Cory Cotton

Woods of Wasting

April 15, 2032

1453 Hours

The woods flash past as I swing myself through them, the rain lashing against my face. My arms are burning from moving so quickly, but I can't stop. If I stop, the undead will catch up to me, and Sparky and Garrett might leave me behind.

No, they won't. There's no way. Right?

Gritting my teeth against the fire in my muscles, I keep going. Crutches up, foot down, slam, swing, repeat. I hope I'm at least leaving really cool footprints.

"They're still on our tail!" Sparky wails, glancing back over his shoulder. "We've gotta—gah!"

He skids out of sight, and I realize what's happening about a second too late. I stop swinging, skidding to a halt right on the edge of a steep slope, but Garrett of course plows into me from behind, and then it's all downhill from there.

The world blurs as I tumble down the hill, bouncing uncontrollably, losing my grip on both my crutches. Sparky is yelling from somewhere below me, and Garrett…I have no idea what's happened to Garrett. All I know is that I can't stop falling and I may have lost my hat.

I roll over a grassy outcropping, then I'm airborne, sailing maybe six feet before crashing down, landing painfully on my front. Approximately half a second later, all one hundred and eighty pounds of Garrett land squarely on my back, driving all the breath from my lungs.

"Gar!" I wheeze, stars swirling in my vision. "Get off!"

He rolls off me with a groan, and I lay there on my stomach, squeezing my eyes shut and struggling to breathe. I hate being winded. I hate it. When are my lungs going to start working again?

This time, the paralysis wears off more quickly, and I raise my head, breathing shakily as I open my eyes. I'm fine. I'm okay—wet, yes, and a little sore, and going to have to find my crutches, but okay.

I prop myself up on my elbows, shaking my head to get the water out of my hair, and blink through the rain. I have indeed lost my hat, and my hair drapes over my forehead in a dark, wet curtain. My chin is bleeding, but not badly—thankfully, it seems to be the worst injury I've sustained. I can feel all my limbs, and nothing seems broken.

"You guys okay?" I ask, glancing over at Garrett and Sparky. The former is sitting up, spluttering and spitting out mud, while the latter is limp on the ground, his eyelashes fluttering.

"I'm fine, kid," Garrett reassures me. "Spark? You alive?"

"No," Sparky groans. "Everything's spinning."

I crawl over to him and study his muddy face, wincing at the sight of the enormous goose egg swelling up on his forehead. "That looks bad, Sparky. Hang on, I'll get the chickweed."

Upon further review, it appears that everything I had on me has fallen off on the hill. I enlist Garrett to retrieve my crutches from near the top and take it upon myself to grab my bow, my hat, and my satchel of leaves. Miraculously, none of these items are ruined, although I don't know whether my hoodie and cap are ever going to be white again.

"Don't put any plants on my face," Sparky begs as I scoot back over to him, already shoving a handful of chickweed into my mouth.

"I'm trying to fix your head," I insist, chewing rapidly. "Gar, could you give him a concussion test?"

"Sure thing."

Garrett waves a finger in front of Sparky's face, testing for double vision, and shines a light in his eyes to check his pupil dilation. I don't know how Garrett knows, exactly, but apparently, a concussion is a very real possibility. This is awesome.

Once I've bound the chewed-up leaves to Sparky's forehead and stuck a Band-Aid on my chin, we sit in a triangle on the forest floor, trying to decide what to do. The zombies haven't caught up to us, but we're still several miles out from the city, and Garrett doesn't think Sparky's going to be able to go much farther today. I won't admit it, but I don't think I can, either—if I have to keep swinging, my arms are going to fall off.

"Let's set up camp here," Garrett decides, swiping at a streak of mud on his cheek. "Do you have enough plants for a salad, kid?"

"Totally." I flip open the top of my satchel and pull out several handfuls of leaves, dumping half of them into Garrett's palm and half into Sparky's. "Enjoy!"

Both Garrett and Sparky eye the leaves distrustfully, but they're clearly starving from the long run, and before long, they've eaten half the chickweed in my satchel. I go through the rest of it, selecting the least crushed leaves—I definitely squished a lot of them on the way down the hill—and sticking them in my mouth. I don't get what Sparky has against this stuff.

