A/N: Two years in the making, huh?
Chapter 13
nine days since last feed
Somehow, your arm doesn't get infected. You remember someone telling you a long time ago that a burn wound is like a channel into your body, the unprotected inner skin stripped of its defenses, but you've long since given up wondering how your body reacts to the world. It throbs, bandages sticky, but it starts to heal.
Tina checks it every day, making sure you won't start to rot away from the inside.
"You're a really good doctor," you tell her as she does her routine cleaning, carefully dabbing away any sweat that's since accumulated around your wound. She smiles, brow tight with concentration, using but the tips of her fingers to spread antiseptic cream (that's running low... what else is new?) around the burn.
"Thanks. I was going to go to school for it, but I guess that isn't happening now."
"You don't have to go to school to learn things."
"I guess... but there's nobody to learn from anymore."
"There has to be a doctor who's still alive somewhere. Maybe there's one wherever we're going."
"We won't get there if people don't stop stealing from the rations," comes Quinn's irritated voice, shuffling in the food box. She comes up with an empty wrapper, shiny and torn. "What the hell is this?"
"A Twinkie wrapper," Finn imparts wisely, and you think you see a vein in her forehead throb.
"Thank you for the gem of knowledge, Finn," she gets out from between gritted teeth. "Let me rephrase. Why has it been eaten even though we're under strict rationing in order to actually make it to our destination?"
"Maybe someone was hungry," Puck snorts dismissively. "One Twinkie lost isn't gonna kill us."
"Weren't you the one crying about how there wasn't any food the other day, Puck?"
"You tryin' to say I ate it, Fabitch?"
"I'm saying you're being a hypocritical asshole right now."
"Guys," Mr. Schue tries, but Puck's raised voice kills any attempt at calm.
"Ever stop and think that maybe it was someone else?"
"Like who? Artie? We would have noticed the drag marks on the damn ground." She pauses, looking to him for a second. "Sorry."
"Can't argue with the truth, girl."
"Maybe it was Muscleman Mike over here. Or Jewnose. Hell, maybe it was even our resident crazy."
"Dude, you eat her portions," Finn pipes up. "If she ate that Twinkie it would be a miracle."
"Whose side are you on, asshat?"
"There are no sides, Noah," Kurt groans, rubbing his temples. "Would you stop with the us versus them mentality? It's insane."
"What's insane is Quinn accusing me when any little thing goes wrong."
"Did I say I was blaming you?"
"It's obvious who you were referring to!"
As the bickering continues, you lean into Tina.
"Would you be mad if I said I ate it?"
"Considering I haven't seen you eat in three days, no."
"Then I ate it."
She chuckles and squeezes your hand and the two of you continue to watch the debate until Shadow drags Quinn away and Finn tugs Puck back to sit down, each of them billowing steam from their ears. You wonder if you'll even make it to your destination before someone gets shot for saying the wrong thing.
After a few minutes of deliberation Quinn walks back into the gathering, the deep purple circles under her eyes seeming to delve even darker still.
"Look... I don't want us arguing. We just have a long way to go, and if you guys haven't noticed, there isn't nearly enough food to get us there. We need to be careful."
"Can't we loot like we did before?"
"It's too dangerous to go into the big cities again," Artie counters, shuffling his papers. "We only managed to survive in New York because we had a good base. Without it we all would've been zombie chow."
"Surely the small towns will have something."
"Something, but not a lot of something."
The group sighs and disperses, climbing back into your respective vehicles. You settle down into your bloody body print, flaking off like chips of crimson paint onto the back of you. It still stinks, but it's ceased being the personification of death come to visit.
You yawn, the monotony of long road trips soon lulling you into a state so close to sleep you don't know the difference.
Ever since the poisoning you've been having the same dreams of things falling from the sky, but this time, you remember.
It's dark and the drone of the helicopter is so loud it threatens to burst your eardrums. You sit with your legs dangling into free air and watch the city go by in a flash of colors turned back into darkness. Where power still feeds it's awash in light; the neighborhoods cut out leave nothing but gaping holes in the grid, and it's impossible to discern the figures you know shift about in the shadows. Every so often there's a brilliant flare of white and red light that illuminates the darkness, and you watch the bombs go off under your feet with a mounting sense of dread.
"It's kinda pretty, isn't it?" says someone to your right; his face is blurred, but you recognize his voice. It's soothing, and though your mind has forgotten your body refuses to stop reacting to his presence.
"I guess," you reply, flinching a little as a car goes up in flames, "but it's really just scary. What's gonna happen to them?"
"I dunno," he replies, peering out of the helicopter. "I'm just happy to be out of the facility."
You remember the white-washed halls, the people that all looked the same pushing and prodding, the same routine day in and out changed only when they'd put you into a bare room and leave you there in hopes of something happening. It wasn't very interesting, you don't think, watching you bounce a ball for hours like a prisoner.
"What do you think's going on?" he asks lowly, watching the people run in the streets. Fires bloom across the city and you can almost feel the heat from there.
Another image overlaps the burning city for a second; a desolate one, scorched buildings and broken windows and cars piled on one another, bodies littering the streets and corpses dragging themselves around. You blink, the dream you're sitting in starting to waver, and your voice sounds like it's coming from a million miles away.
"I don't know," you think you say, but before it all fades out completely there's a loud beeping and a discrepancy in the whoosh of helicopter blades, something that sounds a lot like an engine coughing before it cuts out completely.
You don't remember being scared, but you remember screaming.
It haunts you even as you wake; when air rushes past your face all you can think of is falling back to earth, and the rolling engine is a reminder of the life you've left behind. Your head throbs, but nothing becomes clearer.
Eventually, you remember your sister.
It's like seeing a picture of someone in a magazine – without them in the flesh you don't feel the love you know you're supposed to have, somewhere deep and hidden away. She's a picture in your mind, a younger version of yourself, and you flick through the images in your head like a lopsided video frame that stutters and repeats itself. Snippets pass by of family vacations, and now another face is filled in to replace the dark void that pushes itself onto your parents' expressions. More than her face you wish you could remember her voice; the eyes lie but the ears always hear the truth between the falsities.
If she ever got to grow up, you'd think she'd look a lot like Quinn.
It's Quinn who looks at you first when you're stopped, sun making spotted patterns as the sun rises.
"Someone's sick," you mumble, chewing on your fingernails.
"What kind of sick?"
"Stomach sick."
Her eyes track around your companions, each and everyone of them eating some form of food. She frowns. "They don't look sick."
"It'll come."
It comes a few hours later when you have to haphazardly pull over to the side to let Mike vomit into a ravine. Tina strokes his hair and dabs at his forehead, clammy and wet. His tongue that's gone thick and numb makes it almost impossible to understand him.
