A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1)

by R. K. Weir

  "But why would he do that?" I ask, thinking about the witty remarks he would spit and the boyish grin that was always on his face. The actions just didn't suit the man. Despite the truth being lain out in front of me, I still struggle to accept it as fact.

  "He's a drug addict," Logan shrugs, and we both notice Aaron flinch. "He wasn't thinking straight."

  This manages to shock me. I fall back into my seat, my head shaking on its own accord as I wrestle with this new information. After a few moments of quiet reflection however, I realize that it isn't totally unbelievable.

  I think back to the times I had spoken with him. The occasional twitches and scratches, the red bags under his eyes. Then I remember walking into his room unannounced, and how he had acted. I throw a glance at him at the back of the bus. He's cradling my bag in his arms, holding it to his chest like a mother would hold a newborn.

  I look away, feeling stupid for not noticing that something was up long ago. I had just presumed he was weird, eccentric. Now I'm not sure how I feel about him.

  "I guess you were right," Logan says, "about everyone being bad. I never woulda guessed the kid had it in him."

  I'm about to dispute with him, to say that it's not necessarily Joey that's bad, but the drugs. But I swallow the argument when I notice the bus beginning to slow. My heart jumps slightly in my chest as I wonder if we're breaking down. But when the bus comes to a complete stop on the side of the road, Rocket stands up from the driver's seat and stretches her arms above her head.

  "You wanna take over for a little while?" she asks, her question directed exclusively towards Aaron. He attempts a smile, the corners of his lips trembling in effort.

  "I didn't think NASCAR drivers took breaks in between laps," he mocks, standing up. She waits until he's in the driver's seat to reply.

  "It isn't a break that I want," she mutters. Aaron glances up at her, his eyes uncertain as he pulls the bus back onto the road.

  It's a few moments before she begins to stalk down the aisle of the bus. Her lips are nothing but a firm line, pressed together so tightly that they've begun to turn white. I look back at Joey, who's staring out the window, completely oblivious to the lioness striding towards him.

  Her walk is slow and deliberate, as if devised to purposefully torment him. He catches sight of her, and his eyes widen with what I can only presume is fear as his clutch on the bag visibly tightens.

  His gaze flickers to mine, and I see the torment in his eyes. They look hollow, devoid of the usual humor that once pranced in them. He looks broken, like a shadow of what he once was.

  I should hate him. He ruined everything. He's the reason I risked my life for nothing. He's the reason that people are dead. He's the reason we're on this bus and not someplace better.

  But as I look into his eyes, all I can see is the boy that brought me food, when Aaron had told everyone not to. The boy that thought it would be funny to introduce me as his girlfriend, and Logan as his grandfather.

  The boy that took me out to see the stars, because he thought it would make me happy.

  As Rocket stops in front of him, I realize that no matter how hard I try, I can't.

  I can't hate him.

  Which is why I jump up from my seat and move to stand behind Rocket. I need to talk to him. She doesn't even spare me a glance. Her attention has fallen entirely on Joey and I doubt it will deviate anytime soon.

  I didn't think it possible, but the silence of the bus feels heavier than ever before as they stare at each other. I look around and notice that every pair of eyes on the bus have turned to witness the exchange. Even Aaron glances at us from the rear-view mirror.

  The tension feels palpable, like it's crushing me from every direction. Just when the silence begins to become unbearable, Rocket speaks.

  "What's in the bag?"

  A question I hadn't thought of. My eyes drop down to the bag, my bag, and I notice his fingers clenching around the fabric. Another silence ensues, longer this time. I think this would anger Rocket, but she stands calmly, offering no sign that she is going to repeat herself.

  "Nothing," he replies. The word is flat, broken just like he is. If I had my back turned, I never would have guessed that the noise came from him. Rocket stands up a little straighter, an audible sigh fleeing her throat.

  "I'm gonna make this real easy for you, Joey," she says, her voice trembling with so many emotions that I'm surprised she managed to keep it level. "I know what's in that bag," she pauses.

  I think she was hoping to get a reaction out of him, but he doesn't move, doesn't blink. He just stares at her with the same blank fear he had when he saw her approaching.

  "But I'm gonna give you another chance," she leans closer to him, gripping the edge of the seat beside her for support. "What is in the bag?"

  The pressure from her stare must be too much for him to handle, because his gaze drips to the ground. Another silence envelops the bus as he pulls the bag closer to his chest. He's biting his lip when he lifts his stare up to meet hers. After a moment he begins shaking his head.

