Coby Cotton

Woods of Wasting

April 13, 2032

2026 Hours

Stars are still bouncing around in my field of vision when I wake up, so I keep my eyes squeezed shut, trying to figure out where I am without opening them. I'm sprawled over something rough and curved, and the surface feels like tree bark under my fingers. Warm liquid trickles down my face, which is concerning, and water pools around my legs, which is a little less so.

Screw this. I open my eyes.

I immediately regret it. Lightning seems to arc through my skull, but I clench my jaw so hard it feels like it might break and push myself upright, scanning my darkened surroundings. My head spins uncontrollably, my vision blurring, and I clamp my hand over my forehead, blood welling up between my fingers. That's not good.

The woods around me are dark and shrouded in a curtain of rain. Beneath my knees—which feel scraped and raw—is a large tree trunk, and the Ruin River still rushes below it, though less ferocious than it was during the flood. Debris is strewn around both banks of the river, though I can't see exactly what it is, given how blurred my vision is right now.

Regardless, I have to get off this tree. With my palm still pressed to my forehead, I use the other hand to feel around, crawling forward until my fingers touch grass. My descent from the tree trunk is more like a faceplant onto the wet ground, and when I stand up, my legs are shaking so badly that I run sideways into a still-standing tree, sending a twinge through my shoulder and almost collapsing in the process.

No. I will not let a stupid concussion stop me from…what was it again? Something important, obviously, or I wouldn't be out here. Maybe I should walk into the woods. Which way is camp?

I clip another tree, probably scraping my upper arm, but I barely even feel it, the woods are spinning so quickly. Soon I'm crashing through the bushes, not even registering the branches whipping against my legs.

Then, suddenly, a dark shape looms up, wielding something black and gleaming in the darkness, and a flickering voice says, "Don't move or I'll—oh, you're not—dude, what happened?"

"Long story," I mumble, and my knees turn to water.

This time, I'm grateful for the darkness.

"Dude! Seriously, wake up! I'm sick of sitting around waiting for you!"

Cold water splashes onto my face, and I jerk upright, spluttering, only to feel a pair of hands on my shoulders, shoving me back down. "You can't just get up, idiot! You have a concussion!"

"Who are you?" I mumble, blinking the water out of my eyes and looking blearily up at the face above me. Wild dark hair has been pulled back under a backwards baseball cap, and a silver pendant dangles so close to my face that it's brushing my nose. As my vision clears, I can tell that the face is that of a teenage boy, and he looks royally ticked off.

"Who am I?" the kid thunders. "You're the one who tripped into my camp bleeding all over the place and passed out on me! Who are you, dude?"

I push his hands aside and sit up, wincing at the throbbing in my skull. When I touch the gash on my forehead, I discover that it's been bandaged, the gauze wrapping all the way around my head. Thankfully, the kid has left my hair sticking up at the top, so I'm not wearing a bandage turban.

"Coby Cotton," I sigh. "Seventeen. I'm from Ruin River Survival Camp. The river flooded. It wasn't my fault."

The kid grabs my hand in a vice grip, shaking it vigorously. "Tyler Toney, call me Ty. Sixteen. I'm from right here—Desolation Survival Camp. It's just me and my man Cody out here. Hey, can you shoot?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "With a pistol. Been training for years. Listen, have you seen a kid out here who looks, like, exactly like me?"

"Yeah," Tyler says, raising an eyebrow. "You. How hard did you hit your head?"

"No, not me—it's my brother, Cory. We're twins, and he got caught in the flood, too."

"Gotcha," Tyler's face is sympathetic. "Nope, haven't seen him. Is he going to be as obvious as you were?"

"If anything, more obvious," I groan, pushing my hair back from my forehead. "He's loud and very noticeable, probably going to come in screaming at the top of his lungs about the zombies chasing him—because he will attract zombies. That's if he hasn't hurt himself or gotten stuck in a tree somewhere."

"He sounds…" Tyler shrugs. "Interesting. A perpetual liability in a post-apocalyptic world, yeah, but at least interesting. Why do you want to find him again?"

"Because he's my brother, okay?" I stand up, putting my palm on the tree behind me, and try not to collapse again as my vision spins. "Thanks for patching me up, Ty, but I've gotta go."

