My eyes flutter open when I feel rough hands grabbing my shoulder. I let out a cry as my cut arm is jostled, and I try desperately to bring myself to full consciousness with a series of stern mental slaps.
I feel those same hands shaking me. At first, I can't understand what's happening. The backpack strap comes free of my shoulder, and I finally manage to see my attacker. Fear runs cold down my spine at what I see. I consider pretending to be dead in hopes that he'll leave me alone, but the guy is stealing my backpack, and I just risked my life for this stuff.
"Hey!" I yell, struggling to sit up as the guy keeps pulling on my backpack, trying to get it off my body.
"What do you need it for? You'll be dead soon," the guy huffs callously.
I go ice cold at his words. He's going to kill me. Suddenly, the contents of my backpack don't seem worth dying over.
"Please don't kill me." I know I sound pathetic and whimpery, but apparently that's what facing a homicidal maniac will do to a person. "You can take the backpack...just please, let me go." I know I'm too weak to even try fighting back. I just hope that he'll take pity on me.
"I won't kill ya. Not till you turn anyway, don't worry," the guy says, almost kindly.
I'm confused. "What?" I ask.
The guy looks at me like he thinks I'm a huge pain in the ass. "You got bit," he clarifies.
Fear strikes my heart as I frantically start searching my body for a bite that I apparently didn't even feel in my adrenaline-infused state.
I don't see or feel anything. Though, it's really hard to feel anything other than the massive, throbbing pain in my arm. I look up to see the guy staring at me like I'm crazy.
"Yer arm," he says, pointing.
An immense feeling of relief rushes through my body. "I didn't get bit. I cut my arm on some glass while I was escaping from that building." I point towards the pharmacy where the broken window is visible.
"You climbed out of there?" the guy asks.
I nod my head. "More like fell on my face," I mutter darkly.
The guy actually looks impressed. "Damn girl," he says. It's the first time I notice his pronounced southern drawl.
"Are you still going to steal my backpack?" I ask, since he isn't pulling at it anymore. The guy looks like he's seriously considering it, and I regret my smart mouth for a minute.
"I guess I'll wait to see if you're lying about that bite first," he decides, and relief floods through me.
"You'd better come in and get that arm looked at," he says after a minute of standing there, staring down at me sprawled out on the ground.
I nod and try to stand up, but I'm weak from the blood loss and I end up almost falling off the ledge of the fire escape.
The guy catches me and holds me steady while I start to limp along. "This is going to take all day," he complains before sweeping me up in his arms and carrying me towards the window. It's actually a pretty big window, so we both fit. He only has to stoop down a bit as he carries me inside.
He takes me over to a hideous, floral print couch and gently sets me down. Then, he stands over me, scratching his head. "I'm not really sure what I have that will help you," he admits.
"I have a first aid kit in my backpack," I tell him, finally willing to share the contents with him, since he's going to help me.
He takes my backpack off, this time much gentler than before. He's even more careful when he gets to my blood-soaked arm. "I think we're gonna have to cut this sweater off," he predicts after carefully examining my arm.
I nod, "Do it." I don't care about it.
I'm a little disturbed when the guy pulls an enormous knife from his belt and starts sawing away at the fabric. "Is there zombie blood on that?" I question, horrified that he's going to accidentally infect me.
"I cleaned it," he grunts back at me, never once taking his eyes from his precision work on my arm. He slices a smooth, clean line up my arm, splitting the sleeve until it falls away to reveal the true carnage.
I feel sick and look away. A long, deep gash is running up my forearm. It's still oozing blood every time my heart pumps and, worst of all, there is a huge, jagged chunk of glass that went right through the shirt, still imbedded in my skin.
"Oh my God," I manage to get out around the urge to vomit.
"It's alright," the guy says calmly as he cuts off the rest of my sweater, revealing the army issue t-shirt underneath. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't ask me if I'm military. I guess it's glaringly obvious that I'm not. He cuts my sweater into long strips and makes a tourniquet of sorts that he ties above my elbow to help stop the blood flow.
"I've seen worse," he assures me, though I am far from feeling reassured.
"Are you a doctor or something?" I ask to take my mind off my arm. Though, I end up feeling worse when the guy lets out a sudden laugh.
