December 10th 2027
"So what's the plan again?" Jasper repeats. We all sit in the back of the truck, going over what we're about to do. It's the first time we've decided to split up, but we all agree it's necessary. We've finally found a mall with a department store, and in order to cover the most ground, we need to separate.
"Get in and get out as fast as we can," Lauren states, "get as much as we can. Ben, Mike, and Jacob are staying here, the rest of us are going in." Jasper nods, and Lauren continues, "Emmett and I are going with Bella, you are going with Esme and Carlisle."
"Good," Jasper sighs, "okay...we ready to do this?"
With a firm nod, I sling an empty duffle bag over my shoulder, and toss an extra gun and some ammo into the side pocket. Emmett hands Lauren a gun, and grabs one himself, carefully distributing the firearms Jasper had collected from his headquarters back in Arizona.
Once we're all geared up, we open the truck. Jasper leaves first, followed by Carlisle and Esme. A walker ambles along nearby – skin scabbed and bloody, jaw broken and hanging at an unsightly angle – straying toward us when its dead eyes make contact. Others linger in the distance, but not close enough to be threatening.
Without flinching, Jasper lifts his rifle and pulls the trigger.
His shot is flawless.
.
.
"I remember when stuff like this would have cost a fortune," Lauren muses, studying the diamond rings through the display case. "And now what? We're lucky to find something to eat." She shakes her head. "It's sickening."
"Funny how things change," Emmett replies, expertly sweeping through the floor with his gun cocked. I sift through racks of clothes, stuffing anything I can find into the duffle bag that will come close to fitting. Lauren meanders away from the rings, and does the same.
"You two almost done here?" Emmett asks, "I'm not so sure we're alone anymore."
I pause, with my hand between the racks, and listen. A quiet shuffling comes from around the corner, at which point I reach for my gun, gripping the handle tightly. I take Lauren's hand, tugging her toward Emmett.
She clutches her brother's arm, whispering, "Walker?"
He holds his hand up in silence, and takes a step forward. Lauren, cautious to let him out of her sight most of the time, follows. I stay where I am, watching them in their perusal, but hear nothing other than the eerie quiet of the abandoned building.
It may just be a false alarm.
I let out a slow breath, and turn around, heading further into the store toward a section of appliances and cookware; gun still in hand. I grab what I can – anything that's useful – and add it to my collection, awkwardly adjusting the growing weight of the bag on my shoulder.
Before I know it, I've wandered so far away I can no longer see them.
My heart begins to hammer in my chest.
"Emmett?" I whisper into the darkness. I hesitantly walk back across the floor where I left them, being as covert as I can to avoid drawing out a walker. The spacious room is just bright enough for me to see, but no matter where I look, there's no sign of them.
Not a shadow on the wall, not a footstep on the ground.
Nobody's breathing but my own.
"Lauren?" I try instead.
A low grumble responds this time, and I stop where I'm standing. A walker stumbles out from behind a cash register, limping on bloodied legs, one arm hanging out of its socket, moaning in agony. My breaths catch in my throat, and I lift my gun, taking a steady shot. The walker sags to the floor in a pile of rotting flesh, oozing tainted blood onto the white, linoleum tile.
I hold the bag close to my shoulder, and without looking for Emmett or Lauren, I run. I take off down the immobile escalator, stepping swiftly onto the next floor. Three walkers are there, already coming toward me because of the noise I caused above.
I take aim again, but with the sudden shake in my hands, I miss. I hit one of the walkers in the shoulder instead of the head, which only seems to anger it. Really anger it. They move quicker with the sound, and I panic, taking lengthy strides back while I simultaneously attempt to shoot. They each go down one by one, until I've emptied my clip and have nothing left to give.
I frantically reach for my second clip when another one leisurely drags itself off the escalator.
I sift through the bag, silently cursing myself for being so careless with my bullets, and fumble with the clip when I find it. Just when I toss aside the empty clip and snap the new one into place, the foul, lingering smell of death intensifies and makes my eyes water.
The walker is too close.
I'm not moving fast enough.