"What's wrong with Wonderboy?" Shadow grunts, wrinkling her nose as he dry-heaves again.
"I think he ate something bad."
"Will the rest of us get it?"
"Msh'oms," Mike mumbles, spitting bile into the dirt. "'Rng msh'oms."
"What's he saying?"
"Mushrooms," you translate, gently stroking his scalp. "There were a bunch. He ate the wrong ones."
"That was careless, Mike," Rachel scolds, hands on her hips. "You should know we don't just eat random flora. Mother Nature is very poisonous."
"I think he gets it, hobbit," Shadow agrees dryly. "Puking up my insides would make me think twice about eating a sketchy plant."
"Is he gonna, like, die?" Finn asks worriedly, his features twisting into what you think is a frown.
"If he ingested one of the more toxic varieties, there's a high probability that it could result in-"
"Thank you for that, Rachel," Quinn interrupts, "but he's not going to die. We'll wrap him up in the car and let him sweat it out."
"I'll drive," Tina offers, but Mike's terrified groan makes the occupants reconsider.
"Let me do it," Kurt replies. "I drove a truck for a while, an SUV isn't much different."
"Just don't run me off the road and who gives a shit who drives," Puck grunts. "The more time we spend not moving, the closer I am to picking up some random plant like Mike to make sure I don't eat one of you."
You suck your lip into your mouth, pulling so hard against the flesh that your bite on the inside of your mouth begins to bleed anew. The animal thing inside of you begins to breathe with your lungs once again, its presence invading your eyes and peering into the world beyond. Soon, your flesh will become a puppet and your mouth a ventriloquist, but you'll sink your teeth into humanity for as long as it will allow.
For their sake, you hope you can hold out.
Artie switches places with Tina so she can tend to Mike, Kurt perched in the driver's seat, looking entirely too small for such a machine. You spend your time weaving gathered sprigs into crowns, nimble fingers winding them over and over again in a pattern that doesn't need much thinking at all. When the first one's done you secure it over your forehead, keeping away the stray hair that always manages to fall into your eyes. All of you could use a trim.
Ever so carefully you cut the thorns from the next pair, testing the twigs in your hands. They expose their green quick to you and you wick away the weeping moisture, deftly winding a pattern much more complex than the last. You have distinct feelings of nostalgia for a memory you can't quite place – bestowing a crown of grass upon the head of a child, her hair a shade lighter than yours, listening to her shriek in delight as you tuck flowers by her ears.
Instead of flowers you thread red grasses through the band to create a streaking pattern. You don't even realize what you've done until Mercedes leans over, her eyes critical on your work.
"Who's that for?" she asks, and though it's innocent you can't help hearing the deeper questions that lurk behind every facade.
"Shadow," you reply, gently tying it together. "Her bangs are too long."
"It's pretty. Red's her favorite color."
"We call her Satan for a reason," Kurt agrees from the front.
"She's more like Lucifer," you respond. "All the light is hiding."
"You've read the Bible, Britt?" Mercedes sounds surprised for some reason and you shrug, worrying the braid with your hands.
"Maybe. I don't remember."
(Someone reading, praying, the sound of their voice unbearable in your ears. They touch your brow with wet fingers and the water that dribbles down your face burns like nothing you've ever known. They talk of forgiveness and penance, but you just want to die.)
"It's too bad we don't have one here," she sighs. "It's hard to believe in a world like this."
"You shouldn't believe in things that don't exist."
"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?"
"Not really. It only makes you sad."
"Britt, God doesn't make people sad." She goes to hold your hands but you draw away, toying with the bandage on your forearm. Mercedes settles for clasping her hands together, looking at you with an unwavering stare. "Isn't it better to think that... that Sam went to be with Him?"
"Sam's dead," you blurt, "and he's dead for good. There's no other place."
She recoils, hurt in her eyes. "You don't know that."
"I know," you mutter. "I see it. They cry for help but no one answers. No one ever does."
The whole vehicle looks at you but you shake your head, nails scratching at your scalp as if you could tease the memory out and cast it away. There was a room and words and people, but away from that pain was a darkness so deep you could drown in it, that ate away every part of you until you never existed at all.
Her eyes flicker to your bandaged forearm, but the scowl on your brow keeps her from stressing her faith. You feel her grief as a weight but if anyone deserved eternal bliss it wasn't him. Maybe it wasn't you, either, but the solid beat of your heart poses more questions than answers. You know you're alive, but does your soul?
(Do you even have a soul?)
To relieve the awkward silence Artie twists over to you, heaping a folder in your lap. You thumb absently through the thick pages, noting the bloody fingerprints smeared across the sides.
"Rachel and I've looked through most of it," he explains, "but you were there first. Maybe you recognize something."
"I don't remember anything."
"I know, but maybe it'll jog your memory. Familiar things makes people with amnesia remember, right?"
When you open the folder the sheer amount of writing makes your eyes water a little. Spliced in between the long, detailed pages are photographs; some seem rather whimsical – a little bungalow, a group of teenagers playing basketball, a shot of a city skyline. Others are photos that look almost like mugshots, faces your body says you know. There's a few pages missing, torn from the binder in haste if the blood spatter is anything to go on.
"Do you even remember your last name?"
You scan over the mugshots of a boy whose eyes are like diamonds and you remember them for a brief moment, glimmering with fear as you plummet to earth. His information is ruined by blood and his name is erased, but your eyes float to the signature that signs off the filled in blanks.
Dr. Roger Pierce.
The tag you've kept burns a hole in your back pocket and you swallow, throat dry and rough.
"No," you whisper, flipping it to start at the beginning. "Not at all."
"Damn. Well, Quinn and Santana have looked through it-"
"Shadow's seen it?"
"Yeah," he looks at your weirdly, "she's glanced over. There's too much writing for one person."
"Oh. Okay. Do we... do we have the missing pages?"
"Nah, someone took them in a hurry."
You settle down into your seat, starting from the beginning. There are a few abstracts about a lab in a remote corner of New York State; a picture of a non-descript building surrounded by woodland and dirt roads is clipped onto the top half of the page. You notice there aren't any windows. Penned in with red ink are notes from who you assume to be researchers – different color makes different handwriting.
The reports date back from winter of last year; they're scattered and sparse, obviously not of great interest to them. A complex looking drawing of some sort of insect is bold on the front page, and you frown as you trace it with your finger.
"That's a virus," Tina explains from where she was peering over your shoulder. "At least, that's what it looks like to us."
"So it's not an alien?"
"An alien body, maybe, but it's very much from this earth."
"It looks like a probe."
"You don't want this one probing you."
