapped all the way open, glossed over in fever, and she thrashed, kicking at the bowl.

"Kurt!" Santana snapped, grappling to keep Rachel's foot where it was and the bowl from spilling. "You need to keep her still!"

"Sweetie, look at me," Kurt urged, raising his voice to try and get Rachel to focus on him. He had to grab her arms and pin them to her sides to keep her from hitting him in confusion. "Rachel!"

Her eyes squeezed tightly shut and a broken cry bubbled up from her chest, growing into a scream as she struggled to pull her leg away from Santana's grip. She looked like a wounded animal caught in a trap. A small cloud of red billowed from her heel in the bowl — her wound had been torn open again by her desperation to fight Santana off. Dani had been sitting beside Santana in shock, a hand over her mouth, until Santana finally ordered her to do something.

"I-I'm sorry," Dani muttered, half in a daze and barely audible over Rachel's screams. She quickly propped herself on her knees and reached over to hold down Rachel's midsection, making it easier for Kurt to keep Rachel in place.

Rachel's chest was heaving, her breath coming in ragged and hoarse gasps between cries. Tears streamed down her face, and Kurt couldn't do anything but clutch her as tightly as possible. Her eyes were glazed over, her skin burning to the touch and soaked with sweat. She was delirious, and Kurt suddenly realized she had no idea where she was or what was happening or even that he was there. His chest ached, but he didn't know if it was from Rachel's shoulder pressing into his sternum or if his heart had stopped.

"Rachel, look at me," he pleaded, planting a kiss on her damp and dirty hair. "Come on, I know you can hear me."

Her frame was shaking, and another, quieter sob wrenched from her lungs. "It h-hurts," she whimpered.

"I know," he said. The sheer agony in her voice was harrowing, and Kurt wanted to scream along with her. "I know, sweetie. It'll be over soon. Okay?"

"It hurts," she cried, writhing in his arms. She was still trying to get away from the pain, but it was weaker now. She'd already exhausted herself.

Kurt kissed the top of her head a second time, holding her as close to him as he could. "It'll be over soon," he promised, and he promised her again and again.

By the time the sun dipped red and heavy along the horizon, Mercedes had already been wide awake for several hours. As exhausted as she was, it was difficult to sleep during the day, with no way to block the blinding sunlight from spilling through the gas station's large windows. The most she could do was find a little shade by laying down behind one of the shelves stocked with chips and candy bars.

That was one good thing about the Mojave — thanks to the absolute isolation of the massive desert, there was nobody to loot the stations' food stores before Mercedes and Puck could get to them. They'd had no shortage of water and food — junk food, sure, but they weren't in a position to be picky. Of course, feeding Mr. T was another matter. While Mr. T had definitely been feeling better since they had stopped traveling during the day, the fact remained that she was considerably skinnier than she'd been at the start of their journey. Finding food fit for a horse in this environment was chancy at best, let alone finding enough of it to give proper nutrition. At this point Mr. T had been making do with munching on the dry shrubs lining the highway, supplemented by bags of Chex Mex and trail mix from the gas stations (after Puck had painstakingly removed all the M&Ms).

On the upside, if Mercedes was reading the map correctly, they'd reach the Colorado River in a few days — maybe even less. At last, the end of the desert was in sight.

Mercedes chuckled quietly to herself, watching the corner where Mr. T was sitting comfortably on the floor against the wall, her ears flicking this way and that as a couple of flies buzzed round her head. Puck had slept leaning back against Mr. T's large stomach, his head resting on her flank. He was wholeheartedly attached to his pet; Mercedes would give him that. He'd never been so openly affectionate to anyone in high school — and still wasn't, at least where Mercedes was concerned — but seeing him abandon all his old male bravado in favor of taking care of Mr. T amidst all the chaos and terror and uncertainty of the blackout was reassuring. It was a minor comfort, to see something so concretely human.

As the light outside slowly faded from rippling white to rosy pink, to soft orange and finally bloody red, Mercedes sighed and forced herself to stand. Stretching all the kinks from her back, she felt a small surge of relief that her blisters were finally developing callouses. "Puck," she called with a yawn. "Hey, wake up."

Puck blearily opened his eyes, rubbing a palm over his face.

"Puck," she said again, snapping her fingers. "Come on, the sun's setting. We need to get going."

"Okay, okay," he waved her off, picking the sleep grime out of his eyes. "Why does it always feel like we're leaving earlier and earlier?"

Mercedes snorted, re-packing the sweatshirt she'd been using as a pillow into her bag. "Hey, don't blame me if you can't sleep because you keep drinking sodas and getting a caffeine rush."

Puck grinned. "What? Warm soda's pretty good once you get used to it."

Mercedes made a face. "Gross."

"It grows on you."

"Would you get your ass up off the floor already?" Mercedes demanded. "Let's go. You still need to get Mr. T's gear on."

