by Anna Abner
“Do you have any idea where we are?” Ben asked. He must have either tossed the maps he’d taken from the beach resort or packed them away because they were gone.
“No.” I glanced around, not that I could see much in the dark, trying to decipher a street sign or billboard. “But I vote for walking some more.”
There was nowhere safe in the vicinity to spend the night. Mobile homes could be broken into. And the beach itself was unprotected. We needed a building with four solid walls and a door that locked.
“I see something.” He nodded ahead.
On the horizon, big rectangular shapes appeared. “Looks like a city,” I said, hoping it wasn’t some kind of shock-induced mirage.
I was too tired for much celebrating, but I was whooping it up on the inside.
“Look around the back and tell me what you see.” Ben approached the first house cautiously.
He set the gear down, and I ventured several feet away. It was so dark, however, I could barely make out his silhouette. Even though I knew he was right there, I felt abandoned.
An uneasy sensation danced across my shoulder blades. Devil Dog’s pack was too close, and the last thing we needed was to get stuck in a long-term siege with a group of vicious Reds. Eventually, if they were determined enough, they could break through any window, any door, any barricade.
They weren’t delicate human beings anymore. They were predators. And we were their prey.
Which was exactly why we needed a house to hide in. Quiet as a mouse, I slipped around the garage and peeked over a wooden fence. All the rear windows were smashed open, and part of the fence had been ripped right out of the earth. Plus, the smell of rotting flesh found me all the way out in the yard.
“No good,” I said, meeting Ben in the driveway. “No security. And I smelled… people.”
“We’ll keep looking.”
We stuck close to the beach, following Highway 12 north along the coast. The longer we walked the rougher the strap on my guitar became and the more sand snuck into my sneakers to rub against the soles of my feet.
At some point we crossed the James River in the dark and eventually roller coasters arced above the trees in Busch Gardens like skeletal spines curving over a useless and decrepit relic of our lost civilization.
“You ever ride a roller coaster?” I asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“No.” I chuckled at the thought. “Amusement parks weren’t my family’s thing. Zoos. Museums. Historical sites. That was more us. Hold up,” I called to Ben. “I need to adjust the strap on my guitar.” I stopped and yanked on the bit of cloth. The thing was scraping my neck raw.
“What kinds of museums?” Ben asked, waiting for me to catch up.
“Well, both my parents were super smart,” I said. “My dad was a chemist and my mom taught college, so, basically, Mason and I got dragged to a lot of art shows and lectures on climate change.”
We turned off the highway and marched down a smaller, quieter street flanked by leafy trees and old stone walls.
“I don’t remember what my parents did for a living,” Ben said.
“Don’t worry. It’ll come back. I know it will.”
I had no idea if it would, but I had hope. He’d already come so far, what were a few more memories to round out his recovery?
With both arms tight to my abdomen, my balance was off. I slowed even further, taking my time climbing over a low brick wall, then a hedge, and finally through a clump of trees onto a dirt lane right out of the eighteenth century.
“Whoa,” I said, skidding to a halt. I stared, open-mouthed, at the rear of a restored jail complex from the time of the American Revolution. “We're in Colonial Williamsburg.”
I had visited once on an overnight trip with my former Girl Scout troop. I remembered very well the historic buildings, the re-enactors in costumes, and the militia practicing maneuvers outside the armory.
“This is a good place to spend the night.” I turned and found Ben lying fifty yards away on his back beneath the brick wall I had climbed over with ease. It was only about four feet high.
“Are you okay?” I asked, rushing to his side.
“Just dizzy,” he said.
Like the red stain on his irises, his trouble with changes in altitude, even minor ones, might be with him forever. And I had vaulted over the wall without even thinking about how he would manage it.
“Do you need help?” I stood awkwardly a few feet away as he struggled to stand, not sure how close I could get without freaking him out. “What about another drink of water?”
“I'm fine.” He glanced behind us, and I followed his gaze. The devil dog and his mega pack of Reds were nowhere in sight. We had lost them.
That guy gave me the creeps. Not to mention his huge group of red-eyed followers. If that was the future, we’d better find a safe place to hide. And fast. As in high fences. Thick walls. Booby traps.
For the moment we had historical buildings to choose from. But Ben couldn’t climb the stairs of any of the two-story inns.
“How about a jail cell?” It was single story and secure.
“No.” He gave me a look. “I’ve spent all the time in jail I ever plan to.”
Right. From my tour I recalled Dunmore’s house was the best in the city. “The Governor’s Palace, then,” I told him. “It’s right over here.” I led him across overgrown grass dotted with weeds and dandelions. We followed East Nicholson Street, turned right, and the Governor’s towering palace appeared at the end of a long, quiet lane.
Ben outpaced me, and I let him, my gaze soaking in details of his condition. He wouldn’t talk to me about what happened in Smart’s lab, so I had to settle for observations. He was walking tall and straight. No limping. No twitching or sweating or talking to himself.
He caught me staring. “What do you want to know?”
How did he always guess what I was thinking?
“What did he do to you?” I asked hesitantly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I added.