It looks like the experiments started on mice first. Numerous pictures of men and women in white lab coats and rubber gloves hunched over a rodent pen, masks secured over their faces as they played with syringes. The scrawl is that of a doctor's – difficult to read, even harder to understand.
Early tests failures. Subjects did not respond to stimulus.
You wrinkle your nose as a picture of a mouse is next, splayed out and pinned open. Several parts of it is circled – you don't see a difference, but they obviously did.
Subject M006B shows promising signs. First subject to become ill, but recovered after six days. Autopsy reveals healed sores on the superior and upper lobes of the lungs.
Progress stalls, and four other rats heal just like the last. You lose yourself in the medical jargon, but something must work because when they open up the eleventh, even you can see something's not right.
Subject M0011B is the first test subject to succumb to illness. Postmortem examination reveals open sores on all lobes of both lungs, as well as damage to the esophagus and mucus membrane of the nasal cavity.
You flip through the pages until you come upon a loose one, scrawled rather than typed. It's difficult to read the tight, hurried cursive, but you squint your eyes and steady yourself against the rocking of the SUV as it travels onwards.
January 13th, 2011,
Celebrations are heard in the halls today. M0011B has died of its infection, the first to be killed with a man made influenza strain. Dr. Boroyan ordered pizza for the staff to rejoice, and even though it took over an hour to make it to the facility it was well worth the wait. I've gotten rather tired of the food here, even though I know they try. Being squirreled away in the corner of New York does pose some logistic issues. Sometimes I wonder why we're here exactly, but I always realize it's better not to ask.
Winter is cold and wet here. It's been a long time since I've seen the snow, living in California for as long as I have. Susan and the children would love to see it; Sophie is always going on about it in movies, wondering if it's like touching a cloud. I miss them all terribly.
Though not unheard of, we were all surprised when M0011B began to leak blood out of its nasal cavities. Internal hemorrhaging was one of the great symptoms of the Spanish Flu in 1918 which devastated the nation. This was a subset of H1N1, which spreads rapidly and effectively; we have used H3N2, which is a similar strain but slightly less prevalent. After the panic of 2009, we believe it was prudent to try our hand at a different variation. The results have been promising, though inconclusive. More research must be done to come to a definite conclusion.
Dr. Roger Pierce
You frown, flipping the piece of paper over in your hands.
"There's dozens of them," Artie sighs. "The guy was devoted to putting down everything that happened in his life. It doesn't get interesting until a couple pages in."
You read on further, flicking through the endless handwritten notes that create sparks of memory that run through you like a shockwave – blinking away the flashes that come only works so well, and at one point you have to pinch your nose to keep the headache away. True to his word, things start to get dangerous.
(How many things died for this?)
March 25th, 2011
Another fight broke out between Dr. Boroyan and Dr. Syu today. Our strand has been deemed potent enough by the powers that be (possibly Dr. Waters, he seems the shifty type) that we can start branching out into other test subjects. This was confusing at first, as we've been using pigs and other domesticated fauna for almost a month now, all with the same eventual result: death. There have been very few that have survived, and those that do are rendered into a strange, stupefied state that leaves them incapable of all but the simplest tasks. B003A (bovine) had to be retaught how to eat, but inspection of its brain showed no outward signs of disease or decay. C007F (canine) has seemingly regained its consciousness, and it has affectionately been named Fido by Dr. Syu as it recovers completely. It is unknown whether or not it will react to the new strain of the virus we have named H3N2-F, but blood tests show no contagious markers in "Fido's" body.
A scientist as revered as Dr. Syu should know never to become attached to the patients.
But I digress – the fight was not about C007F, nor even P002D, whose simian cries sound hauntingly identifiable to a child shrieking. Rather, we have begun testing on human subjects. Not only is this unethical but impractical, as any death is sure to be investigated thoroughly. Dr. Boroyan insists that this is the way to ensure that the strand is effective in future endeavors... but I am beginning to wonder what exactly these endeavors are. Everything we have seen so far points towards biological warfare, and the military presence seen skulking about the corridors seems apt to point in this direction.
We are on the cusp of something great, but at what cost? The new specimens are set to arrive within the week, and I fear tensions will only continue to rise. We have been sworn to secrecy, buried within mountains of paperwork, but when they eventually release us (we are not technically held here by force, but it's under strong impression it won't be fondly looked upon if we attempt to leave) how long will it take until this thing we have created is used? A vaccine seems to be of lesser concern, but is perhaps of even more vital importance.
I talked to Susan on the phone last night, and I wish more than anything that I could see her face once again. I miss the girls so much.
Dr. Roger Pierce
That would explain the different admission dates on the different people, if they began testing so early. They seemed to come in two batches... some hold little meaning to you, but others make your bones vibrate from head to toe. You eagerly flip to another page, curling protectively around the scrawled, messy writing.
April 15th, 2011
I am writing this despite strict orders to remove all evidence from anywhere not in the official files. There was a complication today that could potentially derail the entire experiment or propel it to greater heights indeed.
H2N3-F has mutated.
This may not be surprising at first – this strand has gone through so many forced, mechanical mutations that little untouched rNA remains from the parent genes. But this has occurred independent from our prodding, a spontaneous translation of genes that has provoked some hefty consequences. This is all being kept under wraps from the military types that roam our hallways on the chance that we've stumbled onto something even greater than H3N2-F. This sample was used on C007F, being the only healthy survivor, despite Dr. Syu's vehement objections – what Dr. Boroyan wants, he gets. We prepped the subject for injection, and even I admit I felt saddened, for I had grown fond of its charm. We had weakened the virus in hopes that it would prompt an antibody response as a positive sign that a vaccine could be synthesized in event of an emergency. Injection occurred at 08:00, but no one predicted how sour things would go after this.
There was an almost immediate response of the flesh surrounding the injection site; it became red and swollen as if infected, and extremely hot. Infection does not occur this quickly, but this was within a half our after initial injection, so it is still unknown what the cause was. At 10:00, temperature of C007F rose to a worrying 104.7F, accompanied by muscle weakness and disorientation. This persisted until the fever rose to 107.2F, at which point the subject was physically unable to stand any longer. Breathing became progressively labored to the point where it sounded almost like a rattle. At 14:00, the shivering began along with the peaked fever; 15:00 saw the subject slip into a coma, and at 20:00 C007F was pronounced dead by Dr. Syu with as much venom as I've ever seen a scientist use. Strangely, the hemorrhaging began at 11:00 but ceased at 15:00, the same time the coma began.
The crippling fatality of this new strain poses more questions than answers – when looked at under the microscope, the shape of the virus had changed to the point where we initially thought we had confused the samples. A specimen has never behaved like this, and we are left wondering what could have happened to cause such a violent turn. While this may undoubtedly be more lethal, preliminary testing shows that this new mutation is not airborne, and is still therefore not as decent of a candidate for warfare (if that is what it is needed for) as H3N2-F in its original form.
