Journal of the Survivors

Chapter Fifteen--Kyra

Chapter Fifteen—Kyra

I stop writing, pencil still poised over paper.

“Are you reading over my shoulder?” I ask Trace.

From behind me he replies sarcastically, “No, I’m reading through your torso, moron.”

I close the book and swivel to face him. He’s wearing the grin, the eye crinkling, dimple revealing one.  I glare at him.

“So it’s all right for you to snoop into my stuff, but I can’t even peek at yours?” I retort, referring to his usual secretive behaviour, especially concerning his notebook. I couldn’t get within five feet of him without that pad being slammed shut or having him turn away and shield whatever he was doing. The object in question is being tucked under his leg, for safe keeping of course.

He raises one shoulder in a lazy shrug, not even mustering the energy to give me the full gesture. “Basically. No secrets are allowed around here, except for my own.” The sly smirk doesn’t waver.

The meaning behind his sentence sinks in and my temper just breaks. “Are you telling me you read this?! You read it, didn’t you?! When we were at your house and it went missing for a while! You had it!” I start to panic, remembering all of the embarrassing things I have written in my journal. It started off as a way of documenting what’s been happening, but recently it’s turned into a means of keeping me sane. My fists clench. “What did you read?!”

Trace holds his hands up defensively, ready to ward off any oncoming attack. “Yes, I had it for a while, but I didn’t read it. I thought about it, but decided against it,” he answers. My eyes narrow further. The thing is, you can never tell when Trace is lying or when he may be acting sarcastic. He delivers a lot of his speech in a neutral or light tone, one of those sweet voices that tempts you into believing whatever he wants you to believe. And for that reason, I don’t trust him.

"Do you enjoy being an ass or does it just come naturally?" I snap as I put on my socks and shoes again, wanting to get moving.

“I wonder that myself sometimes,” he murmurs.

I start to feel bad for my rude comment. I open my mouth to apologize, something I know that Dad would want me to do, but Trace slams his hand over top to cover it. I start to shove his hand away, ready to yell at him, but he silences me with a quick look. Branches start to shake from around us. Slowly and quietly, Trace stands. He grabs his swords and my bow and arrows, from a few feet beside us, his footsteps not making the slightest sound. We face the forest, side by side, ready for whatever it hides. A dozen zombies stumble out, pushing each other out of the way as they try to reach us first and claim us as their meal. While I’m able to fight, that’s never going to happen.

Trace uses one sword, slicing and dicing through the undead with ease. I turn and climb up on the rocks behind him, taking out others from my archers perch. I start to think that this is too easy, that Trace and I can take them, but then more zombies spill out from the trees, and from behind them even more.

“Jump over the stream,” Trace yells. I do as he says, jumping across the narrow waterway and turning back to cover him. Instead of retreating, he starts to move closer to the zombies. My heart starts racing. Does the guy have a death wish? 

“Trace! What the hell are you doing?” I screech as I try to take out more zombies that are closing in on him.

He steadily creeps forwards, not bothering to acknowledge my question.

“Get your suicidal British ass over here before I shoot it!”

He glances over his shoulder and toothily grins before suddenly dashing right in front of the nearest zombie.