After I finish my snack, I lay down in the grass, hands folded over my stomach as I look up at the rain. I wonder if Coby is somewhere out of the elements, or if he's trudging through them looking for me. Knowing him, it's probably the latter. My twin always told me that if I got lost, I should stay where I was and he'd come find me, so that's likely what he's doing now. I feel a pang of guilt for not staying in camp, but in my defense, there were a lot of zombies. What was I supposed to do?

I could stay here, I guess, but we have to do the supply run. How is Coby ever going to find me in the city? More importantly, how am I ever going to cope in that place? I haven't told Garrett and Sparky about everything that happened there, but I'm pretty sure they'll find out soon.

I can't go back there. I just can't. There's no way I'm going back to the place that the undead overran, forcing my family out into the woods. I can't take the risk of seeing them, their broken, bleeding bodies near the crumpled ATV. I can't go anywhere near Woodlands without becoming my eleven-year-old self, the one limping through the woods and clutching my broken wrist to my chest while I wailed for Coby, for my parents, for anyone in the whole world besides the undead…

My hands are trembling. I struggle to take deep breaths, willing myself to calm down. Closing my eyes, I let the rain trickle down my face, the soft pattering droplets soothing my rapid thoughts, which are bouncing around so quickly I'm starting to get a headache. Breathe, Cory. Smell the rain.

I start to drift off, strangely comfortable in the long grass. Coby always says I can sleep anywhere, and it's true. I love sleeping. Sleeping's my favorite. I could really go for a nap right about now…

It's dark.

I'm standing in a clearing, surrounded by trees and zombies, holding my bow in shaking hands. The undead's eyes glow white in the dim light, and I feel a shiver run up my spine, which is pressed to someone else's back. I hear fast, shallow breathing and realize it's Coby.

Suddenly, a zombie crashes sideways into us, and Coby gasps, breaking away from me. I stumble, my ankle nearly buckling. Why don't I have my crutches? Where are Garrett and Sparky?

"More zombies!" bellows a voice I don't recognize. "C'mon, boys, we have to get outta here!"

I'm running blind, limping as quickly as I can across the grass. Everything is a blur, and I'm shooting into the darkness, trying to keep the undead at bay, but they just keep coming…

And then a massive weight slams into me from behind, and I fall forward, slamming into the ground. Hot breath hits the back of my neck, and I struggle to throw the zombie off—because I'm pretty sure that's what it is, based on the rank scent of death.

I'm thrashing, trying to roll over and punch the zombie, but I'm too small—it's pinned me down, and I can feel my ribs creaking under the sheer weight of it. Hordes of the undead swarm around me, and I hear Coby screaming my name as the zombie grabs the side of my head, shoving my face into the ground.

This is it. It's over.

A flash of white teeth, a howl of anguish—is that me?—and an agonizing stab in my shoulder.

"Cobes," I gasp as my vision goes dark. "Leave without me!"

I go limp as the undead swarm me, and I don't even have time to scream before the light fades.

I open my eyes, blinking in the pale gray light. Somehow, I feel worse than when I went to sleep—my whole body is damp and sticky, and my head is pounding for no particular reason. Rolling onto my side, I drag my hands down my face, wiping away streaks of mud, and then press my fingers to my temples, wincing as I try to alleviate the ache by rubbing the skin in circles.

"Hey, guys," I mumble as I sit up, still sleepy. "How long was I out?"

A low groan answers me, and I glance over to see Garrett curled into a ball, his arms wrapped around his middle, and Sparky in a similar position.

"What's wrong?" I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"I think you poisoned us, kid," Garrett groans.

"There's no way I…" I trail off. Did I pick any plants that would hurt them? I don't think so—I don't make that kind of mistake, not with plants anyway, and besides, I ate the same thing and I don't feel sick at all.

The answer comes to me, and I slap a palm to my forehead, sighing in exasperation. "Oh my gosh, you guys, I'm sorry. I forgot chickweed makes you really nauseous if you eat too much."

"Why aren't you dying, then?" Sparky moans, seeming much less dazed as he glares at me.

"I guess it's because I've been eating it for so long," I say apologetically. "It doesn't affect me anymore. Seriously, though, don't worry! I've got some marigold—that'll fix it."

