by M. D. Massey
“Hey, I’m resourceful when I need to be.” I shrug as I eat my own beans, feeling dirty. Maybe it’ll make me feel better to bathe. I sigh, knowing my days of hot baths are over. My thoughts stray to my bunker and wonder if it made it through the fire. I haven’t been alone in two days, but I’m having better luck than I first thought. I realize with a start I never expected to survive this long, and my leisurely time at the creek was a way to procrastinate going to my death.
“Where are we?” I ask him to make conversation. Maybe I can wash up somewhere.
He finishes his beans and studies me. “Outside of the dead zone, close to Nashville, not as many famished in the city as you would expect. Most people evacuated from there during the outbreak.”
I nod, eyeing the bench, thinking of sleeping arrangements. He laughs guessing what I’m thinking. “You’re that uncomfortable sharing a bed?” Yes, but I shrug.
I grab my pack and step outside for a little privacy. I change into something cleaner, less stale from sweat, opting for a faded orange t-shirt. It’s soft from being worn and washed for years. My thoughts travel to before. Living on my own, I could wash clothes and change as many times as needed. The water pump will be missed. No wonder the Lollipop Gang tried to take over my place. They could use a neighbor’s house and still have use of the pump. They could rebuild there if they wanted. Maybe one day, I’ll get the chance to go back to the neighborhood. I pull on two pair of socks with my boots and my fleece jacket and hope it’ll keep me from getting cuddly.
Feeling better in clean clothing, I climb in the truck. Rudy reclines on the bench with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles as he pulls the guitar from its case. I smile and crawl under blankets on the mattress, too tired to care about sharing it. I flip to my side so I can watch him. He changed shirts, too, opting for a gray cotton crew neck. He plays the same song as last night, only something is different. I know little about guitars, but he changed something in it. It’s better. “Did you write this?”
He pauses with his eyes half closed. “Yeah. You like it?”
“It’s great.” I close my eyes as he continues to play, making me sleepy. He has a knack for it because I don’t remember falling asleep.
13
When I wake, the air is chilly because the doors are wide open. Rudy has a steel bar across the top of them doing pull-ups with the cloudy sky in the background. My breath catches at the sight of him. His back is to me as his muscles work hard, showing all grooves and contours. I roll my eyes. Why can’t he wear a damned shirt? His breath comes in short pants as he rises and falls effortlessly. Squeezing my eyes shut, I roll over until he stops. If he went on for much longer, I would have started counting for him.
When it’s safe, I sit up, feeling dizzy. Damn, what’s wrong with me? I search for food as Rudy mercifully puts on a shirt.
“How long have you been watching the famished at the warehouse?” I ask, digging at some canned pears with my fingers. They are the good kind ⎯ packed in juice, not syrup.
He grabs his own can. “Off and on for a little over eight months,” he says, staring at the floor of the vault.
It seems like a long time. If I were him, by now I would feel helpless and ready to give up. I grab his forgotten can and finish opening it. He smirks at me. “You going to eat my food?”
“Maybe. What are you going to do if I do? Push my face in the dirt?”
He looks sheepish for a split second before changing the subject. “When I came across you running over those putrids…” He smiles. “I was making my way to Birmingham. I wish the Coalition would help the people here. It’s not just Julie. We knew people there, you know? The soldiers, the survivors, doctors. They’re going to let them die. It’s almost a lost cause.” He looks out the window as we hear the first drops of rain.
He hops out. I peek from the window in time to see him shutting the cab door. He arranges four buckets to catch the rain. Smart. When he climbs in he says, “If it rains enough, we can clean up.” He regards me. I shrug, the buckets giving me an idea.
“Maybe we can put our dirty clothes out there.”
“We can, but there’s nowhere to dry them. We’d be stuck with a bunch of wet clothes,” he says with a scrunched nose.
“Yeah, we’ll figure something else out. At least waiting for water gives me more recovery time from the wreck.” My face feels bruised, but he hasn’t said anything about it and I’m not going to look. There’s a spot on my scalp that continues to hurt. It’s one of the cuts I received from broken glass. When I feel the skin around the cut, it’s warm under my fingertips. A throb pulses at the pressure from my finger. It feels longer and bigger than I remember.