I turn at the wrong moment to run, and unexpectedly trip, not anticipating the display of camping gear behind me. With a wheezy groan, I fall in a tangled mess, crumpling the nylon and ropes of a small assembled tent. My bag lands beside me in a cacophony of noise, and the gun scatters a foot away, just inside the lip of the tent.
I reach for it, kicking my feet to push myself, and connect with something soft and spongy – sticky, even. When I look behind me, I realize with a sickening twist in my gut the softness is the walker's jaw. The thing is crouched over me, crawling, sporting a heel-sized dent in its deteriorating face.
I scrunch my nose up at the pungent odour and kick harder, propelling myself toward the gun, adding another welt to the walker's cheek. I wrap my fingers around the pistol, and with a confidence I didn't know I could muster at this point, I sit up and turn to face it. I pull the trigger – twice, for good measure – and shake off the walker's slumped body when it sinks onto my legs.
I fall back to the tent floor with a sigh.
Great.
Another ruined pair of jeans.
I stare up at the ceiling of the tent, eyes wide, knowing I can't stay where I am. No matter how much I want to believe it is, I know it's not safe. I take a moment to catch my breath, and when I decide it's best to move sooner rather than later, something brushes against my calf. My head snaps up, drawn to the pair of legs that stand above me.
Out of instinct, I scramble backward, jabbing my foot hard into its knee.
But when I hear a deep human voice respond to my attack, I gasp.
A man drops down in front of me, clutching the knee I'd sunk my heel into, his teeth clenched. "Son of a-" he bites his lip, looking at me through the entrance of the tent. "Nice boot," he says with a shaky laugh, "guess I should have said something."
I widen my eyes at him, and sit up, pushing aside the flimsy material. "I am so sorry," I tell him, unsure of what to do, "I...I thought you were-"
"It's fine," he replies, "honestly." He rubs his knee one last time, and repositions himself into a crouch, offering me his hand. "We should go, though," he says quietly, "you made enough noise to wake the dead."
He smiles at me, something oddly cute and completely uncalled for in this type of situation. His full lips pull up at the corners, and his striking eyes dance with his attempt at humour. Despite our predicament, I can't help but to smile back at him.
"Very funny," I reply demurely. I take his outstretched hand, gripping it tight as I step through the entrance of the tent and carefully get to my feet. I look up at him, startled by his closeness, how tall he is compared to my tiny frame. I clear my throat, and let go of his hand, focusing instead on gathering what I'd dropped.
"I don't mean to be blunt," he says in a rush, "but there's really no time for that." I hear his gun click before he shoots off two rounds, leaving a deafening ring in my ears. "More will come," he warns me, taking the shirt in my hands and tossing it to the ground, "we have to go."
"But-my stuff," I stammer, glancing up at him, "I-"
He grips my wrist firmly, and tows me away, keeping his eyes trained on the darkness that swallows up the majority of the department store. I follow reluctantly, jogging to keep up with him, desperate to turn around and collect all the things he made me leave behind.
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off, "Look, I don't have time to explain, I'm-" He stops at a column running from ceiling to floor, and puts a finger to his lips; a motion for me to be quiet. I stand still at his side, and hold my breath when another walker ambles by.
He doesn't hesitate to shoot, and once the walker slumps to the ground, the man turns to me.
"Sorry," he apologizes, "but we don't have much time." He pauses, and when a distinct chorus of tormented moans travels through the store and echoes off the walls, my stomach drops. "Shit," he mutters, "they got in." He purses his lips, and grasps my hand tighter. "Before I forget," he adds, "I'm Edward. You are...?"
I offer him a grim smile, and reply, "Bella. My name is Bella, but...I'm here with others. I-"
"I know," he tells me, reaching around his back and producing another gun, "they'll be safe. Here."
I take it hesitantly, determined to believe he's telling the truth.
And without another word, Edward and I run.
.
.
"Get in!" I yell at Edward. I tug on the back of his jacket, and pull him inside the van, sliding the door closed with a wet "squish". Three crooked, disjointed fingers slip from rubber seam all the way down to the floor, and I make a face at them.
The smell alone is nauseating.
"Oh, that's just gross," Edward says bitterly.
