A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1)

by R. K. Weir

  I scowl at her. "Wanna bet?"

  She frowns, her brow furrowing slightly as she sizes me up.

  "Yes," she nods, her eyes uncertain.

  My scowl grows deeper as I readjust the grip on my wrist.

  "Come on," she says, "let's go look for a first aid kit in the gas station." She reaches her arm out towards me, but I step back with a growl. I stand for a second before straightening up with a final scowl.

  "I don't like you," I breathe.

  She drops her arm and stares at me for a moment before nodding with a sigh.

  "I know," she says, turning and walking towards the gas station.

  I watch her go for a few minutes, waiting until she is a reasonable distance away before deciding whether or not I should ditch her. She's caused me nothing but bad luck. Although she did save my life on two occasions. And she is just a kid. Goddammit! I wonder for a moment if things would be different if she hadn't saved my life. Maybe then I'd be able to leave her behind without a second thought. Yet, somehow, I don't think that would be the case. I glare at her back for another minute before following her, muttering curses under my breath as I go.

  She slips into the gas station and I follow after her. The inside is dark and murky, packets of food strewn across the floors. She circles around the store, checking for any infected before stepping behind the counter and dropping out of sight. I can hear her rummaging through the drawers as I look outside, searching the street for any sign of movement. Besides the occasional sway of a branch the area looks still.

  "Well," she mutters, "they don't have a first aid kit." She stands up from behind the counter, holding a small bag in her hand. "But they do sell sewing kits."

  "You're kidding me."

  She smirks, "fraid' not."

  She steps around the counter and wanders through the aisles, picking out an item every now and then. Eventually she comes back to the front of the store, but only to make sure that the doors are locked. She seems to be pretty competent.

  "Come on," she nods, "there are chairs behind the counter." Before I have a chance to respond, she opens a bottle and splashes its liquid onto my arm. I jump back, cursing as I do. The liquid seeps into the gash and burns the flesh, like lava has replaced the blood in my veins. In a matter of seconds my skin turns a bright shade of red.

  "Jesus what the hell was that!" I yell, the pain growing worse before it begins to fade.

  "Disinfectant," she mumbles, looking down and reading the label. "Well, technically rubbing alcohol."

  With a glare, I follow her to the back of the store where we find two small stools hidden behind the counter. She takes a seat, scattering the items she picked out in front of her.

  "We're lucky this stuff was leftover," she mumbles, picking out a needle and thread.

  "Do you know how to stitch a wound?" I ask, looking at the sizable gash on my wrist and then up at her. I dab at it with the tail of my shirt, cleaning away some of the blood and rubbing alcohol.

  She shrugs, most of her concentration focused on threading the needle. "How hard can it be?"

  I shake my head, exhaling an irritated sigh. I'd probably have better luck just chopping my arm off. After a moment, she finally manages to thread the needle. She sterilizes everything before she begins to poke at the raw skin surrounding the wound. Every prick of the needle sends sharp pains ricocheting up my arm, as though a sharp blade is tearing the tendons apart from the inside.

  "Would you just hurry up and do it!" I exclaim. She shoots me a glare before stabbing the needle into my flesh. Both my fists curl at the sight, but the pain is surprisingly more bearable than I expected. She threads the needle through a few more times, each prick less painful than the last.

  "So," she says, her focus primarily on stitching up the wound. "What's in Las Vegas?" My eyes narrow at her.

  "That's none of your business." She glances up at me, somewhat surprised.

  "Fair enough," she shrugs after a moment, "I just need to know if your visit there will be a short one, or if you plan on staying there."

  I watch her for a moment, trying to think of anyway she can use that information against me. After a minute I decide that it should be harmless letting her know.

  "A short one," I admit.

  The corner of her lip pulls into a smile. "Good, Las Vegas can be our detour on the way to San Francisco then."

  "Our?" I ask, pointing a finger to my chest, "who said I'm coming with you?"

  "You followed me in here didn't you?"

