Joel! Wake up!
Something about the desperation in the voice pulls me out of the haze, back to half awareness, and all the misery that it brings.
Her footsteps retreat, then return. Something cold touches the palm of my hand. Ellie wraps my fingers around it. A…knife?
What's going on? I try harder to focus on her. She looks scared.
"There are men coming." She warns in a panicked almost-whisper. "I'll lead them away, but…"
Her lips keep moving, her eyes deep, wide wells of fear as she begs me to fight, but that's all I know. Fight what? Fight someone, fight to stay alive— that I don't know. Her mouth keeps moving but my brain won't understand what she says.
Do not fall asleep!
Ellie's last instruction is simple and impassioned enough to break through the haze. The urge to sleep is compelling, but I'll try.
Ellie's urgent footsteps fade away. Silence takes their place. Between the tranquility and the crushing tiredness, I try to stay awake like Ellie said, but I can't.
The sound of something heavy and wooden dragging across the floor jolts me awake. Ellie is blocking the door with a—dresser or—I can't remember what's there. I need to stay awake! I need to get up—for her—to help her. I channel rage and determination into my arms, to try to push myself upright. Pain hits me like a truck and everything goes black.
Sleep recedes and the creak of a floorboard upstairs comforts me. I curse myself for falling asleep though Ellie begged me not to, but it sounds like she's back now, she's okay.
The floorboards creak again. The footsteps sound heavy—not—like Ellie! My eyes bolt open as the heavy footsteps move so slow through the upstairs. They're searching for someone.
If this person finds me—if something happens— I can't protect her. I have to do something. It's now or never. I moan through the agony brought on by a still raging infection and sitting up for the first time in days. I set my sights on a dark corner of the basement just before my vision grays. I stumble there. The footsteps upstairs stalk closer. I wait, knowing that the intruder will come down the stairs and I will have one chance to take him out. My fingers and palm slide on the handle of the knife. My skin is clammy.
Those heavy footsteps start down the basement stairs. I try to breathe out tension. I try to breathe through the pain. I try to shut off my conscience as I kill again.
The intruder had his gun drawn. This is defense. This is justified— I assure myself as the man sputters and struggles in a grip that is all the strength I can muster.
Finally, he succumbs. I flop onto my back wheezing, pain raging worse than I thought possible, wishing for rest, but I can't.
Someone else is outside. Ellie's not here. I have no idea where she is. All I know is she's in danger and that's more important than any pain I could ever feel or any danger I could ever face. I have to keep going.