A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1)

by R. K. Weir

  "My daughter," he whispers before burying his face again and hiding his tears. "I let her die," he mutters, his voice muffled behind his hands.

  A sigh escapes me as I let my hand fall from his shoulder.

  "Hey," I say softly, moving a little closer to him, "listen to me."

  He lifts his head up slowly, the smell of alcohol still strong on his warm breath.

  "You can't save everyone."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Logan

  If someone had shot me in the head last night, I wouldn't be surprised. My limbs ache, sore from sitting still on the cement floor through my slumber; I don't think I moved. Eyes grazing over the dark and empty cellar, my mind groggily tries to remember how I ended up here. I groan as merely thinking causes a set of drums to ricochet in the depths of my skull. Straining, I lift a hand and clasp it over my forehead, pressing down in an attempt to neutralize the drummer.

  It doesn't work.

  Instead it causes a round of queasiness that swiftly has me slumped over and vomiting. Not something I've had to endure in a while, but something I'm more than trained in. The bile burns in my throat, quickly leaving my swollen tongue to sit dry in my mouth.

  I look towards the stairs, my eyes traveling up their small steps towards the filtered light pouring in through the opened hatch. With no recollection of the night before, I'm surprised I didn't die. Although it's probably too soon to tell. I could always have a bite on me somewhere. Albeit it's still commendable that I didn't end up walking into a den of infected. Instead I found myself a relatively safe place to recover.

  Good on you Drunk Logan. Hungover Logan appreciates the effort.

  Although he doesn't appreciate the hangover.

  I stay slumped against the wall for a while longer, which in sickness, feels like an eternity. Eventually the nausea subsides enough for me to move, but the drums continue to hammer, a harsh strike retaliating against every small motion. Pulling my knees up to my chest I push myself off the ground, almost falling back down half-way.

  I stand still hugging the wall as I await the new round of nausea to pass. I groan once it does, stretching my arms up in the air. Stumbling a little, I catch myself against the wall as my sore body registers an absence.

  There's no gun in my back pocket.

  I look down at my jeans, digging my hands into their pockets. My limbs freeze, muscles becoming rigid as I pull them out empty.

  My car keys are missing too.

  I drop to the floor, my hands sweeping over the dusty cement, patting its hard surface in an earnest attempt to find the two. They come to a stop on a place of warmth. The area I had been occupying for the night. As my palms press against the warm concrete, a wavering memory returns.

  You can't save everyone.

  Son of a bitch.

  I pull back and stand up from the floor, dusting my hands off on my pants. That goddamn kid robbed me. A breath of amusement leaves my lips and I smile into the darkness. I try to remember her face, but the image distorts in my mind, muddling itself into nothing but her eyes.

  Green.

  I flinch and wave the thought away. She was the same girl from the gas station, that part I'm pretty sure of.

  "Goddammit," I curse, turning towards the small set of stairs. My hands clench at my sides as I climb up them, every step a heavy stomp. Climbing out of the cellar I look around at the trashed bar, vaguely remembering sitting at its counter, the burning liquid on my tongue.

  I step around the bar and towards the door. Another huff of tempered amusement leaves my lips as I hear the faint sound of an ignition from outside. My face grows hot as I step outside and find her sitting in my car, trying but failing to start its engine. I take a step forward, allowing the door of the bar to close softly behind me. It shuts with a small click, a sound too small to attract her attention.

  I cross my arms against my chest, standing rigid as I watch her try for another minute.

  "There's a trick to starting it," I call out. She jumps in her seat, her body swiveling in my direction. It isn't so much a trick as an inconvenience. You only need to twist the key a few times more than necessary. I'm lucky she hadn't figured it out while I was passed out. She appraises me for a moment before crinkling her small nose.

  "What kind of a shitty car needs a trick to start?" she asks, dusting a curtain of bronze hair over her shoulder and giving the ignition another go.

  "The kind that I built myself."