"Tell me about it," I murmur. A shudder ripples through me, and when I glance up at the tinted window, I see at least a dozen walkers throw themselves carelessly at the van, rocking it. Mouths open and close, spewing forth a thick, red-black sludge, and scabbed, bloody hands press insistently into the glass. We're completely surrounded, and just beyond the crowd of walkers, the truck flashes in and out of view.
"What are we going to do?" I ask him.
"We drive," a woman responds. I turn sharply, stunned by the blonde woman in the driver's seat I hadn't noticed. "Sorry," she says in a strangely familiar tone, "didn't mean to frighten you. I'm Rose."
I pucker my brow in curiosity, replying, "I'm Bella."
"It's nice to meet you," she offers politely, then looks at Edward, "we can't possibly go out there. We have to drive out of this mess, and then make sure we have everyone. It's suicide, Edward-"
"Did you see my sister?" he asks impatiently, straining to catch a glimpse of her over the onslaught of walkers outside, "Is she with the others?"
Rose sighs, "Yes, she's with them. I couldn't see Tyler, but I can only hope they're together."
"These are the people you're with?" I ask them. Edward closes his eyes in something that resembles relief, and nods slowly, his head back against the seat. The van continues to lurch precariously, and the longer we sit, the more unbearable the stench of the undead becomes.
"Okay," Edward says quietly, "let's go, Rose. We'll meet up with them at some point once we're out of this area."
Rose does what she's told with no further instruction. She turns on the van, and as if she's done it a hundred times before, Rose guns it, peeling down the street as fast as she can, taking out anything in her way.
.
.
As soon as the capacity of walkers slowly begins to decrease around us, Rose eases up on the gas. I detach my fingers from the seat where I'm gripping it, and flex them, smiling sheepishly at Edward when he catches what I'm doing.
"Ah, that was fun," Rose declares, "what a rush. So I guess that didn't go well?"
Edward shakes his head, and leans between the seats to chat with Rose. I sit back while they talk and stare out the window, watching the buildings and streets pass us by in a haze of colours and shapes, not really seeing them. I'm merely looking, listening to the warmth in their voices, the sense of camaraderie Edward and Rose share. It makes me think of Esme, the long talks we've had over these last few months, the way I feel like I can tell her anything; the way she reminds me of my own mother.
My earlier sense of panic is swept away, replaced by a staggering sense of grief, of not knowing. I bite back the overwhelming sting of tears, and tuck my hair behind my ear.
I have to believe they're safe, all of them.
"...you know how she is," Rose finishes, "Alice wouldn't leave him behind."
Alice...
Alice.
I twist abruptly in my seat.
Butterflies assault my stomach so hard I feel nauseas.
"What did you say?" I ask. Edward turns to me with a strange expression on his face, and the moment his inquiring eyes sink into mine, I'm lost. I'm too startled to do anything but stare at him; at the delicate shape of his eye and the clear, beautiful jade green hue that's flecked with streaks of hazel.
The recognition – the familiarity – strikes me with such ferocity, but words won't come.
Nothing.
Not a single word comes to mind, and at the same time, there's so much to say.
So much to tell him.
"He has my eyes, you know," Esme muses with a wistful smile.
I smile back, and glance at Carlisle when he says, "And Alice has mine."
"Bella?" he prompts, "Are...you okay?"
Without thinking, I reach up, absently touching the corner of his eye, feeling the softness of his skin, and gradually smooth my fingers down to his unshaven jaw; strong and defined.
"She sounds beautiful," I tell Esme, "really. What about Edward?"
Esme sighs, "He's grown up to be such a handsome man." She looks out the window, silent for a moment. "I've been told he looks just like me, but I don't see it," she admits with a gentle laugh, "I've always thought he looked like Carlisle with his bone structure."
Tears spill down my cheeks, and Edward places his hand over mine, murmuring, "What's wrong?"
"You...you look so much like your mother," I say honestly, thinking back to my conversation with Esme, "not your father." I swallow a choking sob, and continue, "I know your parents...they're alive, Edward."
