Cory Cotton
Woods of Wasting
April 16, 2032
1214 Hours
It's raining again. It stopped for a little bit earlier, but now it's back, and it feels like the sky cries every time I do. The rain hides decaying gray bodies in a shroud of mist, and it's not until they're right on top of us that anyone thinks to shoot. The world is misery and suspense and gray.
"We can't keep going like this," Cody pants, and I feel a twinge of guilt. I'm probably tiring him out, what with clinging to his back like a baby koala and crying on and off into his shoulder. But Tyler has my crutches, and there isn't really another option.
I still can't believe Sparky is gone. Not dead—I'm trying to force myself to believe that. He can't be dead. He's just…gone. Yeah, he fell into the river, but Coby and I just survived a flash flood. Sparky can handle a river, and I don't think he was bitten by any zombies. Probably. Maybe.
Garrett could be alive, too. Maybe he fought off the rest of the zombies and escaped Bass Pro Shops a different way. Maybe he managed to run right past them, jumping over the fallen bags of trail mix.
Maybe.
I hate schedules, I hate rules, I hate order of most kinds. But this much disarray, this much uncertainty…it scares me, not knowing what's happened to my friends. It's like I stepped blindly off a cliff and plummeted into the dark, hitting the occasional ledge of clarity on the way down. Eventually, though, I'm going to know what happened to them, and I'll hit the bottom.
"Where are we even trying to go?" Cody continues. "I think we're lost, personally. There's gotta be something we can do."
"You got any ideas, Jonesy?" Tyler asks, a hard, exhausted edge to his voice. "There are still zombies after us, we're dropping like flies, and my one consolation is that it's pouring buckets. Not to mention that Cotton over here won't talk and my knee is killing me. So if you've got some master plan for how to get us out of this, you'd better spill it now or shut up."
"I was thinking," Cody snaps, "about the fact that my family owned a helicopter. Hey, if you don't wanna use it, that's fine."
Tyler's eyebrows shoot up. "We don't even know where the thing is at this point! Anyone could've used it to fly outta here. Not to mention that we don't even know where we are!"
"I could go find it," Cody protests. "C'mon, Ty, this isn't working. Look at Cory, he's half dead over here, and you don't look any better. I'm gonna go find that helicopter."
Tyler sighs, and some of the fight drains out of his eyes. "Sorry, Codes, I'm just…totally exhausted. How fast do you think you can get to the heli?"
Cody thinks for a moment. "Shouldn't take me more than a couple hours. I've just gotta figure out a way to get to the Woodlands outpost."
"Why aren't we all just going?" I ask, lifting my head from where it rests on Cody's shoulder.
"Too many people, kid," Tyler says. "We attract a lot more zombies if we all go together. I'll give you back your crutches, and we'll try and make it to a spot where the heli can land."
Cody gently sets me down, and I look up at the tall guy as I shift my weight onto my good ankle. My voice catches in my throat, but I manage to whisper, "Thanks, man."
He grins and reaches out, grabbing my hand and pulling me into a swift hug. "Course, kid. Don't forget to smile."
Cody goes to hug Coby next, and my twin seems on the verge of tears after he retreats from the embrace. Tyler passes me my crutches, and I prop them under my arms as he hugs his friend goodbye, a look of fierce nervousness in his gaze. "Don't die, Codes. Come back fast."
"I'll try," Cody reassures him. "Never let you down yet."
He shrugs off the emergency backpack and hands it to Tyler, then turns and takes off into the woods. I stand in the long, wet grass, watching him go, rain trickling down the outside of my safety goggles.
"Let's go," Tyler says after a moment. "You're gonna have to help me, Cotton, that jump didn't do any favors for my knee."
Coby doesn't move. He's just standing there, staring into the woods. I swing myself over and put a hand on his shoulder, whispering, "What's wrong, Cobes?"
My twin doesn't answer, gaze fixed steadfastly ahead. I press a little closer, recognizing the frozen stance, the emotions he won't let break free. Coby's hurting, and it's not always my job to force the reason out of him. Sometimes he just needs time.
"You've gotta help Ty," I say softly. "You don't have to talk, Cobes, I promise, but he can't walk on his own. Can you try?"
"Yeah," Coby mumbles, his voice little more than a breath. "Sorry."
He walks listlessly over to Tyler, and we set off through the woods, silent and downcast. The tips of my crutches sinking into the earth provide the only sound besides the pattering of the rain.
The world feels so big. So wide and wet and full of tears. Tears that the sky cries whenever someone is lost.