Testing on human subjects, H001N and H002N, will begin within a week.
Dr. Roger Pierce
The rumble of the SUV indicates its stopping, but you quickly flip over to read one more before you have to get out. The writing is shaky, startled, not nearly as neat or uniform as the previous entries, and only a paragraph long.
April 23rd, 2011
Christ, they came back.
I am not a religious man, but whoever is out there, forgive me for whatever we have done in order to offend. Subjects H001N and H002N both succumbed to the same mutated strain, but roughly 4 hours after death began to reanimate. I have never seen anything like it, and am in equal parts awed and horrified by these turns of events. Dr. Boroyan was nearly attacked, but they were locked in the examination room at the last moment.
We are waiting for the guard to arrive. I don't know what's happened.
Someone opens the passenger door and you jump, protectively cradling the files to your chest. Puck smirks, and you manage to somehow slink past him without an insult slung in your direction. You take up your familiar post beside Tina and Mike, who, while weak, is beginning to recover.
"Good reading?" Tina asks, wiping the back of Mike's brow. You nibble on your lip, indecisive.
"He has a lot of secrets to tell," you settle on, tucking it under your arm. She nods, eyeing the wooden crown you wove before you got distracted by scientists and their mistaken role of playing god.
"You should give it to her."
Shadow sits next to Kurt, idly filing her already impeccable nails. Even looking at her for too long causes a painful lurch in your chest, almost like the staples that used to hold you together when your own skin was too weak. Maybe she's stapled your stomach to your heart? It would make sense for it to hurt whenever it beats.
"If you let her, she'll be a bitch for weeks."
The fact that something in your mind whispers you might not have weeks causes your feet to move towards her without your consent, unceremoniously thrusting the woven braid to her when you reach her spot.
"I made this for you."
She pauses, the line of her shoulders stiffening and drawing away; Kurt stops his concentrated sewing to dart his eyes between the two of you, hand hovering over the shirt he's mending.
Shadow eventually looks up, but not before you see her take in a fortifying breath. She frowns at the item, a knot forming between her brow.
"What is it?"
"A headband. Your bangs always get in the way."
You can see she tries to deny it, but in doing so automatically flicks the hair away from her face. Her cheeks redden a little, and from the corner of your vision you see Kurt slowly slinking towards Rachel and Mercedes.
Shadow hesitantly takes it, and the way your fingers brush feels too much like purgatory – so much but still not enough. She runs her fingers against the red grasses, so painstakingly woven into it.
"Um... thanks. It's pretty."
"They called you Satan for liking red, but I don't think that's right."
She eyes you, ceasing her gentle rolling of it between her fingers. "Of course it is," she bluffs, but she braces like she's afraid of the answer. "I wear it with pride."
"Maybe, but Satan isn't afraid of his own light."
Every part of her stills, and the half-smile on your mouth feels crooked, weighed down by her anxiety. "It's okay. I'm good at waiting."
You turn to walk back to Tina, but your half-smile blooms into full when you see her put it over her brow, carefully tucking her beautiful dark hair out of the way. She looks so unsure that a different kind of pain stirs in your chest – one you wouldn't mind keeping for the rest of your life. Kurt murmurs something to her and she clenches her jaw, fists tightening into twin points of pain, but she doesn't take it off.
When Puck laughs and convinces her to pull it off her head and throw it into the fire, the apology her eyes send in your direction makes it hurt less than it should.
He may be the devil on her shoulder, but the angel is finally finding a voice.
It's been eleven days since you rescued them from that camp, and you're starting to feel the strain.
Their conversations hurt your ears, the sun is too bright, and the seat pricks at your skin. It creates a constant sense of unease that puts you on edge, flushing through your system akin to a fever that can't be quelled. Quinn notices your new, enhanced temperature when she brushes past you, but she simply gives you the side-look she's famous for and carries on her way. You're thankful at least one person in this group can keep their mouths closed.
One of those people is not Mercedes.
"She's sick," she whispers as you stop for afternoon lunch – a measly few handfuls of nuts and a stale bag of chips. Puck angrily eats your portion without concern for if you want it and you let him, too anxious to fight over things that don't matter.
"We know that," he mumbles, swallowing his mouthful. "The shit she says makes it pretty obvious."
"No, like... body sick. Her eyes are all messed, like she's always in the dark. They won't constrict."
"How do you know that?"
"I... might have checked while she was sleeping."
"'Cedes," Shadow hisses, "that's fucking creepy."
"I know, I know. I just wanted to make sure. I think she has a fever."
"I dunno," Finn hesitates. "I remember when we first met her she always had a crazy fever, but then it went back to normal. I think it's just a thing her body does."
"People don't just get fevers for shits, Frankenteen," Shadow snaps, but under it you hear a current of worry. "Maybe she ate mushrooms like Mike."
"Nah. Woulda started puking by now."
"Look... does it really matter?"
"Dude, just because she gave you some gay braid doesn't mean you have to start defending her."
"I'm the only one that's talking sense in this group of crazies. Why the hell are you wasting so much energy spying on her?"
"Because she pisses me off."
"Is that seriously it?"
"She's hidin' something about Sam," Mercedes argues. "She gets real defensive."
"I would too if people kept hounding me about it."
"Don't tell me you have a crush, Satan."
She sputters, and you can hear her heartbeat skyrocket until it pounds against her ribcage.
"W-what? No! Why the fuck would you say that?"
"'Cause you aren't supporting your bro."
"My bro wants to shoot someone who's saved our ass. Excuse me for being a bit hesitant."
"Whatever."
There's a moment of tense, awkward silence until Mercedes finally speaks up.
"Why isn't she covering her ears?"
"Huh?"
"She does that when people talk now. Says it hurts. She can't stand the sound of the engine when we're rolling."
"She hasn't moved an inch in like five minutes," Finn observes. "Creepy."
The cogs turn in Puck's head, and you have to resist the urge to flinch as he gets up so abruptly his makeshift chair scatters behind him.
"Because she's fuckin' listenin' to us."
You don't have to listen to know he's coming towards you – Tina's alarmed expression says it all. You brace yourself, but Finn and Shadow catches him before he can get close enough to cause problems.
"Don't make a scene," Finn hisses. "You're being crazy and dumb right now."
"If Finnocence has to tell you that, you really need to evaluate your choices," Shadow agrees, and the tense beat of her heart is loud in the silence that ensues. Puck mutters something foul, shrugging his arm away and storming back to his position. Mike swallows, wetting his dry, gummy lips.
