What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER NINE

I don't care. He's still a dick face who compensates his small penis with his large gun.

"But I'm here now," Nate continues gently. "And we've got new friends."

This seems to cheer her up. She pulls away from him and shyly looks in my direction.

Nate gets to his feet. He's a giant in comparison to the little girl. "I'm going to take Charlotte to meet Robbie," he says. "Can you feed Dog in the mean time?"

Emmi nods, her head moving like a bobble head sitting on the dashboard of someone's car. "Okay," is all she says before she bounds away towards the tents, the fire, Dog in her arms. I have half a mind to follow and to take Dog back, but I have a feeling that won't go down well with Nate. Despite Dog being mine.

I watch Emmi as she goes, the shadows surrounding the camp threatening to swallow her up. And I can't stop staring, even when Nate clears his throat. It really is like seeing a ghost. There are so many similarities yet none at all. It might be the blonde hair more than anything, maybe the age.

Now it's my turn to clear my throat – and feel my heart break just a little more. "How old is she?"

"Seven. But she'll tell you seven and a half."

What I think to be a laugh escapes my throat. My vision blurs. I don't want to cry. Not in front of Nate.

I swipe my eyes with my sleeve and clear my throat again. I avert my gaze. I've survived the end of the world for seven years, and the sight of a little girl has unravelled me. Maybe it started when Nate chipped away at some of my walls and I couldn't put them back together properly. I feel like I'm losing my mind. Considering everything that's happened, I guess it's a fair assessment.

Fuck fuck fuck. If Nate wasn't around, I wouldn't just be mentally smacking my brain; I'd be physically smacking it against the nearest tree if I could. Sane sane sane.

I give my eyes one final swipe before I turn to Nate. "Lead the way," I say, my voice sounding like it's rubbing against sandpaper. "Or hold my hand, whichever."

Nate's smirk returns. "Whatever you'd prefer," he says mockingly. He steps aside and gestures for me to walk before him. Typical, but good. I don't want him to know I'd come this close to losing it.

Emmi sits on a fallen log in front of the fire, Dog on her lap, lapping up whatever's in her hand. His face is smushed against her palm, and he snuffles and snorts as he consumes the food. His little tail, hence his whole bottom, never stops moving.

"Are you ever going to tell me what you need my help for?" I ask as we move towards the tents. "Unless you brought me here under false pretence."

Nate chuckles as he moves around me to get in front. He pauses in front of an old and worse-for-wear tent, his hand on the flap to stop us from barging in. "If only," he says, but then he becomes serious, and it's like watching a curtain fall across his face. "You'll need to be quiet," he continues, lowering his voice. "I don't know if Robbie's awake."

Nate pulls back the tent flap, and gestures for me to enter. The little tent, which is nothing but dark green shadows inside, smells of death, of rot, of sweat and blood. Infection.

I gag against the smell, and my jacket sleeve provides little relief. It's a useless barrier against the stench, and it's not long before my vision blurs again, the horrible smell making my eyes water.

Nate ducks into the tent not long after, pushing me slightly so he can squeeze his frame inside.

"You left him like this?" I ask against my sleeve. Thankfully I haven't eaten much or else it would be making an appearance – everywhere, most likely on myself and the poor guy who doesn't even look to be conscious.

Nate crouches by Robbie – I'm assuming the shape lying before me is Robbie – and gently shakes his leg, in a move that wouldn't even get a fly off your arm. "He wasn't this bad when I left," he whispers, his voice almost lost against his own sleeve. "He was talking to me when I left."

Well, his health sure has deteriorated since he left, then. "I don't have any medicine," I say. Useless comment, considering Nate's already searched my pack.

"I know," he snaps. He rubs his free hand over his face, through his hair. "Fuck."

I ignore him. It takes a lot of energy – whatever I still have in my body – not to snap back at him, but I'm not going to do so in this tiny space. It wouldn't be fair to fight in front of this poor kid who smells like death.

I know Nate's desperate, and I know he's snapped because of what's in front of him, because of the situation he's tried so hard to fix. He left, knowing that Robbie was okay, and kept that last thought of him in his mind as he searched for help. Then, when he found me, he's come up trumps because I don't have what he's looking for. I've seen desperation, and this is it. He's running out of time and options.

Robbie doesn't stir. And this seems to make him more distressed, because his breathing shifts to something louder but more shallow, more laboured, like he's fighting to keep his airways free. Not that I have the best knowledge of the human body and how it works, but that's what it sounds like in this claustrophobic tent that includes me, Nate, Robbie, and Death.

Nate grabs the top of the sleeping bag and gently peels it back off Robbie. He pushes the material all the way down to Robbie's ankles, revealing the too-white legs of this kid, but most of all the horrible injury he sustained.

There's a hole right at the top of his thigh, just below his hip. To me it looks like a shotgun wound, but it may be the infection that's eaten away at his skin that's caused the hole to be that big. And that's the source of the stench, the smell that has attracted Death and who is waiting in the wings, waiting excitedly for this kid's heart to finally conk out.

The area around the hole is inflamed, a bright, puckered red, swollen in comparison to his skinny legs. Pus oozes from the injury, not so much blood.

I gag at the sight, but it's impossible to look away.

Nate's face is almost completely concealed by shadows, including his eyes – but I can tell his gaze is focussed on the injury, because I gather it wasn't as bad as this when he left in search of something that could potentially help him.

This is why you don't get attached to people. They become a liability. Your relationship with them clouds your judgment. The decisions you make aren't necessarily the best, though at the time they appear to be. Nate's obviously been saddled with this kid because of what happened, but I'm not sure if it was voluntary or involuntary. If it was me, I would've put the poor kid out of his misery, to save us all time and resources. With this injury, which is obviously septic, he's nothing more than a liability, someone who isn't worth keeping around. If the wound wasn't fatal before, it definitely is now.

I clear my throat. "What are you thinking?" It's probably not the best thing to ask, but it's probably the safest.

Nate climbs to his feet. He brushes past me on his way out of the tent, but pauses, a hand on the material. He inhales deeply, a steadying breath. "I need your bottle of alcohol," he says before disappearing outside.

Before I even have time to panic, of being alone in this tent with a dying kid, Nate returns. In his possession is my full bottle of alcohol, a bottle of water, and a rag. As he brushes past me – the tent obviously not built to accommodate three people – I have the sudden urge to touch him, to provide some kind of support, no matter how small. But I resist the urge.

Nate resumes his position on the ground by Robbie's feet. "Leave," he says.

And that's what I do.