Whether he does it intentionally or not, his fingers tighten against mine; his eyes are wide and unblinking. I squeeze his hand back in assurance, to let him know it is okay, but before he can open his mouth to speak, Rose turns a corner too sharply and unexpectedly slams on the brakes. I slide into Edward, and he slides between the seat and the door, bracing himself awkwardly with one hand on the passenger seat in front of him.
"What the hell?" Edward mutters. He helps me back into a sitting position, and rights himself, looking curiously at Rose in the front seat. I look with him...but instead of Rose, my eyes are drawn to the macabre scene outside the windshield.
A small, terrified whimper falls from my lips.
Walkers.
Hundreds of them.
Hundreds of flesh-hungry, undead creatures, banded together like a small army, heads cocked and eyes straining toward one thing.
Us.
"Oh shit," Edward whispers in horror.
"Turn around," I tell Rose with a discernable quake in my voice, "go. Now, go!"
But Rose doesn't move. Her hands, locked in a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, stay where they are. Her shoulders quiver, and from what I can see of her profile, she's stunned...scared stiff.
She doesn't know what to do.
"Rose!" Edward yells at her. He reaches for her bicep, and squeezes, shaking her roughly out of her frightened daze. "Rosalie!" he says with more conviction, "Turn around."
She shakes her head, as if she's been momentarily paralyzed, and quickly shifts the gears. She looks over her shoulder and out the back window, past us, determination apparent in her features despite her tears. She bites her lip and turns the wheel expertly, spinning us back in the other direction, putting us behind the truck already a few blocks ahead.
.
.
Rose speeds and weaves through the streets, mimicking the truck, dodging groups of walkers that roam the city. I stare at the green, fluorescent numbers on the clock in the dashboard, focusing on the 2:04 flashing back at me. I have no idea if it's the real time, not that it matters, anyway. I try to take my mind off everything swirling around inside my head with those numbers, except...it doesn't work.
Nothing will.
It changes to 2:05, and I look away, blinking through the stupid concession of tears I wish I could control.
I sniffle quietly with my face turned toward the window, and bite the inside of my cheek when I feel Edward brush his thumb over my knuckles.
I hadn't even realized I was holding his hand.
"You okay?" he whispers to me. His voice is gentle and sweet, and his sincerity, how much he seems to care, doesn't help in hindering my tears. I bow my head and shake it, causing my hair to fall in a wavy cloak around my face, shielding me from Edward.
"No," I tell him.
He slips his hand from mine, and puts his arm around my shoulder instead, inviting me toward him. I curl myself into his side, and bury my face in my hands, hoping all my anger, frustration, and worry will just disappear and offer me some kind of reprieve, even for a little while; hoping, for once, I will be able to just stop.
Defeated and beyond tired, I sigh into Edward's chest, bracing myself against him when Rose speeds up and bowls over a group of walkers. I hear Edward's muffled voice during the chaos, but with the sound of the van's tires crunching through decaying bodies, I can't make out what he says. I glance up at him, furrowing my brow in question.
He bends his neck, and with his lips intimately close to my ear, he softly says, "Thank you."
.
.
At some point during the drive, I fall asleep talking to Edward. The last thing I remember is his voice, the way it's gravelly and deep when he's speaking quietly, how it becomes strained and tight as he recalls a part of his life that no longer exists. We talk for a while, and I don't know when it happens, but eventually I stop caring about where we're going, or how long it will take us to get there. All I can focus on is him, his story...and how nothing breaks my heart more than hearing how painful these last few months have been for him and Alice.
In the end, the emotion is too much.
The sadness, the crying, the consoling...it takes its toll.
I drift off, perfectly content to listen to Edward's voice; a sound which follows me into my dreams.
.
.
I clutch the soft comforter in my hands, and pull it up tighter around my chin, snuggling into the immense warmth enveloping me. My head is nestled on a praise-worthy pillow, and my entire body buzzes with a foreign sensation of fulfillment. I hum quietly at how heavenly it feels, and twist slightly on the bed, listening to the slight creak beneath me...
When I realize I'm in a bed.
