The sun begins to set over the horizon, morphing the sky's blue hue into bright pink and orange. The tree I'd hidden behind earlier is now a black silhouette in the distance. No clouds are out tonight.
John Smith sets his gun on the ground and settles down next to it. "I like to keep watch at night and clear my head. If I'm lucky, an animal runs on by, though that's only happened twice," he explains, eyeing his gun.
I plunk down on the pokey, dry grass on the opposite side of him, sitting crisscrossed with my hands in my lap.
"So what brought you out here?" he asks as soon as I settle. "Other than, you know, being chased." The small glow of the fire casts a shadow over his eyes, so I can't accurately make out his expression.
"What does it matter now?" I say glumly, hanging my head. "What's done is done."
He rubs his hand along the back of his neck. "Could be worse."
I grimace. "Worse? I'm going to die. How does it get worse than that?"
He scoffs. "Dying is easy. But you're not gonna die. Clearly, that guy wasn't infected and neither are you."
My eyebrows shoot up. "What?"
"It's been what, an hour? By now, you should have spiked a fever so bad you couldn't keep your eyes open. Plus, that cut of yours is all clotted up. Like I said..." He points at me. "Not sick."
The sparks from the fire float upward into the darkening sky and crackle as I mull over his quick conclusion. Naturally, I go on the defense, and glance at my arm where the three-inch abrasion is already healing. He's right; diseased people don't heal.
"That man was hardly human," I reason. "You've heard of the rare cases, haven't you? Not everyone gets weak and dies off. It messes with some people's brains and makes them go crazy. Just like in those made up zombie movies. That's what the radio said."
He scoffs. "I don't listen to the radio. Besides, an apocalypse can make you a completely different person, disease or not."
I grind my teeth. I don't want to be accused of falsely identifying the man. I know what I saw. After all, I was the one the man chased for who knows how long.
"The disease did that to him," I argue.
John isn't buying it. "To each their own. If anything, you should be happy. It means you won't be dying in two days."
Three. The longest case was three days, but I don't bother battling it out with him again.
"So what really brought you this way?" he wonders, leaning back on his elbows. The fire turns his pants bright orange.
I cross my arms. His demanding nature isn't winning him any brownie points.
"It's a simple question," he adds when I don't reply.
I hike my knees up and let my head fall between them as my stomach rumbles loudly. I don't know what to think or what to say to this guy, and as much as I try to tell myself to stay calm, the shakes just won't subside. He's one of the few survivors I've come across, and that truth doesn't sit easy with me. Should I trust him with my backstory?
"I was out looking for my parents," I reveal at last. John Smith sits right up at my words, so I continue. "That's why I'm out here. They left me a week after the outbreak hit the U.S. I guess they were going to..." I throw up finger quotes, "'search for the truth' or something. It sounds stupid, but that's all they told me. Said they'd be back in a few days."
His brows sink deep toward his nose. "You're saying they just left you by yourself when the world was going to complete shit? That's some screwed up parenting if you ask me."
Not sure how to react, I shrug uncomfortably. As much as my instincts steer toward defending my parents, I can't say I agree with their choice to leave me behind. "Yeah, I guess. I waited for them to come back, but...they didn't. I felt so abandoned, so...I don't know..." I swat my hand at the air as if it will terminate the conversation. I doubt he wants to sit here and listen to my feelings.
"Lonely," he finishes.
I tighten my jaw and nod. "Anyway, I left to go find them. This is my fifth day out on my own, and I'm giving up now. I'm done for, and I can only assume they are too...I mean, they have to be. What I've seen has been..." I blink repeatedly, attempting to shoo away the incoming images of looted stores, ghostly-white corpses, blown-up cars, and fires all over the town, but I know they will forever haunt me.
"I know," is his response. "I've seen it, too."
When the sky goes black, John Smith stomps out the fire until it's smoldering ash and we head back inside. It's pitch-dark in the shack, so entering without rolling an ankle is a challenge. Once inside, he shuts the door and informs me of the sleeping situation. "Usually, we just pick a spot on the ground," he explains sheepishly before walking toward Emmie, who appears sound asleep now.
I follow suit and pick an area on the opposite end of the room, giving them both some space. However, once I'm lying against the prickly floorboards, sleep refuses to take me under its spell. As tired as I am, my nerves keep me jazzed. I keep questioning his motives—and my health. Is he right by saying that I am not infected?
I should be feverish right now. How come I'm not?
The only answer would be...immunity, but that's impossible, so I shake away the thought.
I lie awake and stare at the moldy ceiling of the shack, pondering over what the future will bring. Am I really going to head on this journey with a couple of strangers whom I've yet to fully trust? We don't even know each other's real names, and yet we're supposed to buddy up and walk for miles across the state with only hope that we'll make it to Braxton alive?