"What was that about?"
You glance over to where Shadow is crouched beside him, running her hand up and down his spine in a strangely soothing motion. There's a story behind them, one that extends further than his crude comments and her scathing rebuttals, but you doubt you'll ever know the true depth of their friendship and why it holds so much sway over her.
"Puck being loud. It's over now."
"Any louder and he'll drag all the zoms here," Tina grumbles, chewing on the last packet of beef jerky. "God, I wish we had more water."
"Can't we go get some?"
"Nah, too much activity. I don't want to risk running into a group or something."
You eye the last four gallon jug that's starting to run low.
"We'll find some later," she reassures you. "Don't worry about it."
But you do worry, especially when Mike's skin turns dry and dull, his eyes listless. Tina says he's dehydrated, but you don't have enough water to properly nurse him back to health. People are willing to go without food, but water is less of a giving commodity.
It's why you slip out of your seat in the middle of the night, gently picking up the empty gallon jugs as you creep into the forest. Artie's on watch and he doesn't seem to care what'll happen to you, his eyes glancing as they catch the bottles in your hand. A good enough excuse, it seems.
You hunt through the forest; living for so long away from the city is soothing, and the sound of animals has started to become a backdrop. They don't seem to catch the disease in the way others do; piles of deer corpses by a tainted water supply shows they aren't immune, but you've never seen a zombie dog wandering the streets of New York City. Maybe it doesn't hurt their heads like it does people?
The stream you meet is pitiful – rain has been scarce and the plants weep for water, grasses turning brittle and dry. Still, what little water that seeps through the ground is clear and cool, flushing cold through your body that begins to burn with hunger, and it should be more than suitable for Mike.
"You can come out, you know," you call out as you fill the second one, not bothering to glance up. "I can hear you."
Breathing stutters before you hear a distinct sigh and footsteps coming to a stop beside you. A hand takes the full bottle you hold and replaces it with an empty one before a knee knocks against your own. You smile, dipping it into the stream.
"I shouldn't be surprised that you knew, should I?" Shadow asks softly, dipping what Artie called a 'pollution thermometer' into the jug.
"I always know," you respond, watching the moonlight glimmer off the water. "Your heart is loud."
The double-meaning makes her breathing hitch but you fall back into the comfortable silence you used to have, crouched side by side. The hairpin curve of her lips, so soft and relaxed in the darkness, makes her seem younger than this world would ever allow.
Once the jugs are filled the two of you get up in unison; unwilling to leave this protective bubble you've made for yourselves she just looks at you, the glimmer of her eyes starshine in the night. She touches your wrist in ways you wish you could touch her, and the resultant caress sends galaxies flashing behind your eyes.
"I'm sorry," she apologizes, and though she doesn't allude to what, you know there are many things she won't speak lest they be acknowledged. The list weighs on her, silent and present, and the knowledge that it eats up her dreams is enough for you.
You accept her apology without words, and soon gets even closer still.
Halfway through lugging them back (you learn she followed you because of your bad shoulder – rubbing sheepishly at her nose, she explains that she didn't want you to strain it) Shadow frowns, shifting one in her grip.
"Why are you even out here? You don't drink much."
"Mike needs it," you reply, wiping the sweat from your brow.
"So... you're risking your ass for someone who ate a shitty mushroom on purpose?"
"You should know by now I'm not risking much of anything."
The two of you pop the trunk, placing the newly replenished supplies inside. Her little meter had read very little and you figure it should be safe to drink straight – there weren't any corpses flowing downstream, which is more than you can say for the past few you've come across.
"Besides," you add as you shake out your hands, "he bled into a bottle for me."
"He..." she trails off, squinting. "No. I'm not going to ask."
"It's better that way."
You stand awkwardly for a moment until you inch forward, wrapping your arms quickly around her waist. She sucks in a startled breath, but you're gone before she can do much else, your smile both sly and bashful.
"Goodnight."
She stares as you shut the door, and you hear a muffled night saturated in stupefaction.
As you expect, the watching gets stranger.
Shadow's eyes on you, more frequent and with less dodging, is welcome. She exchanges small words with you here and there, even once offering her own crudely made braid when no one was looking. You taught her how to make the knots firmer, and her hands are covered in cuts from where she's tried to weave dry, spiky grass into the pattern like you. She doesn't manage, but the little furrow in her brow as she concentrates is adorable.
Significantly less adorable is the way Finn's taken to following you.
You hadn't noticed it for several days, but with your new senses that play riot it's impossible not to. Everywhere you go, he keeps a watchful eye; food, sleep, even to the bathroom. Whenever the car stops he immediately goes to Mercedes in a way so unsubtle you're amazed you hadn't realized it sooner. You mutter to yourself when you sleep (and even when you don't), and he always leans in closer to try and understand.
His scent is almost as offensive as Puck's, and after his third unsuccessful pass behind you to attempt to see what you're reading, your skin crawls so violently that you nearly jump onto Mike's lap in an effort to get away.
"Stop it," you snap, cradling the files to your chest. "I know what you're doing."
"I'm not doing anything," he protests, palms out-turned, but his perpetual puzzled expression doesn't fool you.
"You're following me," you reply, scowling. "Watching me and talking about me, asking Mercedes what I say when I sleep."
"Dude, you're being paranoid."
"No, you're paranoid! You tried to look into my stuff last night!"
His face goes red as other members curiously look over, your usually docile stance squared and combative. The animal inside you rattles its weakening chains, howling and snapping inside your head, and the familiar anger bubbles inside you like a hotspring.
"Y-you took my-"
"I didn't take anything! You're being dumb and you smell like a skunk, so leave me alone!"
"Whoa there, Blondie," Puck interjects, smoothly sliding between you and Finn. "No need to yell at my man Finn."
"I should be yelling at you," you mutter sourly.
"You got somethin' to say?"
No, warns your mind, no you don't, but the urge is stronger.
"You... you need to stop being mean."
"Mean, huh?" His smirk is one of the meanest things you've ever seen as he gets up into your space – even his proximity makes your skin prickle like a million needles, so reminiscent of the convenience store that it physically makes you hurt. "You don't know anything about mean."
"I know a lot about mean."
"That what the voices in your head tell you? Are they mean to you?"
"The only voices I hear at night sound a lot like you crying in your sleep."
Mike, still weak and tentative, puts a trembling hand across Puck's chest to try and gently ward him away from your personal space. The other boy breezes past him, no match for his healthy muscle, and your teeth tingle with a shock of anticipation so bright it burns.
"The Puckster doesn't cry."