"What do you think I am Doogie Howser?" He laughs so hard that he has to take a step away from my arm. "I aint no boy wonder doctor. Hell, I'm only eighteen."
I stare as if I'm seeing him for the first time. He isn't a man like I had thought at first, and now I see it. He's a tall, lanky kid like me. His eyes are the reason I thought he was older. They look like they've seen far more than any teenager should. I suppose if I ever see a mirror again, mine might look the same.
"I learned first aid from hunting in the bush with my Dad," he continues as if I hadn't just spaced out from the conversation.
"What's your name?" I ask, and he gives me a funny look like I'm crazy for thinking about that when I have an eight-inch shard of glass in my arm. I watch him take an all-purpose tool off of his belt and unfold it to reveal a pair of steel pliers. He looks me right in the eye, and I stare back at him unblinking. I don't like what I think he's going to use those pliers for.
"My name is Silas. Silas. J. Raighney," he says. At the same time, he uses the pliers to reef the glass out of my arm.
I let out a God awful scream, like someone is skinning me alive. I try to yank my arm away from him, but he's got it wrapped tightly in my sweater to stem the blood flow and holds onto it like a pit bull with a bone. Tears are running down my cheeks, and several minutes pass before my brain is functioning enough to even form words again.
"What the hell!" I yell at him, and he infuriates me by shrugging his shoulders like he didn't just maim me.
"Had to be done."
I am really resisting the urge to punch him in the face with my good hand, not that it would likely even hurt him.
"How about a little notice next time?" I demand, and the guy, Silas, shakes his head.
"I'd probably do it the same if I had to do it again," he says in his infuriating way that I am really beginning to resent.
"What's your name?" he surprises me by asking.
For a minute, I want to refuse to tell him, but that would be childish. "Jane," I say.
He shrugs, "That's nice enough."
My head is spinning. This guy is so off the wall.
"What are you going to do now, bandage it up?" I ask finally, curiosity overcoming my need to pout.
"It's gonna need stitches," Silas says in his deep southern drawl. My heart starts pounding. I've never had stitches in my life, and I don't want them now in the middle of a zombie infestation.
"I...I think a bandage will be fine," I argue, and he gives me an annoyed look.
"Suit yourself," Silas agrees, not bothering to argue with me like I thought he would. He just gets up and walks away. I'm kind of surprised. This guy is the polar opposite of Ryan. If Ryan thought I needed stitches, he would probably hold me down to give them to me, or sweet talk me into it somehow. My heart aches as badly as my arm when I think about Ryan. I hope to God he made it out.
I turn my attention back to my arm to try and take my mind off Ryan. I need to go back and find him, but I need to deal with my injury first, or I will be no good to either one of us.
I gently peel back the sweater to take a look and grimace at the fresh tsunami of blood that rushes out from my torn, jagged skin. With shaking fingers, I reach for the bandages in my bag and slap several gauze pads over the wound. I attempt to tape them, but it bleeds through before I even get the tape wrapped around my forearm. There is so much blood that the tape won't even stick.
I know now that Silas was right, and I hope that he's still willing to help me.
"Silas," I call out, trying hard to keep the panic from my voice. Thankfully, he comes right away and doesn't make me beg for his help. I stare up at him as he comes around the corner with a bottle of vodka in his hand.
"I thought you were going to bleed out before you came to your senses," is all he says as he pulls the coffee table closer and uses it as a chair to sit on. He hands me the vodka, and I dumbly accept it with my good hand.
"What's this for?" I ask, pretty sure that he doesn't really mean for me to drink it.
"I'm about to give you stitches, with no anesthesia. It's going to hurt like the dickens, drink up."
I stare at him to see if he's kidding, but his face doesn't even crack a smile.
I set the bottle on the table and shake my head, "I'll be fine."
He looks at me for a minute before shrugging his shoulders again. "Suit yourself," is all he says, and I'm suddenly afraid that this is another one of his hard-learned lessons.
I watch him pull one of the first aid kits from my backpack, and I'm surprised that there's a needle and thread in there. I watch as he carefully threads the hooked needle, and I start regretting turning down that drink.
Silas grabs the bottle of vodka and takes a long drink before splashing some vodka on the needle. "Kills the germs," he says before I can ask him why he did it. Next, he carefully unwinds the sweater and tightens another strip of fabric above the cut.
