The Plague {One Direction AU}

9. Harry

Bernalillo, NM
December 18

Harry winced as he pushed his long hair out of his face. His whole body hurt, especially his head, a deep thudding ache. He rested his hands on top of his head for several moments, his eyes closed against the blinding winter light. A wave of dizziness swept over him. Fuck. He probably had a concussion. Again.

"Um," a rugged voice interrupted his thoughts. He regarded the person in front of him; she looked like a trucker. Or a lumberjack. She wore a dark red and green flannel shirt over an old movie t-shirt, her jeans hung loosely from her narrow hips, and her dark curly hair was pulled into a sloppy ponytail at the base of her head. The faint blush on her warm brown cheeks was actually rather lovely. A cute lumberjack trucker. "Your arm..." Her deep voice trailed off again.

He looked down. The cuff of his gray sweater was torn and frayed, and blood was slowly seeping into the fabric. His jeans were in even worse shape. The right leg was nearly torn all the way off at the knee. And his leg under that was caked with quickly drying blood and bits of gravel. Harry peeled the sweater away from his body and off, tossing it to the ground in front of him. The cold air snuck in under his thin t-shirt, and though he could feel it stinging his skin, he didn't feel cold. In fact, he was sweating. "Thanks," he murmured as she dabbed at his forearm with a damp towel, wiping away the dirt and grit and blood.

She pasted a large swath of cotton gauze to his arm with thick tape, her dark rough fingers smoothing the tape gently to his tattooed skin. The woman shrugged. "Sure." Like it was no big deal. Like it was no big deal to help him. Like it was no big deal to pour water from her supply over his battered knee and calf.

But it was a big deal. Harry had witnessed people shoving each other out of the way, trampling one another under foot, killing others for a scrap of food. At the end of the world, humanity showed its true colors: a disturbing muddy mix of selfish indifference and opportunistic violence.

He was glad to see there was still some good left in the world.

"I have some extra jeans," she offered, sticking the last bandage on his leg. "And a jacket," she added standing up to face him.

Harry nodded, "thanks."

She reached past him into the cargo area of her SUV and dug around in a duffle bag, retrieving the clothes. "I can probably fix your bike." He snapped his gaze to her. That bike had been his father's. It meant more to him than his legs. She handed him the jeans, a Harvard sweatshirt, and a denim jacket, then rested her hands on her hips. "I just need to see a diagram."

"Uh," Harry didn't know what to say. So he said the only thing that came to mind. Again. "Thanks."

The woman walked away from him, back toward where his bike was laying on the ground. He watched her over his shoulder; he didn't really know why, but he couldn't break his gaze. She circled the motorcycle, tipping her head to one side, then the other, wisps of that curly dark hair falling in her face. Harry turned back, kicked his boots off his feet, and pulled his tight black jeans off his hips. At the knees, his left leg got held up. His skinny jeans were always a running joke in his family. How can you walk? Don't you want to have children someday? Muffin top! For the first time, he regretted his fashion choice. His body was so sore, he couldn't easily bend down to peel the jeans all the way off. He grunted and groaned, aching as he tried to free himself.

His heart stuttered as a dog sitting on the pavement in front of him bared its teeth and approached him.

"Hey!" He shouted, trying to retreat. The dog sank its teeth into the fabric and pulled. Harry scooted back up into the truck, cradling his injured and now-bare legs to his body. The dog dropped the torn jeans and sat down, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.