  Her arm falls away from the wheel as she slumps back in her seat. Staring off into the distance for a moment, she turns to look at me.

  "How's the hangover?" she asks, a mocking smile tugging at the corner of her lip.

  "It's a killer," I reply stoically, staring her down. My eyes press hard against hers as I will her to get out of my car, the pressure forcing her to look away for a second before returning her gaze to mine. The brilliance of her eyes makes me want to flinch away, but I don't. I keep staring, screaming at her in my head to get the hell out and leave me alone. Her brow furrows a little as she watches me.

  "Look, I'm not gonna ask why you were dumb enough to get drunk when you knew a horde was coming," she looks at me pointedly, "that's your business." She goes quiet, her eyes sweeping over the dashboard as she contemplates what to say next. "But I am gonna ask why you're still unwilling to help me after I saved your life a second time."

  Inadvertently, I take a step back and find myself staring at the ground, rather than at her. My eyes narrow into slits as I stare at the cracks on the sidewalk. Because you look like my dead daughter and I can’t stand looking at you? I grit my teeth as the seconds tick by and I fail to conceive a reasonable answer. Lifting my head back up I find her staring at me, and I wonder if she has been looking the entire time.

  I sigh. "What do you want?"

  A smile almost finds itself on her lips, vanishing before it has a chance to manifest, and I find myself having to rethink whether I even saw it at all.

  "A lift, that's all," she says, "I'm just so tired of walking and I—"

  "Cut the flowery bullshit kid," I interrupt, raising a hand, "just tell me where it is you wanna go."

  "Up the coast, as far as you'll take me."

  I sigh again, shifting my weight from one leg to another. Goddammit. There has to be something I can say to make her change her mind.

  "How do you know I'm not a bad guy? Like those people at the gas station?" I ask.

  She shrugs, "everyone is bad, it just takes something special to bring it out of them." She gives me a look, "I don't think it's been brought out of you yet."

  I sigh again, realizing that there's nothing I can do to change the situation. She did save my life, I won't deny that I owe her that much.

  "I'm heading to Las Vegas," I tell her. "But I guess I can take a detour and drop you off in L.A."

  She nods enthusiastically, a broad smile now allowing itself to stretch across her face. "That'd be great!" she says, her nods slowly coming to a stop as she looks at me solemnly. "Thank you."

  I look at her for a second longer, wondering if I've made a mistake. I should've just told her to get the hell out of my car and hit the road. There's a reason why I don't help people anymore, in fact there are plenty of reasons. I sigh again. I just hope I'm not going to end up regretting this.

  "Just gimme the keys," I say, unfolding my arms and stepping towards the car. Her smile remains unfazed as she steps out and throws the keys over to me.

  "Let's see this trick then," she smirks, running a hand along the hood of the car as she walks past. I watch her go before I walk around the car myself.

  "What'd you say your name was again?" I ask, opening the door and stepping inside.

  "Stella," she replies, slamming her door a little harder than I would like. "Can I have your name this time or are you just gonna get moody and stalk away again?"

  I scowl at her, my patience already growing thin.

  "Moodier," she corrects, giving a slight nod. I grit my tee
th while starting the ignition, contemplating giving her a fake name. But what would be the point? It's not like names are even that important anymore.

  "It's Logan."

  She nods but doesn't say anything more, which I'm grateful for.

  She throws her bag onto the backseat as I pull out my favorite map, glancing at the lines for the right one to take. The detour to Los Angeles is going to add another four or so hours to my trip, not that I’m in any rush, but it's an inconvenience nonetheless.

  "You know which way the herd was heading?" I ask, tracing a line on the map with my index finger.

  "Probably that way," she says, throwing out her thumb and indicating behind her. "So if we go straight we should be good."

  I squint at the map and bring it a little closer to my face, unsure of exactly which direction we’re facing. Already my fingers begin to clench around the paper, my nails digging indents into its surface.