His dark head bowed. “I don’t remember very much.” We walked beside a white fence and then cut across the dirt lane. “I only woke up once. I think.” He scrubbed at his face. “I’m not sure if some of the things I do remember are part of a dream.”
“Did you hit him?” I asked, clutching my tummy a little tighter. I didn’t want to imagine Ben waking from sedatives and trying to escape. Only to fail.
Nope. My insides crinkled up like tissue paper.
“I wasn’t sure if that was real.”
I nodded. “He had a black eye, but he told me it was from an accident.”
Not an accident, then. Hot, angry tears stung behind my eyelids. I hated Smart. Him and Malcolm and Gomez and whoever else had tortured Ben. Hated them so much I clenched up my wounded arms, but the pain felt right. Appropriate.
“I loathe them. If I could, I’d go back and do worse than I did.”
It was only when he stopped and turned to face me that I knew for certain I had said the words out loud.
“Why?” His eyes narrowed as he studied my reaction.
I burst out a rough-edged laugh. “Why? Because they’re monsters. Because they hurt you.”
Without responding, he quietly passed through a gate flanked by stone figures of a unicorn and a lion, past overgrown gardens, and right up to the edge of six steps leading to the front door of Governor Dunmore’s house.
Ben hesitated, staring at those stone steps for long moments. Finally, he removed the gear and slung it at the door. The box, too. And then he climbed one step. Stopped, adjusted. He took another step, and then another.
Pride and anxiety warred within my chest. He was the kind of person who’d never back down from anything. At the same time I wanted to keep him safe. But I couldn’t climb those steps for him.
I followed hesitantly in his wake, and when he wavered on the fourth step, I steadied him.
“I got you,” I whispered.
He reached the top a
nd then sank down with his back against the doorframe. “Go ahead,” he said. “The dizziness will pass in a minute.”
I didn’t leave him. “I was here once when I was twelve,” I said, trying to distract him. “On a field trip.”
“Did you learn anything good?” he asked, his eyes closed.
“I don’t remember. We toured the entire city. It’s all a blur.” A blur of pretty straw hats, manicured gardens, unbearable summer heat, and eating a sack lunch on a picnic table.
He finally stood up, but I refrained from asking him again if he was okay.
“I’m fine,” he said, as if I had asked the question anyway. “My stomach doesn’t like stairs, but I’ll live.”
Relieved, I shoved on one half of the massive front door. It swung open with a creak and a scrape, and then I stood in the sumptuous front hall.
He wedged a spindly chair against the door to keep out any stray Reds.
And for the first time in what seemed like days I exhaled, safe. At least for a little while.
“There’s a table in here,” I said, stumbling in the dark for a round table in a white room. I was anxious to get my wounds cleaned and dressed before I contracted an infection. Without antibiotics I had to be extra clean and careful.
Ben set the box of medical supplies on the tabletop and then backed away. “Tell me if you need any help. I’ll find candles.”
Right. He was still afraid of going insane at the sight and smell of blood. “I can do most of it by myself.”
I dropped the bloody towel and took stock of the gear and my cuts with only the feeble starlight filtering through the windows to see by. Not too bad. With the plunder from the hospital I could actually do a decent job of dressing the wounds. Using alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, my own hand sanitizer, and sterile gauze I cleaned and then dried both hands and arms of blood and debris. The bleeding had stopped, which made the next step a little easier.
Ben arranged three white candles in a triangle shape and lit each with a lighter from his pocket. Cheery, warm light burst to life inside the small room.
“I need you now,” I said, kicking the bloody towel off to the side and out of his sight. “The liquid sutures have to be applied just right for it to work.”
He hung back, brooding at the edge of the circle of candlelight.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Is the smell still bothering you?”
“Not as bad.” He inhaled deeply, nodding. “Okay. Tell me what to do.” He approached the table, and I handed him the applicator.
“Squeeze it to mix,” I said, reading the included instructions. “I’ll hold the cut together and you cover it. It says it will peel off by itself after a week as long as I don’t get it wet.”
“I’m ready.”
I set aside the directions and turned my right palm up, staring at the ugly swollen slash across my palm. I wiggled my fingers until the edges of the wound met the way they were supposed to.
“Go ahead.” I offered him my palm.
Ben cupped my hand in his much larger, rougher one to steady it and applied the liquid sutures with great care. In order to see, he had to shift closer. Really close. So close I caught his scent. Earth and oak and warm skin.
“You smell good.” I flushed pink from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. It must’ve been the blood loss. I stood still, embracing the humiliation, and squeezing my eyes shut.
“Thanks.” His voice was a puff of warm air on my arm. “So do you.”
My eyes popped open. Was he teasing? Making a macabre joke about zombies and blood? Was he serious? With his head bowed I couldn’t tell.
“How long until it dries?” he asked, blowing on the fluid. Shivers skittered up and down my arms, raising goose bumps.
“A couple minutes.” I tried so hard to be cool, as if his nearness didn’t completely shred my common sense. Twist my words. Cloud my thoughts. All I could sense was him—his height, his scent, his voice.
“Hold your hand still,” he advised. “And show me the next cut.”