  She isn't looking at me, but I glare at her anyway. I can't deny the fact that she's right, but that doesn't mean I'm going to be happy about it. And it certainly doesn't mean that I'm going to accompany her wherever she wants to go. Maybe I will just stay in Las Vegas if it means getting rid of her. God knows I don't want to hang around with her any longer than necessary. But curiosity gets the better of me and I find myself wondering what exactly her plans are.

  "San Francisco?" I ask, "why not just go straight north to Canada?"

  Her nose scrunches up at the idea. "I wanna stick to the coast."

  "Any reason why?"

  "Yeah," she mumbles, concentrating on the final stitch. "They can't swim."

  It's not an answer I was expecting and half of me thinks she might be joking. Although I suppose it's only fair if she doesn't want to tell me her true motives considering I didn't tell her mine.

  Finishing the final stitch, she ties a knot and cuts the thread, looking down with pride as her eyes sweep over her handiwork. I glance down myself before she begins wrapping it in gauze, rather surprised by how even the stitching is.

  "Were you studying to become a nurse or something?" I ask. She shakes her head.

  "No, but I did make dresses in my spare time." She grins at me. "Anyway, I think we should sleep here for the night, I can take first watch, you need the rest for your wrist," she says. I give her a look.

  "Last time I fell asleep in your presence you tried to steal my car."

  She looks at me with a shrug and a smile. "Well then it's a good thing you don't have a car now."

  I give her a look and she drops the smile.

  "I'm kidding! We're partners now! You've got nothing to worry about!”

  I shake my head at her, unwilling to sleep in the presence of someone I don't trust. Anyone who does that is just asking to be killed; an easy way to have your throat slit. "Go to bed kid, I'll take first watch."

  I'll be taking the only watch.

  "Suit yourself," she says, offering a shrug and a throw of her hands. She spins around and walks into one of the connected rooms; probably a storeroom or office. I watch her go, my tense muscles only relaxing once she's out of sight.

  She strikes me as the type of person that will stab you in the back as soon as you give them the chance. I have no doubt that she is already planning how to do so, plotting her moves carefully and waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

  I do not plan on giving her the chance.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Stella

  Logan had spent the whole night taking watch. He didn't get a second of sleep; that much is obvious from the darkness under his eyes. Obviously because, for whatever reason, he doesn't trust me. But I'm certainly not complaining. I got a whole night's sleep, a luxury I haven't experienced in so long. Honestly, I don't know how I survived without the guy. If it weren't for the constant glaring, he would be perfect.

  We've been walking for a short while now, after scavenging the gas station for all it had – which wasn't much. They didn't have backpacks or anything of the sort, so we put what we found in garbage bags; a near-empty lighter, some food and a couple of band-aids. Nothing that was efficient enough to use as a weapon. Not much, but it's better than nothing. Logan has slung his trash bag over his shoulder as he walks, glaring off into the distance with dark eyes.

  I swing mine by my side, trying to keep it in rhythm with my footsteps. I watch it sway, its glossy texture reflecting the heavy sunl
ight that weighs mercilessly upon us. I keep my head bowed, unwilling to meet the suns glare. The gravel of the road feels hot under my feet, and I can't keep the sweat at bay as it begins to trickle down the sides of my face.

  On the positive side of things, we haven't run into any infected.

  Or assholes that want to rob us. . .

  I throw a quick glance at Logan, and then look back down at the road. It must be true; most of the infected in the area must have swarmed to Los Angeles. A good thing for us.

  Logan slows his walk, so I slow mine to match his, watching his footsteps in my peripheral vision as I keep my main focus on the trash bag swinging at my side. A few seconds pass before Logan stops altogether, lifting his gaze a little higher than the horizon. I glance around the road we're walking on, at the buildings and the streets. Everything appears still.

  I turn to Logan, lifting my eyes to his.

  "What is it?" I ask.

  He doesn't respond, instead he narrows his eyes further, his gaze shifting in different directions. He turns almost in a circle before coming to a halt again, his eyes closing as he tilts his left ear in the air.

