Chapter 13: epilogue
They both know when it's time to leave.
As with so many other things, they don't have to discuss it. They don't have to say anything at all. And he doesn't know how long it's been. It's like it was after the moonshine and the shack and the fire; there are days but he doesn't count them. He never knew how long it was. A while. It doesn't matter how long. What he knows is that he's not healed but he's healing and he's healing well; he can move the arm, he can grip, he can use it well enough for the basic things he has to do. The crossbow is too difficult, but when he realized that was going to be a problem for him, he began to teach her again. Afternoons outside, target practice, watching her learn her stance and how to cock, load, aim, shoot, hold her body straight and graceful as the bolt as she follows through. He watched her learn - really with very little need for him to directly instruct her - and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
She always is.
She has the bow. He has the gun. It'll work for now.
That night, in silence like so many evenings now, they pack. Clothes, food, first aid, some of the things he brought from town. He found her another bag of M&Ms. Cranberry sauce with the ribs from the can. The hairbrush and the elastic ties, because her hair is longer every day and soon she'll be able to braid it again. Short, but even so.
But ultimately all these things are incidental. They have everything they need.
Going to bed with her, she forgoes clothes and he does too, and he doesn't puzzle over the reason. Like the first time they lay down together after the storm, really together, naked and wrapped up in each other, and nothing is going to happen and that's all right, because that's not why they're doing it. That's not the point. He's hard, trapped against her belly, but it doesn't matter. What matters is all that blood flowing under her skin, pumped by a muscle running strong and steady, and what matters is the way her chest expands and contracts as she breathes. What matters is that she's alive and he's alive, neither of them is dead, and they're going to feel it with nothing between them.
He doesn't really sleep. Neither does she. But neither of them feels tired in the morning.
At dawn they get up, dress, and she walks out onto the deck and waits for him. There are things he has to get, things he has to gather, and he does and he brings them out to her, held in a bloodstained towel.
Syringes. Bottles of sedative. Bottles of pills. Restraints. The rope.
She takes one end of the towel and he takes the other and they throw it over the railing, over the edge in one smooth motion, and they lean over together and watch the red and white and the dawn-glitter as his arsenal tumbles down, watch it until there's nothing to be seen. Not even a sound from below as the things land.
It's like it all simply ceased to exist.
They wait a few moments longer. Then they turn and she takes his hand, he takes hers, and they walk away.
And they don't look back.
Down and out through the town, the walkers quiet in their pen, and descending out of the foothills into lower countryside. Long roads in fair weather, clear of the dead. Sunshine. Breeze. Even the rain is gentle. She sits behind him on the bike, arms wrapped around him and her head against his shoulder, and she watches the world fly past them all green and gold and blue. Except that's not what it is. They're flying. Both of them. They went over the edge and into the air, together, and they didn't fall.
They still might die. Probably they will. But they still won't fall.
"You scared?"
She doesn't hesitate. She nods. He glances at her and he thinks the gate probably seems very big to her, very tall; it does to him. It did then and it does now. He didn't think it was home the first time it opened, and the truth is that he still doesn't think so. They call it a safe zone and it's not. He suspects all of them know that. But he also understands what brings people to the point of telling that lie. Of wanting to be told.
Anyway, it's not always a lie. Not really.
"Me too," he murmurs. He is. He doesn't belong here. He never has and he never will, and he doesn't think she does either. Maybe once she would have, but that was before, and a lot of things have changed, and just because they get to come back, that doesn't mean this is what they get to come back to. This is not home.
He already has a home. She's standing right next to him. And he believes - he does, he has all the faith in the world - that the same is true for her.
"It's alright," she says softly, and she takes his hand and interweaves their fingers. "We're here."
We're safe.
They get back on the bike. The gate is opening. Already they can hear voices behind the wall, tense and excited. This isn't going to be easy. But it's going to be done. They'll find a way.
"Ready?"
Once again, she doesn't hesitate. She nods, and he knows.
"Alright. Hold on."
Girl, please hold onto me.
They go through the gate. They don't look back.
the end