by Anna Abner
“Don’t worry about that right now,” he said, as if I were goofing off or something. “You have to lie down, and I have to get our first aid.” He set me on an overstuffed armchair and hurried back outside for the gear.
He returned with the medical supplies in the yellow tote bag. I hadn’t expected to need them again so soon.
“Don’t worry,” he said, rushing and dropping a bunch of bandages in his haste. “You’re going to be fine.” He knelt beside me, and I rolled flat onto my tummy on the carpet, gritting my teeth against the pain. I waited for him to touch me, but nothing happened.
“You good?” I looked at him over my shoulder, but the expression on his face gave me pause. He’d gone chalky white, nearly as pale as after I’d rescued him from Camp Carson. “What’s wrong?” Either he was injured, too, and keeping it a secret or something had spooked him.
His eyes glazing over, he said, “I can’t do this.”
But he didn’t leave. A good sign.
“Tell me,” I urged.
“The blood.” He swallowed as if in pain. “I don’t…”
It was easy to forget sometimes that Ben had been a red zombie, that he’d craved flesh and blood the same as the Reds in Devil Dog’s pack. He hadn’t expressed whether those cravings were eradicated after the cure or not. So far, I‘d only seen him eat normal food, the same as I did, but maybe it wasn’t that simple.
Was Ben in complete control, or not?
“Are you hungry?” I asked tentatively.
“No,” he said, still staring at the bloodstain around my waist.
“Do you want to hurt me?” I asked.
His brows snapped downward as his red gaze met mine. “No. Maya, if I hurt you I… I’d want to…”
I didn’t let him finish because I knew what he meant. He’d rather die than hurt an innocent person. I knew him well enough to know that.
“Can you handle cleaning the wound?” I asked, trying to keep things clinical and unemotional. “I need you to help me because I can’t reach it myself, and if I get an infection, it could be disastrous.”
He nodded slowly.
“I need your help,” I said, casting him a sympathetic smile. “I trust you.”
He snorted at that, but organized the supplies as if going into surgery.
Satisfied, I turned my face into the dusty smelling carpet.
Nothing happened.
“Ben?”
“I have to remove your shirt.”
A new and unexpected emotion overwhelmed my fear of his possibly re-surfacing feral instincts. I would be topless in front of Ben. Yeah, I’d be lying on my stomach and only my back would be visible, but that hardly mattered. Topless was topless. I had never removed my clothes around a boy. Kissing? Sure. Touching over clothes? Once or twice. But getting naked? No. Not even partly naked.
This was a medical situation, though, and necessary. Nothing weird or awkward about it. Right.
I pulled at the hem of my shirt, and the muscles in my back protested. “Ow.”
“Shhh,” he said, and the soft sound of his deep voice soothed me. “Lie still. I’ll do it.”
But he didn’t make any move to begin.
“Give me your hand,” I said.
Hesitantly, he laid his large hand upon my outstretched palm, and I held him tight. “You’re not going to hurt me.” His hand trembled again the way it had in the Hummer. I only held him tighter. “You can do this.”
He exhaled audibly, gave my hand a reassuring squeeze, and then broke away to start the first aid.
His fingers brushed my waist as he gently peeled the bloody shirt from my back. I winced as bits of fabric tore at my wounds.
“I’m sorry, Maya,” he breathed.
“It’s not your fault,” I assured. “You saved me from a lot worse.”
My shirt climbed up to my neck. With a quick maneuver he slipped the garment from my head and shoulders and tossed it aside. A blood-soaked wad of fabric landed in a heap in my periphery. No wonder he was freaked out. I had bled a lot.
Without any further commentary or hesitation, he unhooked my bra and poured antiseptic directly onto the wounds. It burned like acid and I clenched up, my toes curling inside my sneakers.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said again. “But I have to.”
He poured more, and I clamped my jaws shut and screwed closed my eyes. I could endure it because I had to. Without modern medicine an infection could mean death. My dad had taught me all about hygiene and cleanliness. This had to be done.
