5. A New Life or This Life

"Your move."

Frank snapped his head up at the sound of Bill's voice.

"What?"

"Your move," Bill repeated, motioning to the chess board between them. "You've been staring at it for the last five minutes. Everything okay?"

"Sorry," said Frank. He glanced down at his remaining rook, and pushed it forward two spaces.

Bill leaned back into the tall, leather seat that comprised one side of the booth they both occupied. "Now I know something's wrong, 'cause you just set yourself up for checkmate in two moves."

Frank frowned as he studied the chess board again, this time with a more critical eye.

"You're right," he conceded. "You win."

"You gonna tell me what's botherin' you or do I have to drag it outta you?" said Bill.

"Okay, fair enough." Frank opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind and sighed instead.

"Go on, spit it out."

"You're not going to like it."

Bill chuckled to himself. "Yeah, I got that already. But I ain't gonna like watchin' you mope around all day, either. Now what is it?"

"Okay." Frank paused. "There's no easy way to say it, so I'm just going to say it. I think we should go check out the military truck that crashed into the school."

Bill shook his head as he stood from the booth. "We've been over this."

"I know," said Frank. "But there has to be supplies on that truck. No one's come looking for it in two weeks. Hell, the truck itself might still work. We could get out of here—"

"And go where?" said Bill. "The whole fucking country is infected. People have it a lot worse elsewhere than we have it here."

"We don't know that," said Frank, his anger building.

"You wanna go live with other people? Pretend to be in a city with rules and laws and civilization? No problem. Go to Boston. See how they're runnin' the place. Me? No, thank you. I'd rather stay in this goddamn town than starve like a rat inside a cage in that quarantine zone."

Frank stood and stared at Bill. Hurt flashed through his eyes. "Forget it. I knew what you were going to say anyway. I was stupid to bring it up."

Bill softened at the other man's words. "I didn't mean—"

"I said forget it. It's done." Frank turned to leave. "I'm checking the traps on the north side today. I'll be home for dinner."

. . .

Bill stopped his pacing to peer through the small gaps between the wooden boards that covered the windows of Sammy's diner. The late spring sun was almost gone from the horizon, yet there was still no sign of Frank.

They had one rule that was never broken—never stay out alone after sunset. Frank knew the rule. He was the one who came up with the goddamn rule.

Bill walked the perimeter of the diner one more time before making up his mind. He shouldered his well-worn backpack, checked the batteries in his flashlight, and headed out into the dusk.

. . .

Two hours of searching the north side of town proved to be a great exercise in frustration. There was no sign of Frank, or any sign that the traps had been checked. Some of them still had debris from the last rainstorm scattered precariously close to the trigger points.

"Goddammit, Frank," Bill said as he looked up into the dark clouds that hung in the night sky. He could smell the humidity in the air and feel the moisture rise around him. It was going to pour.

He scanned the surrounding area one more time, swore again, and turned to head back home. He walked just a few feet before a torrent of rain began to fall from the sky.

. . .

Bill squinted through the heavy downpour. After holding his breath for what seemed like a minute, he finally exhaled at the faint glow of light coming from inside the diner. Relief and anger flooded him at the same time. He settled on deciding he would strangle the man inside. What the hell had Frank been thinking?

Bill crashed through the door unceremoniously. As predicted, Frank was sitting by the fire. Bill's anger surged as he walked toward the fire pit, dripping water with every step. He was fully intent on giving Frank an earful when he noticed the uncontrollable shaking from the other man.

Frank was also soaked from head to toe, but hadn't bothered to get out of his clothes. His hair was matted to his face, and his teeth chattered against each other despite his efforts to warm up. A large cut sliced through his left forearm, still oozing blood. Bits of dirt and mud stuck to the clothing and skin on his left side.

"What happened?" Bill settled on asking.

"I ran into some infected."

Frank continued to stare into the fire, shivering with each breath. He offered nothing more.

"I was looking for you on the north side."

"Like I said, I ran into some infected."

Bill sighed. "You gonna elaborate on that?"

Frank shrugged his shoulders. "It was no big deal. I didn't get bit, if that's what you're worried about."

"No big deal?" Bill repeated. "That's pretty a nasty cut you got there."

Frank flinched as Bill examined the wound. "It's fine," he said, retracting his arm.

"It's not fine," said Bill. He tried to look at the arm again, but Frank twisted out of his grasp.

"I said it's fucking fine."

Bill held his hands up. "Okay. It's fine. At least let me get you cleaned up. You look like you've been muddin' around on a pig farm."

Frank rose from his seat. "I'm going to bed," he said briskly. "I'll see you in the morning."

He was half way up the stairs before Bill could think of anything to say.

"At least change into some dry clothes," he yelled after Frank. "I'm ain't gonna have any sympathy when you catch pneumonia."

His remark was met with silence. Bill frowned to himself. There was something Frank wasn't telling him. He looked around the room, but there was no evidence of what Frank had been up to. Eventually, the chill from his own wet clothes prompted him to move. He took off his jacket, hung it by the fire, and followed Frank's wet footsteps up the stairs.