I'm not at all prepared for what he does next. I'm watching the needle and don't notice when he pours a liberal amount of vodka over the cut. Fire races over my arm. I let out an anguished scream, and Silas has to fight to hold my arm down.
"It's disinfected now, don't go getting it all gummed up by waving it around," he lectures me sternly and without any compassion. I actually hate him in that moment, even though he's a stranger, and even though he's helping me. I hate him.
"Put this in your mouth," he instructs me, handing me a wooden spoon from his pocket. I stare at him in horror, but I do as he tells me. My teeth grip the spoon. The first time he puts the needle in my arm, I worry that I'm going to snap it clean in half.
He holds me down like some kind of monster while he finishes making his first stitch. It's small and neat, but every tug is agony. When he finally stops and looks at me, I spit the spoon out of my mouth, panting and shaking. Without a word, he hands me the vodka.
This time I don't pretend to be too good for his liquor. I open the cap and take a big, nasty gulp. It burns everything, my throat, my tongue, and even my nose. My eyes water and I go to set the bottle down, but Silas uses his finger to tip it back down my throat. I splutter on the horrible liquid, but force myself to take several big swallows before Silas gently pulls the bottle away.
"It will still hurt, but not so bad." In my half-delirious state from the pain and liquor, I imagine that he actually says it like he cares.
I instantly become lightheaded and get the spins. At the same time, my entire body starts to feel warm. It's almost like I'm floating above myself, watching things happen. The sting of the needle brings me back to reality, but I have to admit that the vodka worked and my senses are a bit more dulled than before.
I bite the wooden spoon handle and cry silent tears as Silas finishes up. I know I've just survived a whole week in the zombie apocalypse, but this injury might actually be the worst thing I've ever experienced. I don't even notice when the stitching stops. Everything is on fire and in pain, and it combines into one big ball of agony.
I look back over at Silas and see that he is rubbing some ointment on my stitches. There is a long, neat row of them along my forearm. If my head wasn't spinning, I might actually take the time to count them.
Silas wraps my arm in gauze and tape and then stands back to survey his work. "That'll do," he says as he begins digging through the bottles of pills on the floor.
"What did you do, rob a pharmacy?" he asks me, showing a rare glimpse of humor.
I nod foggily.
The mention of the pharmacy brings Ryan back to my forethoughts. "I need to go," I tell Silas groggily and try to struggle to my feet.
Silas puts a staying hand on my shoulder. In my weakened state, it feels like a load of bricks. "You're in no shape to leave. If you go out now, you'll be zombie bait."
I stare into his unblinking eyes. He doesn't seem overly worried that I could get eaten. It's more like he is just telling me the facts, and whatever I decide is fine with him.
"I lost someone out there. He was in the pharmacy with me. I need to find him." Silas actually looks sorry for me. He opens his mouth, but I beat him to it. "...don't you dare say it," I warn him.
He shuts his mouth again, as though I actually have the power to command him to do anything.
"He's got to be okay," I reiterate, not sure if I'm trying to convince Silas or myself.
"Okay," Silas agrees, surprising me. "He's okay, but he's holed up for the night by now, and you need to stay here and wait till morning." Silas taps his head, "You have to be smart with these buggers. You can't just go running around willy-nilly."
He's saying everything that I don't want to hear, but I know that he's also telling me the truth.
"Okay," I tell him, licking my dry lips. My mind is already thinking ahead to tomorrow, when I can start my search for Ryan.
Silas looks at me, and nods approvingly, as he hands me a couple pills and a bottle of water that he's pilfered from my backpack. I'm not sure that I completely trust him, but he's gotten me this far. So, I swallow them without questioning him.
My trust takes a bit of a hit when I see him helping himself to a couple of the pills too, but there isn't much I can do about it.
"What did you just give me?" I ask, my words starting to slur.
Silas looks at me like he's debating keeping it a secret. "Anti-biotics, and an Oxycodone." My heart stutters at his use of the taboo word.
"Isn't that a street drug?" I ask. I know I should be panicking, but it doesn't come.
"It's also a pretty potent pain killer, and I only gave you the lowest dose. Settle down, and go to sleep. You'll feel worse in the morning, but then you'll start healing."
"That was not very reassuring," I tell him before I sink into unconsciousness and everything bad melts away.