Finally, he dried the area with sterile gauze, spread antibiotic cream, and taped fresh bandages over the area. My muscles relaxed, and by the time he finished with the bandages I was exhausted.
“Maya, can you stand up?”
“I don’t have a shirt.” I sat up anyway, covering my chest with both arms.
He whipped his black tee off and feathered it over my head. It was warm and smelled like him.
I gazed at his bare chest. Ben was beautiful in a beat up, sort of kicked around way. He was still on the thin side, but it only made the thick muscles of his chest and arms stand out.
“Let me help,” he said.
I found my balance and climbed to my hands and knees. Ben’s strong hands lifted me the rest of the way.
“Pick a bed on the second floor,” he said, guiding me toward the staircase. “You need to sleep.”
I gripped the bannister, feeling worse than I had all day. My head ached and my throat burned, reminding me of colds and flus in the old days. Not to mention the pain in my back and both arms.
“Where are you going to sleep?” I didn’t want to climb the stairs. I wanted to sink onto a real bed as soon as possible and fall into a deep, deep sleep.
“There’s a pullout sofa in the den.” Ben eyed me up and down, and I knew he sensed what I was thinking, maybe what I was feeling, too.
“I’m not used to being around people,” he admitted gently.
Yep. He did know what I was thinking.
“I might accidentally hurt you,” he added.
“You won’t.” I swayed a little, but caught myself. “I don’t want to be up there alone.”
He nodded. “I’ll set up the pullout for you, and then I’ll make sure all the doors and windows are locked, okay? You can sleep and not worry.”
“That sounds great.” I stumbled after him into the den, and the moment he pulled the folding bed out and straightened the sheet, I flopped upon it. I exhaled and closed my eyes as the jangling springs quieted.
He moved silently from one room to another, checking locks. Finally, I heard him rustling in the kitchen. When he sat on the edge of my bed, my eyes slid opened. He’d put on a new shirt. Another black one.
“Drink this,” he said, offering me a vitamin-infused sports drink.
I did what he asked, choking down the whole bottle even though it tasted awful.
Taking the empty bottle from me, he fluffed pillows and adjusted cushions on the second sofa.
The idea of him sleeping way over there terrified me. “Ben,” I cried out. “Can you sleep here? Beside me? Please?” Stupid, silly tears stung my eyes, but all I could think of was the way my mom slept in my bed when I was little and sick. Now she was dead, which broke my heart all over again. She would never curl her arms around me again.
I couldn’t handle the idea of sleeping alone and sick and in pain. “Please, Ben? I really don’t want to be alone right now.”
Even in the dim evening light I saw him wrestle with wanting to protect me from himself and needing to take care of me. “Maya, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I feel awful,” I said. “If you just lie next to me the way my mom used to do I’d rest a lot easier.” Maybe I was asking too much of him. A handful of days earlier he’d been infected. He was doing his best to regain his humanity, but maybe this was crossing a line. “You don’t have to,” I added.
“It’s fine,” he said, slipping his long, lean body into the narro
w bed beside mine. “Wake me if it gets worse.”
Safe at last and wrapped in his oversized shirt, I fell asleep with a mournful and persistent melody echoing through my mind.
Chapter Nine
By the degree of light filtering through the vertical blinds, it was late morning. I woke in a strange bed to a man’s hand on my face, and I started, not sure whether I was still on the ground under Devil Dog’s pack of Reds.
“You’re burning up,” Ben said, palming my cheek and then the side of my throat.
Finally, the rotten, awful day before came rushing back, along with a wave of fresh pain.
“What helps fevers?” he asked, desperation in his voice. I wasn’t sure he was talking to me anymore.
“Tylenol,” I murmured anyway.
“That’s right,” he said as if it had been on the tip of his tongue. “I’ll get you some.” The mattress springs squeaked, and he was gone.