  "You know how to read one of those?"

  I shoot her a glare.

  "Just be quiet," I say.

  Screw it. I stuff the map down the side of my seat and pull out onto the road. I'll probably find my way eventually. There are only so many roads leading out of this town, it'll only be a matter of time before I find the right one.

  I grip the wheel a little tighter than necessary as I drive, hyper aware of the passenger in the seat beside me. It's been so long since I've had anyone inside my car, let alone in the front seat. Whilst concentrating on the road my eyes periodically dart to her, a coping mechanism, one that makes me feel safer. As long as she doesn't make any sudden movements then everything should go smoothly.

  She turns around in her seat and leans back, reaching for her bag. I glance at her as she does so, and notice the handgun sticking out of her jeans. I look back at the road briefly, keeping one hand on the wheel while I reach over and snatch the gun from her. She pulls back as I take it and drop it on the floor at my feet.

  "What the hell?" Her hands pat her backside where the gun used to be as she sits back in her seat. "Give that back!"

  I snort. "You stole it from me!"

  "After you stole it from those rednecks!"

  "After they stole it from me!" I shake my head at her. "I'm not giving it back."

  Even if the gun weren't mine in the first place, I wouldn't let her have it. The first reason being because I trust her as much as I trust my gardener to perform heart surgery. The second being how rare guns are in general. God knows what happened to them all, but if you're lucky enough to find one, odds are it won't have any bullets with it.

  I focus my attention on the road but I can feel her glare as I drive. From the corner of my eye I can see her gritting her teeth, her body pointed in my direction. She stays like this for a few more moments before turning away and slumping back down into her seat like a toddler throwing a tantrum. She doesn't look much older than nineteen, which makes that description all the more apt. I glance at her once more, glaring out her window. I smile to myself, finding far too much amusement in her temper.

  "It's nice to meet you by the way," I grunt.

  She huffs in her seat.

  "Just shut up and drive."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Stella

  Sweat trickles from my brow as I watch the sun creep to its highest point in the sky. The glass magnifies its radiance and boils the interior of the car. Cranking down the window does little to soothe my discomfort as a blast of hot air pours inside. I roll it back up and lean into my seat, wincing as the hot leather scorches and sticks to my skin.

  "Jesus Christ, it's boiling," I say, fanning my hand for exaggerated effect. I look over to Logan, waiting but not anticipating a reply from him. He too looks like he’s suffering from the heat, blonde hair darkened with sweat and blue eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. He keeps his attention focused on the road, making no indication that he's going to respond. I drop my hand onto my lap, on the verge of surrendering to his silence.

  The best reply I've gotten as of yet is a grunt. And not even an enthusiastic one at that. It was one of those “I don't really care, please stop talking to me,” kind of grunts.

  "You don't talk much, do you?" I comment. He takes his gaze away from the road to look at me for a second, but doesn't say anything. "And here I am chattering away," I continue, "I guess it's just because it's nice having someone to talk to, because I've been on my own for a while, you know?"

  He shifts his gaze to me again, his lips parting ever so slightly. But as if he thought better, his lips close and he returns his attention to the road.

  I sigh quietly, turning my own attention to the road and the barren land surrounding us. I guess there isn't really any need to make conversation with him. I've already gotten what I wanted, which was a lift. It was a worthwhile shot trying to make “friends” with him. If it had worked, I might have been able to squeeze even more out of him. Maybe even have gotten him to drive me all the way up the coast. But he remains resolute in his vow of silence, and it becomes apparently obvious to me that he isn't going to break it anytime soon.

  Tucking my hair behind my ears I throw it over my shoulders so it falls down my back and keeps out of my face. My entire body is soaked in sweat as I concentrate on the road ahead. The air waving mercilessly with heat in front of us.