I rummage through the bag for the bright yellow flowers—my favorites, personally—and fish several out, handing them to my companions and mentally kicking myself. How could I have forgotten the side effects of chickweed? It's only been, like, five years since it did anything to me and Coby.

"I'm gonna go throw up," Sparky announces, and he stands up, staggering into the trees. I cringe at the splattering sound that follows, trying to keep my own stomach from lurching. It's never been strong, and other people puking near me does not do me any favors.

Garrett looks rather pale as he stands. "Be back in a second, kid."

He goes off to join Sparky, and I close my eyes, feeling suddenly queasy and a little lightheaded. Then, of course, Sparky has to exclaim, "Look, Gar, it's all chunky!" and I immediately hunch over the grass, throwing up most of the leaves I ate. Why does my digestive tract have to be the consistency of tissue paper?

When I've gotten everything out of my system and graduated to dry heaving, I collapse back onto my side, wiping my sweaty forehead and trying not to think about the pie from earlier. Retrieving another marigold from my satchel, I pull out the center and set it on my tongue, chewing slowly to calm my churning stomach. Couldn't Sparky and Garrett have gone farther away?

"You guys were too close," I groan as my companions come back into the clearing. "Y'all made me throw up."

"I thought you said the plant didn't do anything to you," Sparky says, flopping back down with a hand over his eyes.

"It doesn't. But the sound of you two puking your guts out does."

"Well, excuse me for puking my guts out," Garrett says. "Would've helped if someone had told me that chickweed makes your stomach feel like it's going to explode."

"I forgot, okay?" I grumble, not wanting to deal with an angry man today. I'm sore all over, still kind of nauseous, and just totally worn out. Not to mention that I have a splitting headache for literally no reason at all. Why can't I catch a break?

"Hey, don't be mad, Gar," Sparky says genially. "Kid's doing his best. Plus, he looks exhausted. So do you, actually. Let's rest for a little bit, okay? I think that's what we need right now."

Garrett sighs. "Fine. Never mind that we were all conked out for an hour earlier."

I close my eyes, the grass soft against my cheek as I lay curled in the fetal position. Why am I so tired? And what's with the headache?

After a few minutes of laying there, I hear Sparky whispering. "Look at him, Gar. Poor little guy's totally shot."

A heavy sigh. "I know. I didn't mean to push him so hard. It's just—he's already slowing us down, Spark. I don't know what to do with the kid. He's a total liability."

"We shouldn't call him that." Sparky's voice is still low, as if he senses that I might still be awake. "I mean, he knows a lot about plants, and you have to admit that he's a lot faster than we thought he'd be on crutches."

"Yeah," says Garrett, "but he can't remember the most important things, and we're not going to get very far if he insists on sleeping at every opportunity."

"C'mon, Gar, Cory's exhausted," Sparky insists. "We all are, it's not just the kid. Why do you want to get rid of him so bad?"

Garrett sighs again. "I just want life to be normal again. Everything was so…so much easier when the kid wasn't around. Now we're out in the woods, and it's wet, and we just got poisoned, and you probably have a concussion, and this just seems like less of an upgrade than I'd hoped."

Sparky is silent for a moment. "This is pretty terrible."

"I just want this over with," Garrett says. "I mean, we could go without him. He'll just sleep through it anyway."

"We can't just leave the kid in the woods!"

"We could. Probably should. Might be for the best."

If Sparky says anything in response to that, I don't hear it. I'm trying too hard not to cry.

I shouldn't cry at this point, since I'm used to this kind of thing. For the last six years, everyone has told me that I'm too small, too weak, too loud and clumsy and hapless to be a part of anything important. Coby is the only one that's never done that—but I know he feels the same way, even though he's too nice to say it to my face. He won't let me go anywhere or do anything by myself, worried I'll screw up. And he's right. Garrett's right. They're all right.

A rustling sound draws my attention. "I'm gonna go for a walk, Spark. Try and rest, it might help your headache."

"Sounds good. See you soon."

Once Garrett's footsteps have faded and I hear Sparky stretching out on the ground, I deem it safe to roll over and do so, my lip trembling. My ribs are starting to hurt with the strain of forcing myself not to cry, and I can't deal with any more pain.

So I silently let the tears out, wrapping my arms around my midsection in an attempt to comfort myself, and the sky cries with me as the rain pours down.