I felt too yucky to get up and follow. My headache had quadrupled in intensity and my overheated skin itched everywhere. I closed my eyes and floated between reality and fantasy, flashes of people I’d known, Reds I’d run from, and blood. The whole world was soaked in blood.
Maybe I fell asleep. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but Ben returned with one bottle of liquid cold medicine, a foil packet of migraine pills, and a box of decongestant meds from the hall bathroom.
“Which is best?” he asked. “Maybe all three.”
Sitting up, I clutched both arms to my middle, afraid I’d splinter into pieces without the extra support. “I only need one. The kids’ stuff.” Because my throat hurt too much to swallow a bunch of pills.
He read the directions on the back of the bottle. “How much do you weigh?” he asked, squinting at the chart on the label. “You’re over twelve years of age…”
Through the fog in my brain, I couldn’t tell his emotional state. Was he in control? Or teetering on the edge?
“I’ll do it,” I offered.
But he wouldn’t let me help him.
Ben poured grape-flavored medicine to the brim of the included cup and pushed it to my mouth. I parted my lips and drank it all down in one painful swallow.
“That will help, right?” he asked. “Your fever?”
“It should.” Maybe the meds had cleared my head because I figured out why he was in such a panic over a little fever. The 212R virus’s first symptom was a high fever that wouldn’t go down even with medicine. Two days later the infected person was a full-blown zombified Red.
Ben thought I had the plague.
“Hunny had a fever,” I told him, hoping to put his mind at ease. But now I was scared, too. “And a sore throat. I must’ve caught it from her before we left Camp Carson. I’ll be better tomorrow.”
He didn’t say anything as he arranged the medicine on the end table and then rummaged in the kitchen.
“It’s not the plague,” I called after him, just to be clear.
It couldn’t be.
But the medicine didn’t help. If anything, by noon, I felt worse.
Ben couldn’t sit still, and I couldn’t muster the strength to stand up, so I lay on the uncomfortable bed by myself and stared across the room at the entertainment system the family had put together. Nice stuff. Gaming console, smart TV, Blu-ray, satellite reception, the works.
All useless and silly relics.
Like me.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out to survive the apocalypse. Maybe I should have died or been infected a long time ago.
I burrowed deeper into my borrowed shirt, buried my face in the lumpy mattress, and cried.
“I found food to eat.” Ben stopped cold in his tracks. “What’s wrong?”
“Everyone’s dead,” I sobbed. “I’m all that’s left.” Saying the words out loud made me cry harder.
What if I have the virus?
Ben looked at me as if he was thinking the same thing.
“I had a family,” he said.
I blinked at him, the tears slowing.
Gingerly, he sat beside me on the squeaky bed. “Mom and Dad. Nana and Pops. Steven, my little brother.” Exhaling loudly, he bowed his head. “I had two dogs, Sparky and Jack. They’re all gone.”
“I don’t like being the last survivor in my family.” I hiccupped. “Do you get what I mean? I feel like some kind of freak. It doesn’t hurt them. They’re dead.” My voice broke. “I’m the only one who has to feel like this. It’s not fair.”
I’d kept hope alive for so long that my brother and especially my dad were alive, just out of reach, but after being attacked by Devil Dog’s pack I was finally convinced they were gone. I was one of the lucky few—the exception, not the rule. How I’d survived so much I didn’t know except through pure, dumb luck.
“I miss them so much.” The tears returned, and I covered my face. “I hate that they’re dead.” I gave up trying to express myself and sobbed pathetically into my pillow.
A hand brushed the back of my head. “I wish I knew what to do,” he said.
There was nothing to do. It was too late to fix things. I was alone. My family was gone. There was no going back.
“Remember when you asked me about your photograph?” Ben spoke softly, his fingers petting the back of my head and making me sleepy. “You were my light in the darkness. I couldn’t remember my own name or say a single word, but I wanted to be wherever you were. You are so special, Maya. You saved my life. Even before the plague. You made me want to be a good person.”
I pushed the cobwebs of sleep aside, sat up, and twined my arms around him. I pressed my face into the crook of his neck and breathed him in. He smelled of male and aftershave and something slightly dangerous.