I have to give Tyler credit for moving so fast. The second I try to take another step, my knees buckle again, and I'm about to crack my head on the second branch of the day when he grabs me around the chest and hauls me upright, transferring his grip to my hood. "Whoa, dude! I don't think you should go anywhere right now. Tell you what, I'll take you back to our camp, and we'll get you some Advil or something—and food, when was the last time you ate?"

"Like, last night," I inform him, struggling to break away from his iron grip. "Really, man, I'm fine, Cor's the one who's in trouble—"

"I'll get Cody on the scent," Tyler promises, steering me bodily through the trees. "He's a zombie tracker. Who's to say he can't find a kid, especially one that's apparently louder than all the zombies put together?"

Should I fight? By the feel of my pockets, I still have a knife and my pistol—if I hit Tyler in the jaw and then break away, I might be able to get back to camp and get a better vantage point. Maybe I could see Cory from up there.

But Tyler's right—I definitely have a concussion, and I'm not going to be any help to Cory if all I can do is run into trees. Still, the fact that I can't be out there looking is tearing me apart—how am I supposed to trust two guys I don't even know with my brother's safety?

"Cody!" Tyler bellows as he flings a gate of willow branches open and steps into a fenced clearing. "I need some help over here! Meet me in the first aid tent!"

He flings me into a small, dimly lit tent and retrieves a bottle of small red capsules from a pouch hanging from the ceiling. As Tyler pours a plastic cup of water from a dispenser, the silhouette of a young man bursts through the door. As my gaze flicks over him, I realize that he easily passes the short, muscular Tyler by eight or nine inches, and me by extension. He has to duck his head to be able to stand in the tent, but a grin eerily similar to Cory's is plastered on his face.

"Hey!" Cody yells, grabbing my hand and shaking it even more vigorously than Tyler did. "New guy! What's your name?"

"C-coby Cotton," I gasp. "Cody, right?"

"Yup! What's going on?"

"I need you to help find this guy's brother," Tyler tells Cody as he hands me the glass of water and the pills. "Looks just like him, apparently crashing through the woods like a horde of zombies are after him. He might actually have a horde of zombies after him. Any more details, Cotton?"

I gulp down the pills and swipe my hand across my mouth. "His name's Cory. Yeah, he looks like me, but less muscular, he's really not a big guy. He'll probably be grinning like an idiot or running. He's wearing—" I stop to think about this one. My memory's pretty hazy. "Cargo shorts, white hoodie, and a baseball cap, although he might've lost that last one in the flood."

"Got it," Cody says, giving me a thumbs-up. "Don't worry, man, I'll start looking. And I'm prepared to rescue him from any zombies!"

"See ya, Cody," Tyler says, clapping him on the shoulder, which is a stretch. "Call if you find him or you need backup. The guy can't be that far away—you probably won't run into zombies, but never let your guard down, Cody, do you hear me?"

"I've been a tracker for forever!" Cody protests. "I don't just let my guard down!"

He flings the door open and salutes. "Take care of that head wound, Coby. Ty—don't die. See ya!"

"How long do I have to stay here?" I ask Tyler once Cody is gone. "You know, before you let me go look for Cory."

"Let's see how you're doing tomorrow," Tyler decides. "You seem less delirious already, but the dizziness might take a while to wear off. What did you hit your head on, anyway?"

"Tree branch," I grumble, probing the tender spot on my forehead. "No stitches, right?"

"Nope. But I wouldn't want to be you, man."

"I don't want to be me, either."

Tyler Toney seems to like clapping people on the shoulder, because he bestows on me a slap that provokes a jolt of pain, it's that hard. "There's a cot in the corner, dude. Get some sleep, it'll help. I'll check on you in a few hours."

"Deal. Thanks, man. You're the best."

"Hey, I know."

He leaves the tent, and I climb onto the cot, kicking my shoes off and lying on my stomach. It's nice to do it in something of a bed again, because a hammock is not ideal for my preferred sleeping position.

This inevitably gets me thinking about how Cory sleeps—scrunched up into a ball, legs drawn up and curled into the fetal position. Somehow it makes him seem even smaller and more vulnerable. Wherever he is, I hope he can at least sleep without a rock for a pillow.

I let my pounding head drop onto the pillow against my better judgement, and before I know it, for the third time in twenty-four hours, I'm dead to the world.