  "You see that?" Logan asks. I sit up in my seat, looking over to him. His expression remains the same and I wonder if I imagined it. He looks at me and then nods his head down the road. I follow his indication and squint my eyes, barely making out the movement of a few black dots far off in the distance, their silhouettes morphing with the heat.

  "Infected?" I wonder aloud, watching the dots slowly grow as we continue to drive.

  "Probably."

  "Should we go around?" I ask. He shakes his head, his eyes focused on them.

  "We should be safe, runners don't usually come this far away from a town without a horde," he pauses to yawn. "We should be fine going past them."

  I tear my gaze away from the dots to look at him, only now noticing the darkness under his eyes.

  "Want me to drive and you can get some rest?" I ask, noticing his hands visibly tense around the wheel as I say this. I'm beginning to think that he's smarter than I give him credit for. He probably knows that I'll try and steal the car first chance I get.

  His eyebrows pull together as he chucks a glance in my direction. "How old are you, do you even know how to drive?"

  I scoff. "You think I was going to steal a car without knowing how to drive it?"

  He gives me another look but stays quiet.

  "And I'm eighteen," I tell him. "Or maybe nineteen, I don't know," I shrug, trying to calculate how long it's been since the infection started. I give up quickly, it's impossible counting days when they're all the same. Running, hiding and trying not to die. "How old are you?"

  He huffs out a sound of amusement, the corner of his mouth actually pulling up into a smile. A small, contained smile that he's quick to repress, but a smile nonetheless. "Thirty-seven."

  "Wow," I say, nodding my head and looking at him in appraisal. "I didn't think the elderly could survive this."

  He laughs, a deep and guttural sound that resounds through the small confines of the car, but like usual he’s quick to collect himself.

  "Right, well I'm still not gonna let you crash my car," he says, keeping his attention on the road and the growing silhouettes.

  "If I crashed, it would only be to make an artistic statement," I tell him.

  "And what statement would that be?"

  "I don't know," I muse, "but probably something ironic." I look over to him only to find that he isn't smiling anymore. The corners of his mouth have pulled downwards and his eyes have narrowed into slits. "What's wrong?"

  He takes a moment to reply, his shoulders tensing forward and his entire body becoming more rigid.

  "I don't think those are infected," he says. I look at him for a moment longer before turning my attention back t
owards the road. The silhouettes, still indistinguishable in the distance don't sway in the way that infected do. Their posture seems too graceful, their movements more calculated than a shamble.

  "People. . ." I don’t believe it even as I watch their dots grow closer. Why would they hike through the desert on foot? Logan only nods as we both watch with caution, the dots large enough now to distinguish that there are several of them. We pass a road sign and I just manage to read its faded letters.

  San Bernardino.

  Probably where they’re coming from. Minutes pass and I can now see that there are at least six of them, all carrying heavy bags.

  "Hey, pull up next to them," I say, sitting up a little straighter in my seat. The person leading the group is a man, probably around Logan's age.

  "We can't help them," Logan states firmly, his grip on the wheel remaining firm.

  "We don't need to," I tell him. "They might know something we don't. I want to know why they're leaving; they'd have to be pretty desperate to walk through the desert."

  "And how can you tell if they're friendly?" he asks, a growl beginning to underline the tone in his voice. I look back at the group of survivors, watching them for another moment.

  "We're in a car," I tell him, "if they try anything we can just drive away." I look back to Logan. He studies me for a moment before shaking his head, the gurgle of annoyed reluctance rumbling in the back of his throat.

  He slows the car and turns the wheel, pulling up closer to the group. I count them before lowering the window. Eight in total, exhaustion tugging their bodies closer to the ground. They probably don't have the strength to even consider robbing us. One man steps up to the window while the remaining seven stand at a further distance. He scratches at his beard as his grip on his baseball bat tenses in warning. A short silence separates us before his brow shoots up in question.

  "You guys come from Los Angeles?" I ask. He surveys me for a moment, his blue eyes bright with caution. He scratches his beard again before giving a curt nod.