“I’m so glad you found me.” I gave him a long, satisfying squeeze. After a moment of hesitation, his hands wound around me and he hugged me back.
“Me, too.”
We sat there, clinging to each other, until the increased body temperature drove me back onto the pullout.
“You’re very hot,” he announced, rearranging the items on the side table.
“Thanks,” I said, a tiny smile teasing the corners of my mouth. “You, too.”
“I can’t believe you’re making jokes.” He sounded very serious, but when I cracked my left eye open his face told me he was joking, too. “Drink another dose,” he instructed, bringing the cup to me. “The first one isn’t working.”
I swallowed and curled further under the blankets, pulling my knees up under the hem of my borrowed shirt. Not even a fresh coating of sweat could keep me awake any longer.
I slept in a depressing stupor the rest of the day and the entire night.
When I woke in the morning, however, I knew I’d be okay. My headache lingered, but I felt cooler and much less icky.
I rolled over onto a cold mattress and sat up, searching for Ben. He wasn’t in the den, so I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, wincing a little at the fresh pain near my waist. I found him in the attached garage going through tubs and cabinets.
“Morning,” I greeted.
He spun, eyeing me up and down. “You look better.”
I doubted it. If I had to guess, my eyes were puffy and bloodshot, my hair was one big tangle, and my clothes belonged on a homeless person, but it was nice of him to say that.
“I feel better. I guess it wasn’t 212R after all.”
He shook his head. “Definitely not.”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to find better weapons.” He tore into a green tub and came up with Christmas decorations.
“Like what?”
“Anything better than a table leg.” He chuckled, and I was stupidly proud at making him laugh. Ben’s sense of humor was a new development, and I was beyond grateful for it.
“Better than your Hummer tank?” I teased.
Ben’s face split into a hesitant, rusty smile. A dimple appeared, and I twisted away, something funny and electric happening to my insides. For a mom
ent I didn’t know what to say because there was no way I could tell him that seeing him smile made me like him even more. Like as in like.
Clearing my throat, I hid my reaction with another question. “What have you found so far?”
“Well.” He shoved the green tub back onto a shelf and kicked a cardboard box at his feet. Glassware tinkled. “Nothing.”
“Maybe we should hit up a hardware store on our way out of here,” I said. “Or some other place. A do-it-yourself warehouse?”
Ban groaned as if remembering something. “I was going to make breakfast. I forgot.”
At the mention of food my stomach growled like a bobcat. “Sounds good. Is there food in the kitchen?”
“Yeah.” He crossed the concrete floor and ushered me back onto the pullout bed. “Whoever lived here left everything behind. Even their water and sodas. You rest and I’ll get you breakfast.”
“Thank goodness.” I didn’t feel comfortable lounging while he banged around in the kitchen, but I tried to settle down so I’d be an asset when we got back on the road. “Is there juice?” I called. “The kind that doesn’t have to be refrigerated? The vitamin C would be awesome.”
He rushed over with a small bottle of warm apple juice, the kind for kids’ lunchboxes.
My eyes widened in appreciation. “Thank you.” Throwing my head back, I drained it in a single try. “Much better.”
“There’s a ton of cereal in there,” he said. “How about Fruity Loops?”
Not my favorite. “Anything like granola?” I wasn’t allowed to eat sugary stuff, and it wouldn’t improve my health any to start while sick.
He disappeared, rummaged around in the shelves, and returned with an open bag of granola with dried blueberries.
“You don’t know how happy I am right now.” I dug in, not even caring that it was stale and hard, just kept chewing.
“If I search the other houses on this street,” he said, helping himself to some of my breakfast, “will you be okay here by yourself?”
“Actually,” I wasn’t an invalid, “I’ll go with you. I want to set up snares in the yard and try to catch squirrels.”
He didn’t argue, which gave me a tingly feeling of pride. Pollard had never needed, or wanted, my help with anything.