Silently, I raised my left arm. I didn’t trust myself to speak anymore. No telling what would pop out of my mouth. So I clamped my jaws together and watched him work.
He made a sympathetic hissing sound at the sight of the second stab wound, and then got busy pinching the cut closed and applying more liquid sutures. He blew on that wound, too, and I leaned against the table to steady myself.
His nearness did strange things to my equilibrium.
But I hardly cared about the damage he was doing to my sanity.
Because the truth was, I wanted him to get even closer.
Chapter Five
To help hasten the drying process Ben blew warm air on my arm again, and I jumped, squeaking like a silly child.
“What?” He regarded me with concerned, but innocent eyes.
“That tickles.”
“Sorry.” And then he traced an old scratch on my forearm, a nearly healed pink and gray line. “What happened here?”
“Little Jack,” I explained. “In the McDonald’s. You were there,” I remembered. “But you were outside so you probably didn’t see what he did.”
“I don’t…”
He didn’t remember. That was okay. I backed away and my arm dropped from his grasp.
His eyes met mine, but he didn’t look away. Neither did I.
They were beautiful. “What color were your eyes?” I blurted out. “Before you were infected.”
His mouth tensed. “Brown. Like yours.”
I tried to picture him with brown eyes, rich and warm like hot chocolate, but it was impossible.
“Maya,” he said, his voice rattling with unspoken emotion, “I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking,” I said, giving him a smile, “that your red eyes are gorgeous, and I hope they stay that way.”
He snorted as if he didn’t believe me, and then something flipped behind his eyes and he was back to being worried about my cuts again. He looked me over one more time.
“You know more about this stuff than I do.” He gestured to the first-aid supplies. “Are you going to be okay? Is there anything else you need?”
“No, I’ll be fine.” I smiled bravely. “A couple weeks, and I’ll be good as new.”
“I’m glad.”
“How is your gunshot wound?” I was a failure at being a nurse. While he was caring for my cuts, I had let his bullet wound fester and scar for over a day. “I haven’t looked at it since before we left Camp Carson.”
“I’m fine,” he said brusquely, rearranging the supplies.
“Ben.” I snapped at him with my bossy, twin sister voice. “You’re wounded. Let me help you.”
With a resigned sigh, he swept his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the hardwood floors, causing the candles to flicker. I inhaled, catching his spicy, sweet scent.
I hadn’t seen his bare chest before, and the last time I’d seen his gunshot wound had been right after he injected the elixir, but I’d only pulled the collar of his shirt to the side and checked if it was healing. I hadn’t seen all this.
The black T-shirt had concealed a lot of sins. Bruises. Some dried blood. Suspicious round marks that reminded me of burns. And most shocking, Ben’s bullet wound was clean, stitched, and nearly healed.
He caught me staring, and I looked away, embarrassed that I was admiring his body so obviously. Ogling, really. No other word for it.
But it wasn’t the time to appreciate his shape. He needed help, and I was the best—and only—option. My gaze fell upon the entrance wound under his left arm.
“He fixed your wound,” I said, my voice as flat as old soda. I reached to touch the black thread, but hovered on top of them instead. “So you’d last longer.” And Smart could run more experiments on him.
He twisted to see. “I don’t remember him doing that.”
“Thank God for small miracles.” Because noting his reaction to p
ain, I imagined, was an experiment Smart enjoyed conducting.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
The needle marks on his left arm caught my attention. More scars left behind by the so-called medics at Camp Carson.
“Let me see the back.”
He turned, and I froze at the sight of him. “Oh, Ben.” My lower lip trembled, but I sucked it into my mouth to keep from crying.
His back was covered in a grid pattern of small, pink puncture wounds. They seemed to radiate out from his spine in ever-reddening dots.
“I let this happen,” I said, meaning all of it. Every fresh scar on his body was my fault. From the gunshot wound to the IV punctures, I was hurting him. If he hadn’t followed me into Raleigh, the sniper bastard standing guard on his roof wouldn’t have shot him. If I hadn’t encouraged him to go with Smart and Malcolm in order to reproduce the antiserum, he wouldn’t have been tortured. “I’m so sorry, Ben.”
“What?” He contorted to see the marks better. “What is it?”
“My fault.” That’s what it was. I laid my palm against his spine as if I could magically heal him with nothing but my touch.
“It’s not your fault,” he assured, giving up on seeing the scars.
My fault. My fault. Oh, yes it was.
Ben glanced at the window, and I followed his gaze. The moon was rising over the horizon, casting cool, silvery light over the world. “It’s getting late. Go on upstairs and find a hidey-hole to sleep in. I know you prefer tight quarters,” he said, scanning the dining room and then the tall windows in the decadent blue ballroom. “See if you can find a closet or the servant’s quarters or something.” He crinkled his nose at the shadowy staircase. “I’ll bunk down here.”
“But…” I didn’t want to be separated, which was ridiculous. All I had wanted for the past week was to be alone and on my own, and there I was arguing for the buddy system. But neither of us was at full health. He needed someone to look after him, too, and I was all he had. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“I’ll stand watch down here in case another pack comes sniffing around.” He tossed my backpack at me. “Grab any food you find. I’ll see you in the morning.”
