To Be A Runner

Chapter 6: A Lost Child

A young girl trudges through the woods, grumbling and  complaining as a branch hits her face, making her hiss in pain. The dirt from it stings as it enters her eyes. Her filth stained skin looks even worse as her own blood trickles down her face from the scratch that's just been created. She can't imagine what she must look like.

The thirteen-year old lazily wipes
a bead of sweat from her brow with one hand, careful not to touch her bleeding scratch. The other hand holds an old rusty knife; It's color matches her hand now, a gray-red as it's caked with dried, crusted zombie blood. She found it not too long ago and has yet to put it away. She'd rather not use what's left of her bullets unless necessary, which is exactly why her pistol is strapped nice and snug on her hip.

Pushing those thoughts away she continues on, until she hears a groan-a human one-from behind her. She turns and looks at the older boy she's been traveling with these past three days. His face is scrunched up in pain. His hand is gripping the wound on his shoulder, while the blood soaked bandages do little to hide what's underneath.

"It's getting worse," He groans, but the girl ignores him.

"Shut up. You'll be fine," She spats, since she knows showing sympathy will only make it worse, because of what he'll say.

"So you keep saying," He mutters, and the girl refuses to meet his gaze. She can't look him in the eyes, or else she'll start to doubt the words that just came out of her mouth.

"It's only a day's walk 'till we get to the base. Less than that if we can run."

It was a stupid thing to say. Even the thought of her friend running is laughable. With the fever that keeps coming and going, he can barely shuffle along, barely keep at a pace to stay out of the clutches of the undead. Running would be impossible.

"I'll be gone within a day," The boy says, but the girl continues walking. "You know it. You know I'm right."

"Come on. You're wasting time," She responds, trying to stop the nagging in her head that repeats over and over again.

"You can't save me-"

"I said, 'shut up', Wes!" The girl screams, twirling on her heel to face him. Her brows knit together in a glare as blinks away tears and tries to regain her composure. "You're-you're going to be fine."

"It's infected," Wes deadpans, but the girl doesn't say a word. Instead she turns back towards the way of the bad and starts walking again.

"Runner Forty-three," He calls.

She stays silent.

"Runner Forty-three."

Nothing.

Wes sighs, and the girl pauses mid step when she hears her name leave his lips in a broken plea. Runner Forty-three, closing her eyes, shakily lets out a breath as she turns to face him. She knows what he's silently asking-begging-her to do. Why he would ask such a thing from her is a mystery. It kills her to even think about it.

"I can't," She nearly sobs, but after a year of seeing death after death she's learned how to keep her voice somewhat steady.

Wes looks at her pleadingly, his eyes shining, but not with happiness.  His voice is a desperate sound as the wound begins to bleed again, blood soaking through the crappy bandages and running down his arm. "Please."

A sob escapes from her mouth before she has time to stop it, and for the first time since this God-forsaken mission started she's glad her coms went out. "I don't want to."