Chapter 2 – Two of Us
Night began to fall without prelude. Trapped inside the truck was like being in a time warp. Nothing changed but the light of the sun slowly disappearing – the walkers continued to pound the sides of the cargo area, continued to moan in the same low pitch that had become my eternal background music. Pete fell asleep under my watch and I pressed my sixth cigarette into the bed of the truck until the ash stopped smoldering.
Time to move.
I stood, heading back to the cabin and snatching up a carton of cigarettes. Twelve packs. I could make that last. I shoved the carton into my sling.
"Nnnggg..." My head whipped around. Pete stirred. I breathed out slowly, tiptoeing back to where he lay and grabbing the hack saw from the shelf. Pete writhed weakly, his back to me.
"Pete?" I whispered testily.
Slowly, Pete began to rise, pressing his palms into the ground and straightening his back against the wall. Even then, in that short amount of time, it looked like he had lost ten pounds. He turned to me, his head lolling against his shoulders. "Scout..."
I lowered the saw.
"Scout... I don't want to die."
"What does it feel like?" I asked, and never knowing where the question came from.
"Feels like I'm ten pounds of beans in a five pound bag."
I swallowed.
"Scout..."
"Yeah."
"You gotta... you gotta take care of Nick. He's a good boy. Just needs somebody to watch out for him." Pete coughed heavily, and I saw blood in his palms.
"I can't promise anything," I replied truthfully.
Pete chortled weakly, for the last time. "Who can in this world?" He looked up at me, his eyes a plaster-like blue, two beacons in the darkness that called me down a dangerous road. "You gotta have a role, Scout." And he turned away, coughing again. The back doors of the truck creaked. They were beginning to give.
"Help me up."
"Pete-"
"C'mon, goddammit."
The walkers pounded. I recklessly abandoned the caution that had kept me alive as long as it had and threw my good arm underneath Pete's shoulder, hauling him to his feet. He swayed, bracing himself against the walls of the truck and collapsing into the driver's seat.
"Give me the keys," he breathed, lifting his hands to the wheel. I looked down at them, slick in my sweaty palm.
"Pete, tell me about Carver."
He turned to me. The sun was setting, casting its last obstinate beams of orange across the dashboard, making nothing visible but the motes of dust swirling around the cabin. Pete was a shadow against them, a singular void in space.