At first I look under the girl, ignoring her vocal protests in the form of a hiss and a snarl. I don't have time to be coy with her; the tank may be a slow, lumbering brute still, but I don't trust him to stay that way for long. The image of his legs mending under him is still fresh on my mind.
The floorboard is empty. So is the seat under me. She might have them, maybe in her pockets or something, but that doesn't make much sense. She's too young to be driving, especially with a truck this new. The only explanation I can think of is it belonging to…
The floor leader who was assigned to lock up. Of course, why didn't I think of that before? Right, a witch, a popped shoulder, and a few tons of tank.
Below me the girl wails feebly, as if she can't decide whether to burst into more tears or start snarling again. She seems to have deemed me the lesser threat and still quivers between my legs and the floor. It's a bit odd to think about; the survivor-proclaimed witch has long since been one of our greatest enemies, no one ever lived to tell the tale after getting close. And now here's one hiding under my legs. Who knows how this will end up.
That's why I force the thoughts out of my mind, I can't afford to let self doubt ruin me, not with the beast in my mirror getting closer. I pull the keys from my pocket, all of it sopping wet, and lift them in shaking hands to determine which one might work. There it is, the proud Ford logo that I've been searching for on the first one I find. The problem is my hands are refusing to listen to me.
I never noticed how cold I was until now, the numbing effects of the night's rain was just so comfortable to my battered body. My skin has taken on a purple and pink hue from deep within, as much from blood loss as cold, I would guess. My fingers feel bloated and stiff, refusing the most simple commands, and I'm nearly on the verge of fainting. Only an alert mind is keeping me this active, an alert mind and the promise to protect this girl.
That's what I have to think of, that single moment that has turned into a mission for whatever reason, so I think of her when I try over and over again to shove the key in the ignition and start this infernal truck. I shove the girl between my legs, ignoring her howl and the defensive gash she leaves in my calf, and slam my foot on the gas pedal even before I've managed to turn the key through my tremors.
I look in the mirror just in time to see a giant hand smash into the tailgate of the truck. I don't have time to ready myself and my good hand slips trying to prop myself up. My head hits the steering wheel hard, I hardly feel the pain but I feel my nose fill with blood automatically and stars swim into my vision. The truck roars to life around me, the witch screams between my legs and hides further into the seat, and the first thing we do is cut through the water and jump the curb, slamming me up and down further.
Death would have been so much simpler. A death through torture would have been less painful. Have I ever been the one to take the easy way out? I could have just lived at home, maybe gone to a community college or bummed off my parents for all I care. But here I am in the middle of Ass-Crack Pennsylvania feeling like I just got done with a leisurely ride through a rock tumbler filled with shards of glass. My ever-personable charge howls under me as we turn onto the road. I can barely keep the truck under control as is, I can't be bothered to worry about her gutting me now. That's why I let her out from between my legs and let her jump about in the cab.
It doesn't take her long to remind me why I feel the need to protect her in the first place. She comes at me when she realizes there's nowhere to go, digging her claws deep in my tattered jacket and shoving her head between my breasts. She doesn't impale me, and chooses this one and only time not to cut me to shreds. Just buries her head there and sobs into my ribs while I try to keep my attention on the road.
I can't be bothered to turn on the lights with the infestation still rampant around here. Most the time I can't even see the road under the flood of water beneath us, just the buildings and occasional sign or corpse floating by. All I can be thankful for is that the tank disappears from our mirror and the truck runs fine on road or sidewalk, whatever I'm driving on now.
It takes a while and a lot of splashing, but soon the road starts to incline and the rain starts to ebb. The infected I see out the window as we're driving are all headed towards the light and tower of smoke that's left from the building we had evacuated, like a giant fly zapper on the horizon. I'm thankful that building was good for something, I have less to worry about here when all the zombies wind up drowned or running the other way.
Finally my worry can be put to more important things, like fixing my arm before it's permanently disabled, or fixing my back before I really do bleed to death instead of crying about it. Maybe fixing some morphine into my veins so I can get these damn tears out of my eyes and the occasional sob of pain from my throat. I feel like shit and the way things are heading, I'm going to break down and never be able to get back up again. I have to do this now, I can't put it off another second at this rate.
With little warning I veer the truck off the road, confident that there're no swarms of zombies behind the little gas station I've found myself at. I haven't gone that far, it's still an industrial little part of town filled with warehouses and truck stops, but I've put off myself long enough already.
She- I still need to find out her name- whimpers and looks up when we slow to a stop, just her, me, and the pounding rain now. I hardly even noticed the hold she's had me in during the drive, but now I'm thankful for the presence at my side. My hand wraps around her and pulls her tighter, and I move both of us so I can check the glove box for anything useful.
All I find is a flare and a road map, of which I take the flare. Behind the seat is nothing but a jack and a spare tire, and she hisses at the sudden movement but I manage to look around her under the seat and finally, finally find something real good. A little first aid kit; nothing fancy, but it'll do.
"Come on," I call, half pushing, half kicking the door open and pulling her out into the rain. I should know by now not to do things like that, but sometimes I can be a bit dense. I'm not mad when one of her claws rakes its way out of my grip and down my arm, just frustrated at myself.
"My mistake," I manage to cough through the pain, letting her back up into the far corner of the truck and shiver. The door swings shut behind me and I force my body to keep moving, kicking through the ankle-deep rivers of water that flow through the lot until I push through the front doors to the gas station. It's long since deserted, long since empty, but it's dry and I'm free from prying eyes, or fangs, I should say. I can't see much, but I can tell all the shelves are empty, the stands are gone, and even the counter has been wiped clean. It's like they've moved out or are renovating, but the smell of death lingers here and the pain reminds me just how wrong that assumption would be.
My ruined jacket slips from my back as I stumble through the station, making sure nothing has been left for me behind the counter first. It seems I used all my luck just getting this first aid kit, everything has been stripped bare. At least the floor seems smooth enough for me to get rid of these shoes. They're sopping wet and seem to weigh twenty pounds each, but god damn does it hurt trying to take them off. My fingers are too numb and twitchy to pull the strings and the cuts my precious witch left in my calves make kicking them off a more painful ordeal, even without my bad leg.
Feeling a dozen pounds lighter and just as cold, I manage to shuffle into the back of the store and into the bathrooms. It's a small, one stall thing, one stall that I check out of habit as soon as I enter, but the mirror I need is in one piece.
Then the bathroom door slides shut and I find myself in pitch black. My first morbid thought is that I should be afraid right now, standing in no light in a zombie apocalypse when I have a history of claustrophobia and nyctophobia. That same morbid train of thought reminds me to be afraid later when I don't feel like so much shit, and is followed by me cracking the road flare and bathing the room in a dull red glow.
"Now for the easy part," I mumble, nearly collapsing against the sink to talk to my sunken, sickly face. God I look like shit. With all the grace of a zombie I start to strip out of my soaked clothes, sobbing and nearly screaming every time a tender piece of flesh is brushed against or pulled. Basically, crying like a bitch every time I move, really.
Just as my pants are collapsing into a pile at my feet the door creaks and I freeze. The red light is throwing off my senses, but I can see a small beam of filtered moonlight from the front striking the wall from where the door is opening.
My breath hitches. I'd love to say it's just the wind or something, but it's opening with a slow, methodical purpose. Maybe gravity, I try to convince myself, but I heard the thing click closed.
With fear pushing away the pain for a bit I turn away from the sink to face whatever has me cornered.