  "D'you here that?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper as it gets quickly whisked away by the warm wind.

  Frowning, I turn in the direction he is facing, my eyes peering down the street. I hold my breath for a moment, concentrating on even the faintest sounds. We both listen intently, but I don't hear anything out of the ordinary. Tree branches rattling in the wind, a lack of animals, a faint knocking . . . wait. I listen closer, taking a step down the street.

  It's a sound so faint that the wind almost overwhelms it completely, only audible when the harsh gusts settle down. The rhythm is erratic, varying in volume and severity. I listen for a moment longer before brushing it aside, slightly curious but not enough to go and investigate.

  "It's probably just a door banging in the wind," I mutter, still listening to the noise. It has dropped off on its own accord now, not because of the wind.

  "Let's go see what it is," he says, stepping forward. I look up at him, surprised.

  "What? Why?" I ask flustered, staring in the direction of the noise.

  "It could be someone that needs help." He begins walking down the street, the trash bag still slung comfortably over his shoulder.

  "I thought you didn't like helping people!" I point out, shooting him a narrow-eyed glare.

  "Not when I have nothing to lose," he mumbles, walking off.

  I stare at his back for a moment before following him, shaking my head as I go. If the guy wants to change his philosophy because I had pissed him off, then fine, whatever. At least I'm well-rested enough to run if things go bad. Although I’m slightly surprised he hasn’t learned his lesson from those hillbillies back at the gas station.

  As we walk down the street the sound develops and slowly grows louder with each step. It isn't long before a new sound is heard accompanying it. A voice, shouting with the knocks. Logan looks back at me, a frown on his face. I nod to let him know that I hear it too.

  We creep further up the road, sticking to its middle so as to utilize the safety and versatility of the open. Coming to a stop outside of a small home on the side of the street, the noise is now loud and coherent.

  "For the love of God is there anyone out there!" they shout before vehemently banging on the walls again. I look over to Logan once more before walking inside.

  I push the front door open slowly, limiting the number of creaks and moans that emanate from its old wood. Dropping my garbage bag at the door I peer inside, the interior lit up with enough natural light that I can see comfortably. Tentatively, I step forward, Logan following closely behind me. He breaks off down the hall towards the source of noise while I turn into the living room. The sliding glass door to the veranda has been shattered. Small shards of glass shimmer like diamonds in the sunlight.

  Red paints their edges, gleaming brightly in the light. The furniture has been turned over, a few chairs broken with splatters of blood lining the walls.

  Four bodies litter the floor.

  I peer around the room and walk towards the kitchen. Leaning over, I run my fingers along the nearest wall.

  The blood is dry, but slightly sticky. Whatever happened here must have happened less than twenty-four hours ago. I step out onto the veranda, glass crunching underfoot as I go. I peer around the backyard, satisfied when I see nothing moving. Retreating from the hot wind, I step back inside and turn, walking down the hall towards the source of noise.

  I find Logan standing in front of a chair that is propped up and jammed beneath the handle of a door. The man behind it calls out again, the chair rocking slightly with each bang as the door rattles on its hinges.

  Logan reaches out and grabs the edge of the chair before looking back at me.

  "Could be a trap," I whisper. He shakes his head.

  "I doubt it, looks like he got left behind," he responds, not bothering to whisper.

  "Is there someone out there? I-I can hear you talking! Open the door, please!"

  Logan raises a brow before moving to pull the chair away. I step forward and grab his hand, stopping him.

  "He was probably left behind for a reason," I tell him. "Look at this!" I gesture towards the chair, "someone locked him in there!"

  He gives me a look.

  "Do I have to remind you that I was going to leave you behind?" I roll my eyes at him.

  "I'm hardly so bad that you have to lock me in a bathroom and run away."

  "You wanna test that theory?"

  I glare at him and step back, letting go of his hand and folding my arms across my chest. He steps to the side of the door before pulling the chair away with him. We both stand still, watching the door, waiting.

  But nothing happens.