  "Nothing." The word is a whisper this time, dead in his throat, I'm surprised it had the energy to leave his lips. She leans away from him, and even from behind I can feel the anger emanating from her. She holds her hand out.

  "Give me the bag." He looks down at her hand and shakes his head.

  "Give me the bag, Joey," she repeats, a growing fury working its way into her voice. He squirms under her gaze and I can tell that he's beginning to panic. I want to intervene, but I stop myself, because I want to know what's in the bag more.

  "Give me the fucking bag!" she yells. He flinches away from her, but shakes his head.

  "No."

  Her hand drops to her side, and for an instant I think that she has given up as another silence approaches. Then without warning she lunges for the bag. Her right hand manages to grab one of the straps while the other works at prying Joey's arms away. He tries to wrench it away from her, throwing his arm out to push her back.

  I watch them for another moment before deciding that I should intervene. We aren't going to get anywhere this way, and I'm a little afraid that they're going to rip my bag – not that that's a priority or anything.

  Trying not to get hit in the face, I grab on to Rocket's shoulders and pull her back, away from Joey. She maintains her grip on the bag for as long as she can before the distance becomes too far and her fingers slip away. Her attention snaps towards me and I understand why Joey failed to maintain eye contact. The rage present in her lightly colored eyes has me squirming before she even says anything.

  "What the hell are you doing?" she shouts. I flinch at the volume, keeping a hand on her shoulder in case she decides to lunge at Joey again.

  "This isn't the right way to go about things," I tell her. She's panting, her breathing ragged from their scuffle. But even with adrenaline coursing through her, her eyes convey understanding. She knows that I'm right.

  "Well what the hell do you suggest we do then?" she asks, rather harshly. I try not to take offense, because I know that it's Joey she's angry with, not me. I think for a moment before offering her a light shrug.

  "Let me talk to him," I suggest weakly. I don't know what I can do, but I know that everyone will be a lot happier if Rocket isn't screaming at anyone. She gives me a look.

  "Fine," she says slowly, popping her lip with the word. She's about to move past me when she pauses, as if remembering something. In a swift movement she's turned around and leaning back down to Joey. "Don't get comfortable, you son of a bitch."

  And with that threat, she turns around and stalks back to the front of the bus, where she shoos Aaron out of the driver's seat so that she can take over. Watching her until I'm sure she won't come back, I turn towards Joey and awkwardly squeeze past him so that I can take the seat beside him. Once I sit down, I notice every pair of eyes on the bus is still focused on the two of us.

  "Alright guys, shows over, go back to looking out the window,
" I tell them, glaring at each pair until they've all turned around.

  Staring down at my lap, I begin to play with my hands. A silence, more awkward than before has stretched itself between us. I peek a glance at him while I ponder what to say. He too is staring down at his lap. I lose track of my thoughts, but decide to begin the simplest way.

  "Hey. . ." Like a string, the word stretches itself out, but fails to connect us. He glances at me, but doesn't say anything. So I try again. "You've got my bag."

  He's quiet for a moment, but then he speaks. "Yeah I, couldn't find mine." I nod, glad that I've managed to get a response out of him at all.

  "I don't suppose that—"

  "I'm not going to tell you what's in this bag, Stella," he cuts me off and I stop to look at him.

  "I think everyone already knows what's in that bag," I say. He doesn't look surprised by this, but it does cause him to look away. "I don't suppose you want to talk about it?"

  He shakes his head. I stare at him for a moment longer, hoping that maybe he'll say more. But he doesn't, so I turn to look out the window, ready to resign myself to silence when he turns to me.

  His eyes are smoldering with silent torment.

  "I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

  I don't say anything back to him. I only nod.

  Because I believe him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Logan

  I don't like the quiet.

  People are naturally noisy. They talk constantly with their irritatingly loud voices. They find it necessary to add noisy sound effects to their stories. And above all, they talk over the top of each other, escalating what could have been a quiet conversation into a very loud, very aggravating shouting match. But despite all this, it's the quiet I don't like.

  Because bad things happen when it's quiet. Too much is hidden in silence. The world was noisy before the infection, and then, as if the earth were an amp and someone had decided to turn the volume all the way down, the infection spread and the world went quiet.