An uncomfortable silence settles around the group as everyone tries not to look at him – you haven't been the only one woken in the middle of the night by his twisting and turning, whimpering under his breath with hands like knots grasping for the shadow of a girl that no longer walks beside him. It's been quiet until now, never spoken to give him some semblance of dignity because all of them travel with loss very close to the swell of their defiant hearts, but you have no qualms about misstepping. It's all you seem to do anyway.
Once he realizes that he's not going to get help his skin stains so angry it nearly goes purple, puffed and proud like violets after bloom.
"You listenin' to me now? Is that how you pass the time?"
"You say mean things about me a lot. It's hard not to hear it."
"Mean, huh? Like what?"
"Like..."
Words swirl around in your head but the way your heart hammers jumbles the syllables, making them soft and malleable. Any attempt comes out stuttering and strangled, void of comprehension. His smirk turns victorious and you flush from the bridge of your nose outwards, your ears cherry red and your chest hot. The monster in you moans its discontent.
"Like when you said you should have left me in the camp to die like a dog!"
You remember too late that that curse was murmured in a breath so soft Shadow could barely hear it leaning forward, her ear turned to his mouth. His face twists, and you finally start backing up as his presence fills the clearing like a volcano about to rupture.
"I knew you could hear us. You like listenin' to our conversations, you little creep? Stickin' your zombie lovin' cunt where it doesn't belong?"
"I don't—"
"Don't play dumb with me, bitch. You may be a fuckin' retard, but even retards know when to tell the truth."
"Noah!" Rachel yells, scandalized. "That's a disgusting insult."
"Yeah? You know what's even more disgusting? Shooting your friend in the head after some crazy bitch killed him!"
"I didn't kill Sam!" you yell, shoving at him, barely managing to duck out the way when he lurches back. "Stop saying things that aren't true!"
"Tell me what's true then, Brittany! What happened? What are you hidin'?"
"I'm not hiding anything! He made his choices!"
"What choices, huh? What did he do?"
"He hit me after I dropped the Dots. The zombies heard him."
"Bullshit," he spits. "Sammy was smarter than that."
Your blood boils in a way you remember only vaguely; he's breathing down on your face now but your teeth are grinding so hard you're afraid you'll break them, tendons popping, and despite the people that are trying to shove between you there is a magnetic pull that has been months in the making.
"You call me dumb, but I'm not the dead one."
"You don't fuckin' deserve to survive. Someone's gonna put a bullet through you."
"Like you?"
"If you keep runnin' your mouth, I might. Bad girls get themselves killed."
Your frustration peaks, and flush that has crept over your face leaks under the rest of your skin. The hair on your arms raise and the sides of your neck prickle, an electricity that comes with the dismissal of caution and the animal anger that only he seems to bring out of you. Quinn sees your jaw clench, but you don't hear her warning.
"Just like your sister, right?"
The strike is so fast you don't see it coming, and the world spins as he punches you across the face, his fist nearly shattering your cheekbone. You stagger back a few feet, pain blooming under your eye, but the monster screams and you run back at him, launching yourself at his body. He's swearing and cursing you, promising all the horrible things he's going to do to your corpse, but all you know is you're so tired of being the enemy that the scratches down his face are long and deep, your thumb digging into his eye with as much force as you can. He's howling, trying to shake you off, and the gouges your nails make in his flesh will stay there for weeks.
His grip manages to find purchase on your injured shoulder and the pain is so bright it makes you nauseous, your hold loosening enough for him to throw you into the dirt. You land hard, winded, barely rolling away from his heavy boot crashing onto your face.
"I'm gonna fuckin' kill you!" he roars, the sound of an animal wounded and angered. His eye is bloodshot and tears stream from the sore flesh; your head spins from where his blow knocked you, but you wipe at your mouth that's started to bleed and stagger upright. "I'll tear out your insides just like you did to Sam, you crazy fuckin' bitch!"
You open your mouth to reply but Quinn puts her hand on your bicep, shaking her head. "Let it go," she warns, and you notice how he vibrates with a rage unable to be tamed. You don't see it ending well if he comes for you again. Finn and Mike hold him, and together they keep him rooted, Shadow gripping onto the sides of his face and muttering warnings in a tone so low it sounds unlike her.
Swallowing once, you cup your throbbing eye and stumble away across the clearing. They call out to you but you refuse to answer; there's a barn at the other side of the field and you waste no time in shouldering in, collapsing against a pile of loose hay and trying to dry your salivating mouth. His blood under your nails is enchanting, the smell wafting and surrounding you, and though your face throbs it doesn't stop you from wanting more. It's been twelve days and every part of you hurts in a way you're starting to recognize as the end.
You wonder what'll kill you first – the hunger, Puck, or yourself.
You aren't sure how long you sit there, but footsteps gingerly approach your barn after you've lain in the dark for a while. The lantern Shadow holds is dim, but you flinch away regardless, squinting as she hangs it on a wooden beam and crouches down to your position.
Silently, she skates her fingers over your face, her touch leeching the pain from your cheek. You try to say she doesn't need to bother but she hushes you and gently presses a dry cloth to the swelling, fighting back the inflammation with the pressure. She crouches close and cups the back of your head with her other hand to bring you in, and you lose yourself as she sits silent sentinel and helps you heal. Even her presence calms the muddled storm in your mind, flushing through you like a balm.
(Breathe her in, breathe her out, try not to come apart. Repeat.)
By the time she stops the lantern needs re-cranking, and the burst of light after spending a while sitting in the darkness with her is startling. She smiles and you smile back, the slight shock of pain that shoots up to your eye barely noticeable.
"He got you good, huh?" she asks (rhetorically, you assume), plopping down on the hay next to you.
"He's fast," you agree. "Usually I see it."
"Puck knows how to hit. I've seen him do more damage than that."
She takes a breath, her fingers dancing nervously with each other.
"I don't blame him for hitting you, really."
You glance over, curious.
"That was a shitty thing you said."
"I know," you accept. "I'm just... tired. Or angry. I can't really tell anymore."
"I'm not saying he didn't deserve it, either. He's being even more stupid than usual."
There's a story there, and Shadow licks her lips in hesitation.
"Puck... we all have the things that change us, you know? That was his sister. He wouldn't have been like this if she was still alive. I knew her since she was born, and she was the light of his life."
"We all have things we can't run from," you say softly, gently touching the back of her hand. She nearly pulls away, startling for a moment, but your constant presence and the isolation of the barn pushes out a shaky sigh before she gently loops her fingers in the spaces where yours aren't. It feels freeing, somehow, being tied to her.
"You're burning," she observes, running her thumb down the flesh of your own.
"It happens when the madness comes."
She frowns. "The what?"
"The thing that makes me crazy. Mercedes said it – it makes my body sick."
"And your head?"
"My head is always sick. Just less sometimes."