This plan is ridiculous. I don't know these people well enough to embark on a witch hunt alongside them. What if we don't succeed? What if one of us dies out there? If I die out there, they will have nowhere to go and will have no choice but to start over. Maybe I should escape while I can and find my way back on my own. Or at least see how far I get before I start getting symptoms.
New plan.
Once John Smith is fast asleep, I'll make a run for it.
"It's hard to sleep at first, but it'll come." John Smith's voice breaks my concentration and I flinch as if he's heard my every thought. My breathing quickens but his slows and softens as he sinks deeper into a slumber.
After waiting a little while longer, I crawl to my feet and snatch my backpack from the table. Silently as I can manage, hoping to avoid any noisy creaks in the uneven floor, I tiptoe over to the door, but something shiny catches me off guard—dog tags. Now sitting on top of John Smith's shirt, they reflect the faint moonlight streaming in through the window. I hold my breath, lean toward them, and squint to read the small words imprinted in the metal. Then I spot the name: Travis J McCormack. He's a Marine.
I slowly release my breath and stand tall again, feeling the uncertainty crawl on my skin like ants as I stare at the door. He saved me. It's only fair I try to return the favor, no matter his motive behind the action. Plus that little girl...
I turn to look at the sleeping child when an arm bounds around my throat and drags me down. "Where the hell are you going?" John Sm—Travis McCormack—whispers harshly in my ear.
All I can think is: he's touching me.
He has me in a tight headlock, the pressure of his arm against my throat causing me to swallow and cough as I try to let air through. My body wiggles beneath his intense grasp and I tear at his grip, desperate for a single breath. As my eyes begin to water, he finally twists his arm around and releases me. My knees buckle and I fall onto all fours, coughing and gasping. I put my hand to my throat and peek up at him from the floor.
"You really thought you could run off? Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?" he bellows, and points his finger at me. "Obviously not, or you wouldn't have tried! I should have known you were lying." His finger then aims at the door and he leans in close, a few inches from my face. "Get lost," he growls through his teeth and grabs his rifle off of the table. "If you don't, you'll find out where this next bullet is going to go."
I hurry to patch the situation and weakly put my hands up near my ears. "I was just—I'm sorry. I—"
"You were just going to leave me and Emmie to die out here! Get out!" He presses the barrel of the gun into my forehead and I shut my eyes tight and cringe into the floor. Gradually, I crawl toward the exit, trying so hard not to scream.
"I really do have a place—" I whimper on the ground. I can barely recognize my own voice.
"Shut up. Another word and—"
"It's true!" I stop in place so my words sink in. "Really. I can take you guys there." My breath is shaky, but my message seeps through my fear. "I will. I swear."
His gun falls from my head and he grabs my wrist to yank me to me feet.
Another touch.
He moves so fast that I trip over my own feet. "I'm not wasting another bullet on you," he spits out as I gain my balance. We stare at each other for a good three seconds before he groans, and then, "You're staying, and now I'm staying up to watch you."
* * *
The night was rough, though not in ways someone would typically expect. Not because I slept on bumpy hardwood floors without any blankets or pillows, had a caving roof over my head, or the threat of a bullet just a foot away from me. I couldn't get past the idea of me not becoming sick. Didn't have a single sign. To be quite honest, the thought of not getting infected terrified me just as much.
My head filled with crazy, implausible conspiracy theories, and for hours on end my head spun like a ceiling fan, trying to understand what it meant. I ran through scenario after scenario and finally chose to settle with the idea that the man—who was clearly sick—was not. It allowed me to catch a couple zzz's before morning came.
Emmie whispers to Travis as soon as the sun peers into the room. I hear him shuffle nearby, but keep my eyes closed, pretending to sleep as they get up and get ready. Perhaps they'll exchange a secret or two, thinking I am unable to hear.
Travis rushes around the small shack, openings and closing cabinets, zipping and unzipping his backpack. "Hey, get up," he says aloud as he nudges my shoulder with his boot.
My eyes open one at a time and meet his directly above me. I sit up and the exhaustion kicks in immediately. There are areas of my back that are definitely bruised, not to mention the ache I feel around my throat. Yesterday was hell.
Travis finishes searching the place over before grabbing his rifle and slinging his backpack over his shoulders. Meanwhile, I'm still struggling to stand.
"Let's go," he orders, taking Emmie's hand into his.
I rise up, wincing as I straighten out and take a couple steps. He watches me but does nothing to help. Just waits for me to get a move on. I grab my bag and meet his eyes, ready as I'll ever be to leave with them.
With one last look, Travis leads us out of the shack before giving me the role of tour guide. I stroke my hand along my neck, remembering how powerless I felt last night, and try not to let it get to me as I head the direction I believe I came from. Left.