Chapter Four - So We're A "We", Now?
He knew that she didn't need him, but Jesus, after everything that had happened, he didn't want to be alone. He followed behind her, always just out of sight, safe in the knowledge that she didn't have a gun to use to down him at a distance. She must know he was there; she didn't survive this long by being sloppy, but she acted as if she hadn't noticed. Maybe he just wasn't worth any of her attention.
She had circled north, heading away from the populated green zone as quickly as possible. It was a good plan; they hadn't come across anyone for hours, and they made good progress as they jogged through the deserted streets.
Just as Doyle was starting to wonder if they were safe, he heard a soft snarl ahead and to their right. She stopped, motionless, as they saw a pack of wild dogs, four of them, growling at them hungrily. Doyle ducked behind an abandoned car, and she started to run to another one nearby when another dog walked out from behind it. There was no other cover that she'd get to before the dog would be on her. She stood still, proud, but there was a tremble in her hands that told him she didn't have a way out.
Silently, he raised his weapon, sighting on the head of the dog that was closest to her. Guns were loud, but he had no other choice. He broke cover and ran towards the woman, picked off two of the animals before the rest started to run at her. She whipped out her machete and bent her knees, bracing for the impact of the dog racing towards her. It pounced and she threw herself backwards, swinging the weapon so that it sliced into the animal's exposed jugular. She rolled out of the way a split second before the dog hit the ground, motionless.
Doyle downed the fourth dog before he ran out of ammo, the gun cycling empty with a metallic click. The final animal turned on him, and as it ran for him, teeth bared, he had no time to do anything except smack it in the muzzle with the butt of his empty weapon. The dog whimpered, fell to the ground, then scrambled back onto its paws. It leapt at him again, and this time Doyle wasn't fast enough to hit it before it jumped on him. They fell to the ground, its teeth snapped at his neck and he had to grab it by the jaw, the muscles of his arms screaming as he fought to throw the dog off.
It lunged at his throat despite his grip on its teeth, and Doyle jerked his head back, shouting in agony as he felt his burned skin grind into tarmac and gravel. He threw the dog to the side and rolled, trying to get on top of it to use his weight to his advantage. The dog was too strong, and it scrambled its way back on top.
The woman appeared at his side, a pocket knife unsheathed in her hand. She straddled the dog, grabbed its head and forced the knife into the animal's eye socket. Suddenly the strength was gone from the gnashing jaws at Doyle's throat, and the dog collapsed onto his chest, blood oozing from the ruined eye. He shoved it off and looked up to see the woman standing over him, her feet planted on either side of his hips.
"Thanks," Doyle whispered as he fought to regain his breath.
"Yes," she replied, staring grimly as she pulled her knife free of the dead dog. "You too."
"No problem."
She stepped back and reached out her hand and he took it, allowing her to help pull him to his feet. He ejected the empty magazine from his M4 and reached into his gear for a fresh one.
"Think they were infected?" he asked, and she shook her head. She looked sad, almost ashamed as she stared at the bleeding bodies.
"Just hungry." She paused for a moment. "We should get moving before whatever heard the shots comes to visit." Doyle nodded as he finished loading and checking his weapon.
So we're a 'we' now? he thought to himself, but when he opened his mouth, it was only to agree. "Let's go."
They walked until it was light, and then they walked some more. She was searching for something specific as she looked at the rows of deserted houses.
"So," Doyle said as they walked, if only to break the silence that had lasted the past three hours. "You have a name?"
She glanced sideways at him in a way that made him feel like he was less than dogshit. "Yes," she replied. "I do."
He sighed, came to a stop and sat down on a low brick wall. His neck was fucking killing him, and he was starting to feel lightheaded. He half expected her to keep walking, but she turned to look at him, raising her eyebrow and sighing as you would to a petulant child. "Look," he said. "You don't like me. I get it. But if we're gonna try and make this work, we need to fucking communicate. I'm only asking for a name so I know what to call you. You can make it up for all I'd know."
She stared for a moment, her eyes flicking to the three chevrons on his uniform insignia. "What does that make you," she asked. "A sergeant?"
"Yeah," he confirmed, smiling ruefully as she deflected his request. "Sergeant Doyle, ma'am. And you are?"
She turned her back and resumed walking, and Doyle shook his head as he stood and ran to catch up.
Once they were side by side, she eventually replied.
"Emily."
