…

I opened my eyes to my room, still black as pitch. I felt around, gathering my senses before tossing away the covers. Taking tentative steps in the dark, I used my knowledge of the house to find my way to the bathroom, managing to not awake the rest of the house.

I wanted to be ready for action before the rest of them. I needed to prove that I was still sane, still useful. Still unlike my mother.

Since we were conserving as much water as we could, baths weren't allowed anymore. I sorely missed slowly sliding into the warmest waters of perfection, the heat prickling my skin pleasantly. Instead I cleansed myself as best I could using room temperature water, a harsh sponge, and my allotted nub of bar soap.

My father's words from the night before still stung. He cared for Aunt Izzy more than he cared for his own daughter. But I was still the reason Sherlock had died. And my father would never forgive me for that. Nobody cared for me before the apocalypse, and after it they didn't even need to pretend to. I found myself scrubbing my arm over and over, the roughness of the sponge whispering against my skin as I tried to clean away myself.

…

I dressed for the outing in a dark green long sleeved shirt, dark jeans that fit snugly but not restrictingly so, as to avoid getting caught in things and making it easy to run. I fastened my weapons belt around both of my legs, making sure it didn't slip before adding my knife on the left and my brother's on the right. My boots could go on later, I decided.

I heard stirring in the house and crept to listen. Morning sighs and stretching noises accompanied footsteps on the roof, meaning someone's night watch was over. The replacement groaned sleepily as they opened the outside door.

Slowly, everyone started waking to get ready for the trip. I listened to the sounds and pretended we were a whole family again.

…

Before we left, my father gathered us in the family room. I played with my heavy boots as he talked. They used to be really big, but I had grown into them fairly quickly and they were now secure around my feet.

"Okay, group, we're making a run today. To the Y," he emphasized as he handed out granola bars. "These are for the road. Eat 'em slowly because we'll be back around dinnertime." He seemed to be looking directly at me. "We're going down to the refill and then down to the Y. I'm not sure how much help they'll need but we're preparing for the worst. Aeowyn, you'll be needing a gun."

I shook my head, turning to show my knife. "I'm good."

He looked dubious but turned away to distribute weapons to the rest. Jonah preferred his own 9mm handguns and had a tendency to expertly duel-wield. Peter volunteered to keep watch in the van with the rifle, one of two we owned. My father and Meghan took a handgun each and kept their knives for the expected melee.

I was ready to die.

…

Meghan drove and nobody talked. I felt the crinkling of the granola bar in my pocket and I stared out the window. Due to the excessive clogging of the highways, it was necessary to use back roads and quick shortcuts to save on gasoline. Trees flitted by and I wondered if this was my last car ride, if this was it. Maybe a Zed would finally get me this time.

All of a sudden, Meghan slammed down the brakes, and my face was buried in the headrest in front of me. I looked over at Jonah beside me and he shrugged. "Jesus fucking Christ, woman!" my father roared. "What was that?"

"There's something in the road." She said it calmly, but I could tell she wanted to slap my father. "It looks like a person."

We continued to sit. "Dead or…not dead?" Jonah finally voiced.

"Or alive?" Peter asked.

"Can't tell from here," Meghan replied. She looked at my father with eyes that said, What are you going to do now, big stuff?

He seemed flustered, but gave a nod to Peter and Jonah. Peter opened the side door and I heard his feet hit the ground, then Jonah behind him. It was difficult to see properly, but I saw Jonah take out both handguns and heard him cock them. They passed out of my line of sight and although I strained my ears I heard nothing.

"Rob!" Peter called, and my father leapt from the passenger's side onto the road in seconds. Meghan looked back at me and gave a small shrug, like she didn't want to get her hopes up.

They returned swiftly, carrying a limp body of a dangerously thin girl, wearing only an oversized white man's shirt stained with blood and dirt.

"Move, move, prop up her head. Be careful," my father ordered me. I complied, pressing myself against the window and holding her head in my lap and hands. Her hair was short against her head, and she looked like an angel. A proper angel.

I was cautious not to move her. Her body rested along Peter and Jonah for lack of proper room in the van. The back was not suitable for her. Meghan looked back. "How bad is she?"

Peter's eyes widened exasperatedly and he stammered.

"Let's trade places, honey. Come on." Meghan read the fear in her husband's eyes. He was probably thinking that girl could be their daughter. Or me. Meghan slid into the seat gently and lifted up the girl's shirt to reveal a nasty wound.

Jonah inhaled.

"If you need to look away, it's okay." She offered, but neither of us did. "I was a nurse," she reminded us, "I've seen worse."

"Where do we go?" Peter looked at my father, back in the passenger's seat.

"We're going to finish the job. We have to."

"She's bleeding real bad," Meghan said. "We're gonna have to hurry."

I looked down and I wondered how someone so beautiful could have gotten into shit this deep.

...