"What makes it better?"
"You," you say frankly, and even in the blackness you see the way her cheeks darken.
She inhales unevenly, her heart beating in her throat, but you let her have the stability that's so lacking from the rest of the world. You're learning that Shadow does things on her own time and nobody else's, and you sit patiently in the dark as she gathers her nerve.
"Look, Britt... I, um, what Puck said back there. About you being crazy."
Your eyebrow floats up but she can't look at you, speaking to the ground.
"You are kinda nuts. There's no denying that. But, uh, I don't think you're bad like he does. You know that, right? There's some shady shit that's been going down and I don't get it, but that doesn't mean I don't... don't like you."
"You've been acting like you don't."
"I know," she groans, and she rubs her free hand vigorously over her face, "and I'm sorry. I do this thing where what I actually mean is totally not what I do. "
"I have that problem too. My head forgets how to talk to my body. People usually die."
She stares at you for a moment, but you squeeze her hand.
"It's okay. It doesn't happen often."
"Well..." Shadow clears her throat and her nervousness is adorable, her pulse beating so strongly against your wrist it might just burst entirely. "This doesn't happen often either."
"What doesn't?"
"Someone like you. I, um, don't usually like people how I like you."
You grin so wide it's infectious, and her bashful smile makes something leap in your chest. Your fingers untangle and you cup her wrist, bringing her closer. You aren't really sure what you want, just that you want her near – her startled little gasp cuts off as you find your faces so close that minute universes bloom in the sliver of space between you.
Her eyes are lidded, but you see the way her pupils grow until they black out the rest of her gaze. Shadow's breath buffets your face, searing, and she welcomes the hand that slides through her hair at the back of her head until all of you is vibrating with her nearness.
The thing between you two that's been building since you first laid eyes on her strains, and you waste no more time sealing your lips together.
It's everything you didn't know you dreamed of and you're accepted immediately, her jaw moving against your own, one hand moving to cup your hip and the other just below your wounded bicep, cradling your elbow. She tastes like things you can't put words to; the burning in you shrinks and lets another one grow in its place, amplified as she bundles your shirt by your waist and tugs until you're wobbling, your free hand steadying yourself on the hay.
Shadow presses herself against you and you're forced to lean back on your elbows, her belly firm against your side as she devours you. There's no other word for it – deprived for so long she takes whatever you're willing to give (everything), the moan in her throat sending sparks of arousal through your limbs as you open your mouth to her. She nibbles on your lower lip, and the smile you feel against your mouth makes you shiver. She's everywhere, and your overdriven senses drink her in until there's no room for anything else.
She laughs lowly and pulls back a little, panting into your mouth. You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and smile at how she leans into it, all her reservations set aside for the moment.
"You okay?" you murmur softly, smoothing a thumb over her eyebrow.
She smiles, lips swollen and flushed from your attention.
"Yeah," she whispers back, returning to your mouth in a motion you eagerly encourage.
Her hand floats from your elbow to your wrist for leverage, and on the way down her fingers skate across your bad forearm. So distracted with her tongue as it runs across your own you don't notice her touch until it reaches the warm, fragile skin of your inner forearm.
You do, however, notice as her fingers run down the twisted scar that resides there, and the resulting stall of her jaw moving against your own. You break the kiss and attempt to pull away, but her grip is stronger than you ever imagined.
"What's that?" she mutters, turning your pale underarm into the lantern's light. Your bandages had come loose during the struggle and now hang limply from your forearm, doing nothing to hide the mark from her eyes. Her whole body stills, and you have the distinct feeling of your heart dropping into your stomach.
"I-is that a bite mark?"
"I-"
She scrambles upright, almost completely retreating from the halo of light the lantern casts.
"Is that a fucking bite mark?"
Your jaw opens and closes a few times but the terrified look in her eyes steals all the words from your tongue. Finally, you settle with a timid nod of your head, swallowing as she furiously runs her hands through her hair.
"Oh fuck, I can't fucking believe this. You're infected? Is this why you have a fever?"
"No, I-"
"Why the fuck were you hiding this, huh?" Her voice is low, scratchy and hoarse, and she darts back as you get up off the hay to go to her. "Don't come near me!"
"Please, just listen!"
"This is what I fucking get for making a friend. She gets bitten and turns into a fucking zombie. You probably gave it to me too, huh? Now we're both done!"
You open your mouth but the click of the safety disengaging has you frozen,kneeling in a circle of light, Shadow pointing it at your face. Her grip is shaking and sweat beads along her brow, the thump of her heart just as loud as your own. "I'll fucking kill you," she snarls as a warning, and the pistol barrel yawns in front of you. "I'm not gonna let you turn and fuck us over."
"I-" Increasingly frantic, your body hums with the desire to go to her, but the steely look underneath the terror says it won't end well for you. Your eyes mist over as you finally recognize the expression on her face for what it is: betrayal. "Just let me explain."
"Explain what?" she hisses, her feet firmly planted, but you recognize the tension in her muscles for what it is. A cough could leave your brain splattered against the barn wall. "You're gonna- you'll fucking die soon and now you're taking me with you. That's all the explanation I need."
"It's not like that, I promise!"
"You know how it works better than all of us, Britt! No one's special here!"
"Please-"
"I can't fucking believe you did this to me! I trusted you!"
The pain in her voice carves you out from the inside, and your lungs ache with the effort of holding in the answering whimpers. She's so close you can smell the fear that seeps from her and you don't have to look up into her eyes to know the rawness you'd find. You swallow, your hands slowly floating up until they touch her own that still cups the gun. Her whole body jerks, but your grip is stronger and you fight her resistance until the muzzle of the pistol is pressed firmly into your forehead.
"If you don't t-trust me anymore... just do it. I'm dead anyway, right? That's w-what you said."
You kneel in front of her for what seems like an eternity; head bowed, forehead red and sore where the metal of the gun cuts into your skin. She shakes so hard it trembles through you, and you can distantly hear the hiccups she tries to fight away. Eventually, you let go of the pistol until it's only her holding your fate hostage.
"I might be crazy, b-but I have a heart that beats and lungs that breathe and a head that believes. Santana, p-please... just listen to me."
Tears run freely down your cheeks and you sniff, not bothering to wipe at your nose as you fist your hands in the scattered hay of the barn floor.
Her name from your lips is the final blow, and she curses as she pulls the gun from your head. Your lungs let out air you didn't know you were holding and you collapse back on your rear, trembling so hard you can barely tuck your hair behind your ears. She paces around the barn for a few minutes, holding her hand to her eyes, and the tapping rhythm of her boots on the floor is as stressed as the beat of your heart.