  I throw a look towards Logan before looking back at the door, waiting another moment. Still, nothing happens. With clenched fists I step forward and turn the handle, giving the door a small push. It swings open slowly to reveal a pale man with wide, hooded blue eyes standing in a small bathroom. A beanie stretches over his scalp, hiding a mop of blonde hair. His gaze is startled when it meets mine, before quickly collecting itself.

  "Well," he says, forcing a crooked grin. "Isn't this my lucky day." He runs a trembling hand across his forehead, brushing away the length of hair that sticks out from under his hat. His eyes traverse mine mischievously.

  "Why were you locked in there?" I ask cautiously, my gaze traveling the length of his body. His clothes are tight-fitted and clean. It doesn't look like he's been in a struggle, or concealing any weapons.

  His eyes bounce to the ground as he scratches the back of his neck. "Straight down to business, I like that." His free hand gives off a small twitch before his gaze returns to mine. A shade of reddish-pink shadows the area underneath his eyes, making their blue come alive with a vibrant exuberance. "But I'd like to know your name a lot more," he finishes with a toothy grin, his eyes unconcerned.

  Pushing the chair aside, Logan steps into the doorway of the bathroom, revealing himself. The man's eyes widen again, but only for an instant.

  "Answer the question," Logan demands, his tone low and menacing.

  He appraises Logan for a second, his expression almost teasing. "Alright, grandpa, no need to get angry."

  I can almost feel the animosity reverberating off of Logan as the man squeezes past him and out of the bathroom. He steps around Logan until he's standing almost between us, and then he offers me his hand. "Hi, I'm Joey, and you must be my guardian angel."

  My arms remain crossed against my chest as I stare at him blankly.

  "You have got to be kidding me," Logan grumbles before grabbing him by the neck. Joey's head snaps up in an effort to stop him, but it's too late. Logan's hand is firmly clasped around the cuff of his collar, his fingers turning white from the intensity of his grip. "Tell me why you were in the bathroom before I lock you back in there myself."

  "Alright, alright!"
he yells, frantically trying to swat Logan away. Satisfied, Logan lets him go and takes a step back, his eyes trained on Joey. Rubbing the back of his neck he glares at Logan and I. "If you must know, I got into a disagreement with someone in my group. They must have locked me in here as a joke and forgotten to let me out when the infected came."

  "Pretty big thing to forget," I muse. He looks at me.

  "Yeah, well, I'm trying not to take it personally."

  "What was the disagreement?" Logan asks. Joey turns to look at him, having to crane his neck slightly to meet his gaze.

  "She thought I stole some of her food," he turns to look at me, "I didn't."

  Logan's glare shifts from Joey to me, his brow arching in question. I shrug at him; the guy looks harmless enough, even if he is most likely lying.

  "Okay," Logan says, "good enough."

  Joey bows his head, a small sigh of relief escaping him. "Thank you, now can I get your names?" He shoots a look between Logan and I.

  "I'm Stella, he's Logan," I say. He grins at me again.

  "Beautiful name for a beautiful girl." Logan rolls his eyes while I stare at Joey with indifference.

  "I can still lock you back in there you know?" I tell him. With his hooded eyes focused on me, his grin only grows wider.

  "As long as you lock yourself in there with me," he winks.

  I drop my arms with a scoff and turn away from him.

  Walking back into the living room, I begin looking around for anything useful. They were in a hurry when they abandoned this place, they might have left something valuable behind. After a moment, Logan and Joey follow me. Logan stands by the hall whilst Joey crouches down, inspecting one of the bodies. I stop what I'm doing to look over at him.

  "Any of them yours?" I ask. He glances over at the other three corpses before shaking his head.

  "No, they must have all gotten away."

  "You know where they could have gone?" I ask, moving into the kitchen and opening a few of the cabinets. I peer inside, frowning at their empty interiors. They didn't leave anything behind. Well, besides Joey.

  "Yeah we have a rendezvous point for if any of us got separated, San Manuel Amphitheater, just on the edge of town," he stands up, stepping away from the corpse. "Where are you two headed?"