“Hey Rudy, will you look at this cut on my scalp? It hurts, and it has heat coming from it.”
His eyes narrow with a clenched jaw. “Yeah, come here.” He’s sitting on the bench, so I kneel in front of him, tilt my head, and point to it with my finger.
Moving my head toward the light coming from the open doors, he releases a big breath. “It’s infected. My guess is the Advil is keeping the fever at bay for now. It should’ve had stitches. I thought I checked your cuts and thought I got all the glass from your, uh ⎯” He falters as I straighten to look at him. “Hair.” He flinches, waiting for my reaction to his blunder. He doesn’t want to offend me.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing at the look on his face. “I know my hair is nappy. Probably wouldn’t have happened if I brushed it,” I complain as he eyes my locks doubtfully, and I burst into laughter. A smile blooms on his face, emphasizing his dimples as he realizes I’m teasing him. He’s precious for a grown man. “Let’s dump rubbing alcohol on it, slap on a bandage, and be done with it.” I bend my head for him to doctor, knowing an infection is bad news. Why did I think I was achy from the wreck but nothing serious? He’s right about the fever.
Rudy smoothes my locks away from the gash. “I’m sorry, I should have checked better. It’s not exactly scabbed, but it’s crusted over.”
He pauses, and I finish for him. “You’re going to open it.”
“We’ll do that, but you'll need antibiotics. The ibuprofen will only do so much.”
I ignore the antibiotic part. “Let’s do this.”
As he gets up, my cheek brushes the inside of his thigh. Putting my face between my knees, I listen to him rummage around.
He sits next to me with his back to the bench. “Here, put your head in my lap. This will hurt.” I look at him as he motions to his lap and am surprised to see he has a little color on his neck. He blushes? Obviously, he’s as uncomfortable with this as me. I do as he says and place my face toward his stomach, taking this time to breathe him in. He is hazardous to my health. His shirt’s clean and smells of an earthy soap with undertones of leather, evergreen, and a hint of sweat. He goes about smoothing my locks again, and then, “Ready? One, two –”
“Just do it,” I interrupt. So, he does. The cut brings an unnatural sharp pain. Rudy applies pressure, pokes, and prods the wound.
I wince.
“Just as I thought, you have a small glass shard in there.” It explains why it throbbed more when I touched it. An acute pain snaps my attention to what he’s doing. It’s sharp, painful, and brings tears to my eyes.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. I bury my face in his stomach, balling my fists. I hardly register the burst of pleasure from feeling his stomach muscles tighten. More pressure as the sharp pain is replaced by a dull throb. “I’m going to do the alcohol now,” he warns me.
I don’t care, even with the pain and infection. I’m in the best place I can possibly be… until a cold trickle of fluid hits the long, open gash. It becomes a stinging rage. I muffle a scream, and his stomach muscles tense as his arm tightens around my shoulder and head to keep me still. He wipes at the fluid, and cool air hits as he blows, attempting to cool it down. I relax as the next trickle comes because it’s not as bad.
When he’s finished putting ointment and a ban
dage on the wound, I breathe, glad it’s over. My head swims, and Rudy gives me more Advil. “You’ll have to take it more often. We better get going.”
Startled at his announcement, I ask, “Where are we going?” It’s continuing to rain and our buckets aren’t full.
He gives me a steady look. “To find antibiotics, darlin’.”
14
Turns out Rudy grabbed everything I had in the SUV. After putting the bulk in the vault, we climb into the spacious cab. We decide it will be easier to loot when we get into Nashville. Rudy knows people there who can help with my infection if needed. The same people he mentioned a few days ago, when talking about our rescue plans.
Rudy hands me a pillow so I can cushion my head. I’m not accustomed to attention, but I also managed not to hurt myself for four years.
The cab’s cozy and plain, reminding me of the inside of a U-Haul. It smells like old cotton and dust. The windshield’s at a forty-five degree angle with the hood. The bench sits high with an Incredible Hulk bobble head on the dash. This truck deserves a name like Bertha. I laugh out loud. Rudy glances at me with furrowed brows. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m thinking of naming your truck. I must be out of it.” I prop my head on the pillow against the window.