With reluctance, I pry open my eyes, more than averse to ruin this blissful dream. They adjust easily to the semi-dark room, taking in the decoration of flickering candles scattered across the bedside table next to me, and the dresser adjacent to the bed. I blink to clear the sleep from my gaze, and study the rest of the room, letting my eyes travel from the lime green beanbag chair in the corner, to the mess of clothes on the floor, landing on the full length movie poster on the back of the stark white door.
I frown at the poster, and continue my inspection, becoming more and more confused the longer I look.
Where am I?
I sit up eventually, and press my fingers into the plush mattress, knowing – for a fact – this is no dream.
This is real.
I bite my lip to quell the pulsing shreds of hope stirring inside me, and toss aside the covers. The first thing I take note of – and so does my uneasy stomach – is the rotten stench of caked blood and sweat marring my jeans and sweater. I hold my breath to prevent myself from gagging, and grimace at how dirty I am.
Without a second of hesitation, I begin removing everything. I gladly leave my clothes in a pile to be burned and grab the first thing I see on the floor – an oversized pair of sweats and a grey t-shirt. I smooth my hands down the front of the wrinkled shirt, smiling for some reason at the college emblem printed on it.
I suppose it reminds me of a simpler time, when things like college mattered, when it was important to have a job and make money, when people had interests and hobbies and lives.
And now?
Well, the t-shirt may as well have been blank with all the weight it carried.
I let out a heavy sigh and drop my hands to my sides. I look at the back of the door again, sceptical of what exactly happened after the debacle at the department store. All I can seem to remember is Edward, and none of where I am, how I got here, or where everyone else is. I know only what is around me, and frankly, I appear to be standing in the bedroom of a sixteen year-old girl...with very baggy clothes.
Something else tugs at the back of my mind, that shred of hope again, but I push it away.
I can't allow myself to think we've finally found safety in a world so unpredictable.
I take a few steps toward the door, opening it quietly, and though I'm cautious to leave, I figure a place with a bed can't be anything remotely close to bad. Outside, the hallway is dark and narrow, with lightly coloured walls and a hardwood floor that's cold on my bare feet. I tentatively make my way toward the dull glow of candlelight and soft murmur of voices, swallowing my anxiety at how fast my heart is beating.
When I reach the mouth of the hallway, I pause at the sight of Jasper. He's lounging comfortably on a nearby chair, laughing at something; a smile that's real and genuine, and a sound so amazing and cheerful I can't help but to smile, too.
I don't think I've ever seen him so carefree before.
I clear my throat and take a timid step into the room I quickly realize is something akin to a living room, with couches and chairs framing a large coffee table in the center. Before I can take a breath, make my presence known, Esme is off the couch, almost knocking me to the ground with the intensity of her hug.
I laugh breathlessly at her vigour, and attempt to tame her mane of hair tickling my nose.
"Bella," she says with reverence, rocking us side-to-side, "you had me so worried." She pulls back, and tenderly peppers a small series of kisses along my temple. "Don't ever do that to me again," she tells me sternly, "or...well, I don't know exactly what."
I chuckle at her tone, having heard it a few choice times before when Jasper and I had gotten into risky situations. I tilt my head slightly to look at her, to accept the scolding, but find instead something that nearly breaks my heart – Esme is crying.
I never do well when Esme cries.
"Esme," I murmur with a shake of my head, "no, no, no...I'm fine. Look-I'm okay." I place my hands on either side of her face, and smile, hoping to cheer her up.
I hate to see her so upset.
"I...I thought you were dead," she admits in a whisper, "when you didn't come back." My smile falters at the pain in her voice. "I don't know what I would have done, Bella," she continues unsteadily, "if you..." She jerks her head back and forth in place of speaking, and closes her eyes, causing tears to collect where my thumbs meet her jaw. I dry her cheeks with my palms, and pull her back to me, murmuring a quiet chorus of "shh" in her ear to hopefully settle her emotions.
I purse my lips to keep them from quivering, and shake my head again. "You don't have to think about it, Esme," I tell her, "because I'm here. I'm safe. Please...don't cry." I rub slow circles into her back, sighing, "You know I hate it when you cry."
She offers me a weak laugh in return, and sniffles. "Sorry, but a mother worries about her family, Bella."
