What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Do I have a death wish? Man oh man does the guy in the black robes look appealing–

BAM. Black screen.

I wake with a start, all of my senses coming back to me like I've been submerged under water for too long and have finally broken the surface. I hear crickets, I hear chirping birds, I can smell smoke, I can smell meat. I see black and nothing but black, maybe some orange and red and yellow from the corner of my eye. I feel fabric, a little rough, a little soft, pressed against my cheek. My fingers twitch against the material, garnering some discomfort.

This is not the afterlife.

I don't make the same mistake all those years and lifetimes ago; I roll over but sit up at the same time. And completely misjudge the height of the roof. I hit my head and the resounding thump is so loud I'm surprised I'm not bleeding or seeing stars. The pain is brief and unnecessary.

The door opens, the one right by my feet, and Nate appears, his entire frame taking up the space before me, blocking everything outside.

His face is shrouded in shadow, so I can't make out his eyes or expression. But his rigid posture relaxes the longer he's here, the longer he sees me conscious.

"Thank fuck," he breathes, and then he grabs me and kisses me, hurried but gentle that actually renders my mind useless and confused. I didn't realise we were that close to one another, but now I do, as he cradles the back of my head with his hand, and the other cups my cheek. He breaks the kiss but presses his forehead to mine, his eyes closed, breathing quick. "I swear you were dead," he murmurs.

"I thought I was, too," I agree. "And I think I might've been ready. I don't know, every time I woke up I was in so much pain."

Nate kisses me again, effectively taking my breath away. "You were shot twice," he says, and he pulls away again. He strokes my cheek and the corner of my mouth with his thumb. "You were shot in the shoulder and in the back."

"I was shot in the back?" I ask. "Fuck." How does that work though? How am I sitting up right now? How is my spine not severed from the bullet? How am I even functioning? "That makes no sense."

"Considering you had a shitload of crap in your pack, it does," Nate says. Though the light may be dim, and the campfire is right behind him, I can see a faint spark in his eyes. "The Road saved your life."

"No fucking way."

"Yes fucking way," Nate says, and he smiles. "That book was the last thing between you and that bullet."

"No way."

Nate only nods.

"So–"

"The damage? Severe bruising in your back. You were shot in the shoulder. I stitched you up with the bullet inside to avoid infection."

I tear my eyes from his face and look at my shoulder. It's wrapped in bandages, clean, and oh so white. "Thank god there're no more metal detectors," I say. I don't know how I feel about the injury, or with Nate's decision to leave the bullet inside me. Would it move over time? Is it the entire bullet or is it a fragment?

"If you're worried about the bullet," Nate says, and I turn back to him, "then I'll remove it. But we don't have the right tools to sterilise it properly."

"Okay," I say finally.

Not the same as trust, but close enough in my books. I can't just throw my trust around to just anyone, even though Nate has probably saved my life.

I run a hand through my hair, suddenly very tired and overwhelmed. And my surroundings are not familiar in the least. "Where are we?" I ask. And how long have we been here? I don't ask.

"We're about half a day out of the settlement," Nate says.

"We made it to Colorado?" I ask.

Nate nods, patient. "Yeah. I couldn't afford to waste any more time getting to Emmi. I hijacked a patrol car, just as you said. And disabled the GPS, as you said."

I manage a smile, even though it's a small one. "You've been busy."

"Yeah. I had to do something."

"Wait – if we're in Colorado ..." I pause. "If we're in Colorado, how long have I been out? How long have we been here?"

"Today is eight days since you were shot," Nate says. "I've had the patrol car for about three."

"Eight days?" I repeat. I feel claustrophobic. Everything seems too close, all on top of me. I need to get out. I need to breathe.

I try scooting forward, but a twinge of pain shoots up my spine and I wince. Nate catches the movement and doesn't help in the least; he continues to block my way, his big body like a statue.

"Charli."

I swat his hand away, and in doing so I aggravate my shoulder. I wince again and suck a breath through my teeth. "Don't." He keeps trying to help me, but I don't want his help or his pity. I keep swatting his hands away. "Nate, seriously, I don't need your help."

"You do," Nate says. He touches my uninjured shoulder, but I brush him off. "Charli, you've been on your stomach for eight days. And you're damn well lucky that fucking bullet didn't go through your fucking back."

I don't care what he thinks or what he knows. I need to get out of this car, and I need to now. So I shove him back with the full reach of my arms. I accidentally knock my shoulder, and fire snakes down my arm to my fingers; pain shoots up and spreads from my shoulder to my neck and chest.

"Fuck." I bite back a moan and clutch my shoulder. I start to shake, my entire body trembling. My shaking fingers feel damp.

"Jesus, Charli." Nate doesn't stop or care this time. He scoops me up, pulls me from the vehicle and puts me on the ground by the fire. He only leaves me for a moment so he can grab his pack.

I spare a glance at my shoulder. Blood blooms from underneath the white – red – bandage. It soaks up the bandage like a sponge. I can't pry my hand away, and I don't want to. I know it'll hurt to do so.

"You are so fucking stubborn," Nate says as he sits next to me. He quickly changes positions so he kneels in front of me, practically on top of me, so he's in reach of my shoulder. "If you don't die of recklessness, it'll definitely be from stubbornness."

I don't have the heart to shove him. All my energy is leaching out through my shoulder. My back aches now as well, so I'm having a mighty fine party here. "Whatever," I say finally.

Nate's hands are steady and gentle as he pries my hand away, finger by finger, and undoes the knot that keeps the bandage in place; he slowly unravels it so as not to aggravate me further. I know he tries to close off to me, at least keep his expressions under control, but now and again I see brief moments of him, what he's truly feeling.

He's exhausted, for one. He has dark circles under his eyes, and he's unshaven. But it's the pain his eyes convey, even when he's focussed entirely on me and the task at hand. Whether it's to do with me being shot, or that we still haven't gotten Emmi back, it's hard to tell which it could be. Hell, it could be something else.

The bandage unravels to the end, where the last piece sticks to my wound because of the blood. Nate slowly pries it from my skin, and even the smallest bit of contact hurts like a bitch. I grit my teeth.

"If you'd let me help you–"

"Not now, Nathan," I say.

The bandage comes off completely, and blood seeps freely from my shoulder. Nate leans back on his heels and lifts his hands in surrender. "Just trying to help out," he says as he reaches for his needle and thread.

"Well, you can help by keeping your mouth shut."

"I'd like to say the same to you, but this is going to hurt."

And it did. Intensely. Like a motherfucking bitch.