There’s slight amusement across his features. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. Something domineering and associated with a big ass.” I motion with my hands.
He surprises me by saying, “Agatha. I had a teacher in the sixth grade, and that was her first name. She liked her power over us weaklings, and she had a gigantic ass.” He laughs and shakes his head as if to clear the thought.
“Yeah, that fits. Agatha,” I say, trying it out.
“She was scary. I was glad when sixth grade was over.” We both laugh. I can’t picture him afraid of anything. It feels good to be laughing about something stupid. I can see he needed to laugh, too.
“Hey Rudy, do you believe in ghosts?” I ask, deciding for a new topic.
He thinks for a moment, “It’s possible. We have zombies, don’t we?”
I nod, but I don’t clarify, and he doesn’t ask.
He glances at me, “Who is the guy?”
I stare at him, trying not to look shocked. “What guy?”
“The guy in the photo. The one with the gingerbread apron and Santa hat?” I study his face. He’s curious, talking about the only photo I grabbed from my house. He must have seen it when rescuing stuff from the Honda.
I swallow. “My dad and I when I was sixteen at Christmas. We were dancing in our kitchen after he made cinnamon rolls.”
Rudy smiles, seeming pleased I shared. “Thought so. Good picture of you.”
We stop at several pharmacies along the highway, but they are all looted clean. The one we’re currently scavenging has food and drink, but all pharmaceuticals are gone. People must’ve had other priorities. “We might need to go to a hospital,” Rudy informs me.
“Yeah, well at least I found Coca-Cola,” I say with a grin and open the two-liter to drink. Being old and flat, I shouldn’t. I chug it anyway, and the warm syrupy liquid flows down my throat. I groan at the simple pleasure before offering it for Rudy to take a drink.
He absently takes it, and the bottle looks smaller in his large hands. “You don’t know what your gash looks like, Kansas. I put antibiotic ointment on it, and it’s not enough,” he says, eyeing my cheeks. I touch them to make sure they aren’t flushed.
“I didn’t know it was there. I was stiff and in pain. Besides, we were running from the famished.” I’m getting annoyed. I didn’t have a fever with the Advil keeping it at bay for the time being. We still have time. “We’ll find antibiotics,” I say with conviction, knowing my luck, the cut is festering, already driven into my blood stream.
“I’m glad we didn’t fight any of the zombies ⎯ that’s the only thing that could have made this worse.” Worry clouds his eyes with a pinched brow. Maybe he’s worried for a different reason, something besides me. Glancing up, a rainbow arcs across the sky as rain sprinkles against the shining sun. I can go into Nashville to the teaching hospital, right outside downtown, and get antibiotics on my own. Hopefully, it hasn’t been looted.
“Hey, I’ll take one of these cars and get what I need. I’m not backing down on my word to help. We can meet later. Possibly at the place to get more help? I don’t want to bother you any longer. I can take care of my ⎯” I falter at the scowl he gives me. My eyes widen at his unexpected hostility.
“You think you’re bothering me?” He slams the Coca Cola bottle on the edge of the truck. Fluid shoots from the top. Invading my personal space, he glares at me. A glare I return. “You think your crossbow will do any good if you run into dozens of famished?”
He has a point, but I ignore it. “Yeah, and I’m giving you a way out. I’m frustrated, too. You think I want this infection? We’re doing what we need to do, but I can’t go around being angry about it. That won’t change anything. It won’t help if we’re at each other’s throats. Now, I can do this on my own. If you want to help, I’ll take it, but don’t get mad. It’ll only piss me off, and make me over analyze it.” I unleash a deep breath, feeling delirious. I wipe my forearm across my forehead, peering at him as he thinks.
“Kansas, you’re not a burden,” he breathes and steps back. “I want to help. There are few of the living and even fewer sane living. It’s ⎯” He shrugs, letting it go.
“All right, that’s good. We need to go.” Feeling better I don’t have to set out on my own, I add, “I need to sleep.”
He nods in agreement. “Good.”