I smile at the mention of family, knowing she considers me as nothing less.
Over her shoulder, I see everyone else I have come to care for; they're all here and accounted for...Ben and Mike, Jacob, Emmett and Lauren.
Family.
My eyes journey past Emmett and Lauren, onto another couch where I catch sight of Edward, sitting next to Carlisle and who I assume is Alice. The candles cast his face in an array of shadow and light, a spectacle of dancing, iridescent colour that perfectly reflects off his high cheekbones and adds a subtle, alluring glint to his green eyes.
I have no idea where it comes from, but all I can think is how beautiful he looks.
How beautiful he is.
I quickly divert my eyes, and pull away from Esme, admitting, "If you're looking for someone to thank, I'd talk to your son. I'm not sure I would have made it without him."
At the mention of Edward, Esme lights up, wearing a smile on her face only a proud mother could bear. She presses a kiss to my cheek, and turns back to her family, settling herself on the couch between Carlisle and Edward, gazing at her son with nothing but love and respect. She amorously kisses his forehead, her eyes closed...and in all the time I've known Esme, never have I seen her more at peace than she is right now, never have I seen her so happy.
Completely and utterly happy.
I suppress a smile of my own and take a spot on the arm of Jasper's chair.
"Hey," he says quietly, "it's good to see you."
I bite my lip, and tangle my fingers together in my lap. "Same to you," I tell him, "I'm just glad you're all okay." He pushes his shaggy, blond hair from his eyes – eyes that are an astonishing shade of blue – and looks up at me. His lip curls slightly at the corner, offering me an easy grin, and he gently places his hand on my knee.
Before I can do anything in return, large, warm arms snake around my neck from behind. Without looking, I know instantly...it's Emmett. I laugh at the awkwardness of how our cheeks press together and his chin juts into my shoulder.
"Ow," I say between chuckling at him, "you're so bony." I rotate my shoulder to emphasize my point, and he makes a sound of mock offense.
"Am not," he retorts, "you're the one who's built like a bean pole; all bones and no meat." He laughs in my ear, and I laugh with him, curling my arms around his in an attempt to give him a hug. Even if he is a little bit immature sometimes, being only seventeen, he's like a brother to me.
"Listen...I'm really sorry about what happened earlier," he whispers this time, radically changing his tone, "we got distracted. We saw some of the others who came with Edward and...b-by the time we got back you were gone. Walkers were crawling all over that store. I-"
"Emmett," I cut him off, "it's fine, really. Edward was there, everyone got out safe." I tighten my arms against his in reassurance. "Let's just think about that, okay?"
I feel him nod his head – probably reluctantly, knowing him – before he retracts his arms. He returns to the couch where Lauren and Rose are sitting, and contentedly nestles himself between them. Lauren looks like she's half asleep, and Rose, who now doesn't look much older than Emmett, smiles at him.
I stifle a yawn, and glance out over the rest of the room, taking in the television against the wall, the two standing lamps, and the dining room that is just barely visible from where I'm sitting. In the sub-par lighting, the walls appear to be a variation of taupe, and the shades covering the window and balcony door are a deep, dark colour I can't quite make out.
And when I fully register the balcony, my throat constricts.
We're in a building.
A building...with a bed, and blankets, and clothes, and warmth, and...
Safety.
Despite my need to ignore the rising, nagging tendrils of hope in my chest, to protect myself from disappointment, I can't help how my heart races and my breathing changes. I slip down from the arm of the chair and step over Jasper's legs, letting my feet carry me to the balcony door. I push aside the dark curtain, feeling the harsh cold outside through the plane of glass, and spy a thick coat of snow on the ground just beyond.
And past that – past the rail of the balcony – there's nothing. Complete darkness. With the exception of the half moon lighting the cloudy sky, it's blank.
I press my hand to the icy glass, and step up on my tip toes, trying to get a glimpse of something; anything. When I feel a hand on the small of my back, I turn and gaze up at Jasper. His eyes soften, flickering between me and what lies outside. Eventually his gaze settles on me, unwavering, confirming what my gut is telling me.
We made it.