Eventually she stops in front of you – the gun still hangs by her side but the safety's been engaged to become more of an empty threat than anything. Despite her suspicion you can still see the curiosity in her gaze she wishes she didn't have, and it might be the only thing that's keeping you alive.
She doesn't say anything, but you roll up your sleeve.
"It's a scar now," you mumble, swallowing thickly. "It used to hurt, but it doesn't anymore."
Her eyes trace it, disbelieving.
"It was there when I woke up. I was so sick, I couldn't even think for myself. I'd collapse on the floor and not get up for days, or I'd have to drag myself because I was too weak to stand. I... I saw the marks on the dead people, but I didn't know what to think. I didn't even remember my name."
"You... don't remember how you got it?"
"No," you admit hoarsely, "but I know it's what broke my brain. It... it makes me sick. My blood is dirty. The zombies don't want it."
"How do I know you're not just making this shit up?"
"Why would I pretend to be bitten? I'd get shot for no reason."
"I mean... how do I know you're not going to turn as soon as I look the other way?"
You blink for a moment, her words swimming in your brain.
"You don't. It just... hasn't happened yet. I don't think it ever will."
Santana studies you carefully, flickering between your gaze and your forearm. Tentatively she reaches for you and you hold your breath as her fingers run along the scar tissue that twists and puckers, curling up your forearm. It's the perfect size for a human mouth.
"I..." you hesitate, but the fact that she hasn't shot you yet means you have more of a hope than you ever used to before. "I'm like them."
"What do you mean?"
"I have to do bad things or else the sickness gets too big."
"Please don't tell me you eat people."
Your hesitation makes Santana's jaw drop a little and you roll miserably onto your haunches, wrapping your arms around yourself. Somehow the confession feels so much worse than keeping it to yourself; rather than a weight lifted, it's the knowledge that another person knows how unhinged you're capable of being. It fills you with a shame so foreign it takes you by surprise.
"I can't help it," you mumble. "Normal food doesn't help. If I... if I eat them, it's okay for a little while. But it always comes back."
"Fuck, I was joking. I can't believe you actually..."
She gets up and starts to pace again, the glimmer of her eyes conflicted in the darkness. There's nothing to pretty up this reality, no curtain to hide it away, and you spend a small eternity with her muttering solutions under her breath she doesn't realize you can hear.
"How long? Like, before you have to... y'know."
"I don't count, but... two weeks? A bit more?"
The math in her head comes to a grave conclusion, and she looks at you with a wary sympathy that exhausts you. There's only a few days left until the cycle comes full loop, and you know you're running out of time.
"Christ, Britt," she runs a hand over her face. "No wonder you're so twitchy."
"Everything gets so loud when I don't eat. I feel like an animal."
"Can it be, like... corpses?"
"It has to be fresh. I don't... I can't eat bodies."
She blanches a little but stops to sit beside beside you regardless, her posture much less hostile. It brings a spark of hope to your chest.
"What do you think happened to you?"
There are so many theories it's hard to keep track, bounding and echoing, all clamoring for your attention at once. It's hard to narrow it down when they all seem equally impossible, but one thing seems fairly certain – you shouldn't be alive after what you've been through. The body is only meant to sustain so much before it gives out.
"Santana," you say slowly, reaching into the pocket of your jeans. The only thing you took with you that mattered passes from your hands to hers, and the sound of her fingers rushing across the paper is that of secrets unraveling from your tongue. "I think I died there... but I came back."
She stares at the tag for a moment, glancing between you like it would help make sense of the matter. "You... you're dead?"
"I was. I woke up in the morgue."
Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly for a moment; you let her process it like you had to once, except you were given the blessing of a slow reveal. As she sits and stares you gingerly peel off the shirt from your frame, revealing your skeleton limbs to her in the dim lighting, swallowing only once before you tug the tank top away from you. Your twin incisions shine dully, glossy and numb, tearing you apart entirely.
"God damn," she murmurs softly, pressing her palm flat against her own belly where your wounds join. "This is one huge crock of shit right here."
"Tell me about it," you respond with a sigh, letting your arms fall limply to your sides. You sit there for a moment, but her fingers rub the tag still in her hand and she frowns.
"It says your last name is Pierce. Like-"
"Like Roger Pierce," you fill in, nodding. "I know."
"That's just... ten more layers of fucked up. Is he your dad?"
"He might be. I can't remember. I need to keep reading. Whatever he did to me... it hurts."
"I'm not surprised." She sucks on the fragile flesh inside her mouth, thoughtful. "Look... I can't say that I'm not weirded out as all hell, because I am. You're like... sixty percent corpse. But I'm not gonna rat out whatever the fuck this is to the group."
Relief crashes over you, and it takes all the willpower you possess to stop from kissing her in return. "Thank you so much, San."
Her real name still takes her by surprise, and you smile at the blush that forms over the sharp angle of her cheeks.
"Yeah, well, um- we need to keep this quiet. People are starting to really ask questions."
"I don't know how they haven't realized yet."
"They're going to. That's what makes it dangerous – there's actually something to hide."
You swallow, studying the shadows her cheekbones create. "Is there... is there something to hide between us?"
She glances away, nervously twining her hands together.
"There might be," she agrees hesitantly, chewing on her lip. "I just don't know how to manage everything that's going on right now. I like you, but you're still really fucking crazy."
Your lips curl into a lopsided smile. "That's nothing new."
"No, but the revelation that you're half-zombie is."
She dulls the snap to her voice almost immediately, looking at you apologetically to which you shrug and softly pat her knee. You understand by now.
"I'm not saying that I don't want whatever this is," she amends, "because I promise I do. We just need to figure out what's going on first, okay? But we can try-" her voice cracks a little, a nervous flush creeping down her neck, "uh, try something. Slowly. And carefully."
"It's dangerous, I know."
(But for who?)
"Okay. Good."
"Okay."
It's awkward for a moment before you reach for her hand and kiss her knuckles in a way that makes her melt a little, some more of that guarded tension flooding away from her body. You know it's not perfect – it probably won't ever be – but the possibility of her lips on yours again is more than good enough. You can give her the time she's not aware she still needs if it'll coax her in the right direction.
She frowns again, that knot returning between her brows. This time, you don't resist the urge to smooth it away. "Wait... are you, like, contagious? It's too late now, but it would be nice to know."
"You won't go crazy like me," you assure her, and she raises a brow.
"How do you know?"
"I tested it already."
As you shrug your shirt back on, you let her churn it over in her head. It's only when you get up and finally pull the lantern off the wall does she look at you sharply, her jaw dropping more than when you revealed the whole issue about eating people.
"You actually did kiss Finnept?"
Your smile is sly, eyes glittering in the dark.
"Maybe, but who would believe it?"