"Okay, okay," Puck repeated, finally standing up. "Jesus." He gave Mr. T's shoulder a sharp pat, clicking his tongue to urge her to her feet. Her hooves clopped loudly on the floor as she heaved herself up.

Mercedes grimaced as she pulled her hair back into as tight a bun as she could manage. Her hair was exasperatingly tangled, oiled and dirty from walking for days on end without a thorough cleaning, and she wouldn't be the least bit surprised if she was eventually forced to cut it all off. "Ugh, I cannot wait to get out of this stupid desert," she grumbled. "I need a bath, and at this point I don't care if it's in a tub or a damn river."

Puck laughed, coaxing the bridle over Mr. T's head and buckling the strap underneath her jaw. "Yeah, me too," he said. "At least we both stink."

Mercedes ran her tongue over her teeth, which were also in need of a good brush. Her mouth was dry. It felt like she had swallowed a mouthful of dust. "Hey, pass me a Gatorade?" she requested as Puck grabbed the handles of their canvas bags to sling over Mr. T's back.

"Sure," he said. He reached into the bag where they kept the water, and then, without warning, screamed. His arm jerked back and he dropped the bag, bottles bouncing and rolling over the floor.

Mercedes froze, having no idea what was happening or what she was supposed to do. Mr. T whinnied, sidestepping anxiously and probably would have bolted if she wasn't inside, but there was nowhere for her to run. Puck had fallen on the floor, his limbs flailing as he continued to scream at the top of his lungs.

"GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!"

Mercedes' heart jolted as she realized that, clinging to Puck's left forearm by its jaws, was a huge orange and black lizard. "What the—" she started, still stunned and unsure of what to do.

"GET IT OFF!" Puck screamed, frantically trying to shake the creature from his arm. But the lizard had one hell of a grip, and its teeth were sunk deep.

Mercedes grabbed Puck's baseball bat from where he'd left it by the cashier's counter and rushed to his side. "Hold still!" she shrieked, holding the bat overhead.

Puck gritted his teeth, tears streaming from his eyes as he desperately tried to keep himself from moving. His arm was trembling, and blood was welling up around the lizard's clamped jaws. "Get it off, get it off, get it off," he begged, his lungs heaving.

Mercedes held her breath, then brought the bat down as hard as she could. There was a crunch as the lizard's ribs were crushed, and it let out a hissing squeak as its mouth finally unclenched from Puck's arm. Quickly, before it could move again, Mercedes clubbed it again, and then a third time, and a fourth. It dropped limply to the floor, its head and ribs caved in and its tail still twitching.

"Are you okay?" Mercedes panted, her heart racing. She let the bat fall to the ground and sunk to her knees beside Puck. He struggled to sit upright, cradling his left arm against his abdomen. The bite mark, closer to his wrist than his elbow, was sluggishly bleeding and already badly bruised. Little droplets of viscous crimson plopped onto the dusty white linoleum floor.

"Where the hell did that come from?" Puck choked out. He winced, the fingers of his left hand shaking uncontrollably as he tried to catch his breath.

"It — it must have crawled inside while we were asleep," Mercedes stammered, yanking a t-shirt out of her backpack and wrapping it tightly around the bite to try and stop the bleeding. The lizard carcass had stopped twitching, lying crushed on the floor. It was a heavy creature, fat and thick-limbed, with pebbly scales mottled black and bright orange.

Mercedes' heart skipped, her eyes widening. "Puck… that's a Gila monster."

"A what?"

"A Gila monster," she repeated. She swallowed, her fingertips going numb. "They're venomous."

Puck stared at her.

Mercedes didn't know what to say.

"You've got to be kidding me."

She let out a long breath, feeling cold at her core. "Does it hurt?" she asked lamely.

"No, it freaking tickles," Puck spat. "Yes, it hurts! I feel like my arm's going to fall off!"

"Don't you dare take this out on me!" she snapped back, jabbing a finger at his face.

"Am I going to die?"

The question made Mercedes' brain jolt to a halt. Any traces of anger she might have felt in reaction to Puck's lashing out evaporated in an instant. Puck's breaths were coming more rapidly now — he was almost hyperventilating — but Mercedes didn't know if it was because he was in physical agony or he was simply terrified.

He grabbed her wrist, reaching out with his uninjured arm. "Mercedes," he pleaded. His voice cracked, and Mercedes wanted to cry. "Am I going to die?"

"I…" she trailed off.

"Tell me!" he cried, making Mercedes jump with his sudden shout. His hand tightened painfully around her arm.

Her chest ached somewhere underneath her ribs. She wanted to tell him that everything would be fine, that they were going to make it home together and he was going to see his mother and sister again soon. But she couldn't give him anything but an honest answer.

"I don't know."

Puck's hand slipped away from her arm, a disconsolate breath escaping his body. He swallowed, swiping his palm over his face in a halfhearted attempt to hide the fact that he was on the verge of tears, but Mercedes could hear the telltale shudder in his lungs. She had never seen him so frightened, and she was completely, utterly lost.