Before we leave, he helps me clean the wound again. He doesn’t say how it looks. I’m sure I know because it hurts like hell. The slightest pressure on it brings blood rushing to my head. We ride in complete silence. After taking more Advil, I rest against the pillow. I like the concern Rudy has shown. I want to think it’s for his own reasons, for me to help him, but if that’s the case, why help me from the wreck? I sigh and a fog blooms across the window from my breath. My attraction to Rudy is a problem, a dangerous one I need to shove aside.
It’s late afternoon by the time we arrive in the city. Trying to sit up causes aches to flare in my joints. Rudy’s rough hands seem to caress my forehead out of nowhere, and he spits words worthy of a sailor. I smile, wanting to make a joke, but not having it in me from the fever. “Where’s the Advil?” I ask.
“It’s not Advil you need, darlin’.” His voice pours forth sympathy.
“Don’t call me that! It’s Kansas, or more preferably, Kan,” I snap, trying to sound like a bitch, but it comes out helpless. His lips twitch to keep from smiling. I sigh. “Sorry. I get grouchy when I’m sick.”
“It’s okay, darlin’. Looks like we’ll be skipping the hospital.” He doesn’t elaborate as I close my eyes, pressing my forehead to the cool window and smiling before falling asleep.
I wake disoriented with Rudy carrying me. As he puts me on the mattress in the vault, he says, “Kan, can you hear me? I’m going to lock you in the vault until I get back. You have a raging fever and need antibiotics. Serious things can happen if it’s left untreated. I’ll hurry.”
Delirious, I notice he looks badass in his gear and dark green bandana. I say nothing and just wrap myself in the blankets, glad I don’t have to move. I open my eyes and he’s looking at me, maybe waiting for me to answer. I nod and close my eyes.
I vaguely hear him shut the doors and stomp away. After a little while, I can’t sleep because I’m cold, hot, then cold again. My body aches and throbs to the tune of my heartbeat with shivers. My heartbeat slows and panic sets in only to make it speed up again. Time passes, or maybe it doesn’t.
Sometime later, voices shake me from fever-induced delirium. The door to the vault opens, but I don’t care. Please, go ahead and eat me even though I’m nasty with infection. I hope the famished don’t mind the taste.
“This is the one,
pick her up. Be careful, she’s sick. The boss would be mad if anything happened to her.” Something’s wrong, and I struggle to focus. The next thing I know, I’m lugged over someone’s shoulders. I wiggle weakly, but his grasp tightens on my legs. A stubbly, bald head brushes my arm as a smack strikes my ass for my struggles. “No worries, sweetheart, we’ll take care a you.” The guy has a thick, unfamiliar accent.
“Hey, unless you want one of my arrows through your skull, you won’t do that again.” Rudy’s rumbling voice trembles with suppressed violence, echoing through the night sky. I catch sight of him and try to say something. The guy holding me shakes with laughter as he starts walking. My vision swims from the movement as blood pounds a thumping beat in my head.
“Wait,” Rudy says. “Kan, I know you don’t know them, but they'll help you. I’ll be back for you soon. Just get better.” I need answers, and it’s a struggle to think, much less talk. Where is he going? Should I trust these people? Who the hell are they? They aren’t from around here judging by the accents, but I trust him so I nod acceptance. His hand moves my locks out of my face, doing something with them as I close my eyes.
15
“Hey chicka! Chickie, chicka!” Someone yells, poking me. Groggy and feeling drugged, my body only aches a little when I move. Otherwise I feel better physically. My clothes stick to my skin from sweating out my fever, and my nostrils flare from the smell. A grimy film coats my teeth, and I’m sure my breath could clear the room. To sum it up, I’m foul.
My eyes struggle to focus, my gaze wandering to a guy in front of me, and they widen as I take in his appearance. A wrinkled, indifferent face with a tanned complexion greets me. Dark curly hair and thick eyebrows shadow a receding hairline and light brown eyes. Several gold necklaces lay tangled in chest hair. A flamboyant, button up shirt with a bright paisley pattern and khaki pants are his outfit of choice for the day. He sits in a chair holding a cane between his legs next to the mattress I occupy. My eyes narrow at the source of the poking. Various metals and gems decorate all his fingers, and they gleam with gold and silver. The dirtiest fingernails I have ever seen grow from the tips of his fingers, caked with God only knows what underneath. I imagine his fingernail grime could be the source of the zombie outbreak.