My heart twinges as I think of Garrett, trapped in Bass Pro Shops, having made peace with his fate. He knew he wasn't going to make it out, and he was okay with that.
But at least he had a choice. Sparky wasn't prepared, didn't know what was coming. It was all so fast, a million different paths diverging in a split second, and the broken one, the one that ended in losing him, won.
Coby considers all the paths, and I can see him breaking, believing he didn't choose the right one, didn't foresee the pain everyone was about to go through. My twin blames himself; that much is obvious. And I see how much Coby suffers when he blames himself. I saw it six years ago, and I see it now. I don't want to have to pull him back from the edge again.
Here we are, hurting, soaked, exhausted, breaking, trudging through the woods in a daze of grief and pain, and all I can think about is how much I wish we were home.
I'm curled on my side in the long grass, bright yellow gaiter pulled up over my nose and ears. It's dark and wet, but Coby's body is warm next to mine—warmer than it should be, actually, and he's shaking. I wonder if he has a fever.
A tear snakes its way down my cheek, dripping into the soaked grass, and I squeeze my eyes shut. There's an ache in my chest that won't go away, and I don't know if it's my grief or Coby's.
Please, I say silently. Let my brother be okay. Let him know it's not his fault.
I dream.
Gray light and dust motes, crashing racks in an abandoned cavern of wood. Garrett is standing next to me, and something small lands in my hands…
"Don't let that break!"
It's important. I know that. How did I forget?
A sharp, stabbing pain in my shoulder, a thousand tears sobbed over me, and a warm light…
I'm fumbling in my pocket, half in and half out of sleep, because all I know is that I have to get to that object. I come fully awake as my fingers close around the small, paper-wrapped bundle, and I squint through the dark at it. It's about the length of my hand and very slender, though its shape is concealed by the paper. I fish a flashlight out of Cody's emergency backpack, clicking it on and trying not to wake Coby and Tyler up.
Hands trembling, I peel the little bundle open.
A syringe, filled with pale green liquid and capped to prevent spilling, falls into my hand. On the paper, in very neat, blocky handwriting, is a note, and I quickly scan it, my eyes widening as I read.
Cory—
I'm giving this to you because I don't trust Sparky with it. I know what's going to happen tomorrow. Chances are, if you're reading this, I'm already undead.
Sparky's going to want to save me with this. Please don't let him. He'll only put himself in danger, and it needs to be used later. Don't ask me how I know. I just do.
Still, let me explain.
It was right after I told Sparky we should leave you behind. I thought that would make it easier for both you and Sparky to leave me later, but I'm truly sorry. After you fell asleep, I went into Woodlands and raided a pharmacy. They had what I needed—vancomycin. I don't expect you to know what that is, but I thought I'd better write it down.
Turns out the wasting disease is a highly contagious form of sepsis, somehow comparable to leprosy. It causes inflammation and necrosis, eventually leading to mass tissue death and loss of consciousness. I've been working for six years to find a cure. I suspected I needed vancomycin, but something was missing. I had no idea how to complete my cure.
It was you who gave me the answer, Cory.
Chickweed, which reduces inflammation, was the missing piece to the vaccine. I infused the vancomycin with it, stayed up all night waiting for it to be ready. I tested it on a zombie, who promptly collapsed. I thought I'd killed it for good, but after a few minutes, it sat up, and its skin was a normal color again. His name is Chad, in case you were wondering.
I have you to thank for the vaccine. If you can get this paper to the authorities, I can die a happy man.
But only the paper. I think you're going to need the syringe. Choose wisely.
I'm proud of you, Cory, I really am. You're strong, kid, I know that for a fact. I'm sorry I wasn't better for you. I'm sorry we only had three days together. Try and take care of Sparky, he's going to be heartbroken, but you guys will be fine. I hope both your lives are everything they should be.
Gonna miss you, kid.
And if I'm not actually dead yet…hey, come find me.
—Garrett
Tears are dripping onto the paper, and I wipe my face, not wanting to make the ink run. I can't believe this. Garrett—stoic, brilliant, protective Garrett—actually invented a cure for the zombies. We can bring them back. Undeath doesn't have to be the end.
Underneath the note is a recipe, a list of ingredients needed to create the vaccine. I don't know what half of them are, but it doesn't matter. Everything's going to be okay.
I look down at the syringe, resting on my palm, and suddenly, I'm struck by the thought that this would be better in Coby's hands. He's the one dumping all the blame onto himself. He should be the one who decides who we get to save.
So I take a pen out of the backpack, put it to the paper, and start writing.