  Noise is safe. The house was quiet the day my wife filed for divorce, it was even quieter the day my daughter died. Maybe the problem isn't that I don't like the quiet. Maybe the problem is that I'm afraid of it. Afraid of the quiet, because I know that it always leads to something bad.

  Which is why I'm on the edge of my seat now.

  The bus is silent. As if the stifling heat and sweat soaked leather seats weren't enough to bother me. I throw a quick glance around the bus, my gaze lingering on every quiet person.

  The silence is deafening.

  Not a single person is talking, and that just isn't right. Even Stella and Joey are quiet, sitting together at the back of the bus, each looking out a different window. I watch them for a moment, unsure of how I feel about them sitting together. She stood up for him. Why would she? Why would anyone in their right mind defend his actions? The moment I get a chance, I decide, I'm telling her to steer clear of him. If I have anything to say about it, he won't be around for long anyway. Shaking the thought from my mind, I turn back around in my seat and throw a glance in Rocket's direction.

  Ever since her confrontation with Joey, that's when everything went quiet. Since that outburst of noise, no one has uttered a word. How long has it been? There's no way to tell, but it feels like an eternity. Like I've been trapped in a silent film, where the coughing engine of the bus is nothing but a whirring projector in the background.

  The bus feels like a prison, our personal vessel from one tragedy to another, with no way of getting off to pick our own way. I'm about to sink back into my chair when I hear a sigh across from me. I tilt my head towards the source of noise, finding Aaron hunched over in his seat, his head in his hands.

  He stays like this, his only movement a result of the bus. As I watch him, I realize that I underestimated him somewhat. Even in the midst of panic, at the height of chaos, he didn't give up. Only shedding his stoic mask for a second, he didn't waste any time in trying to fix everything. Even when things were irreparable.

  I respect that.

  He's a better leader than I gave him credit for, even if the memory of his attitude still irritates me.

  He sighs again, and I wonder if I should say something. The bus hits a bump in the road and his head jumps from his hands just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes are darker than I remember, his expression a shattered fragment of the certainty it used to hold.

  Leaning over to him in my seat, I clear my throat as a way of catching his attention. He doesn't look up.

  "You alright, Aaron?" His head lifts at the sound of his name, his gaze finding mine before he returns to his original position. Rocket turns in her seat to look at him and then shares a glance with me in the rear-view mirror. Just as I am about to ask him again, he sits up.

  "Yeah, I . . ." he trails off, slapping his palms down on his thighs as he sags back into his chair. "I just." He exhales a breath. When I think he isn't going to say anymore, he does.

  "I worked so hard."

  With a shake of his head, he turns to look out the window beside him. I pull away, my familiar feelings for him slowly returning. That's what he's been thinking about? How hard he worked? A chord of irritation twangs within me as I find my lips pulling into a scowl. I'm about to respond when he continues.

  "And now it's all gone."

  The twang of irritation subsides, and is replaced with one of empathy at the sound of his voice. Broken, but not in the way that Joey's is. No, I think. His voice isn't broken, it's lost. Lost in a sea of dark despair and hopelessness. As I think of the sound, I realize that I can relate.

  "We'll start again," Rocket chirps, "we always do."

  Not a sigh, but a snort this time escapes him as he turns from the window to look at her. "What?" he asks, his upper lip curling with the word. "So it can all just go to shit again?" He turns with a shake of his head to look back out the window. Her eyes pounce to mine, striking me with a clear message: Say something.

  I exhale a breath, wondering what I should say. Wondering what I can say. "Well . . ." I begin, and he turns to look at me with a set of hollow eyes.

  I flinch from them, because I've seen them before, in the mirror, when my entire world had shattered and I was living in an apartment on my own, separated from my daughter. It was supposed to be the last night of my life. In a dirty bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror.

  They stared back at me, sunken and dead. The only evidence of life a streak of tears streaming from them, dropping on the paper below. I looked down, away from my reflection, and counted the several tears that had stained the letter. Small, tiny blemishes, scattered out across the parchment.

  My vision blurring, I struggled to refocus my gaze on the last two words, barely recognizing my own hand-writing.

  Goodbye Princess. . .

  Another chug, and another pill, and I was closer.

  Closer to what I wanted.

  Closer to feeling nothing. . .

  I have to look away, unable to hold the pain in his eyes, unable to revisit it. I fall silent, any and all words I had thought of speaking dying on my tongue. There's nothing I can say to make him feel better. I know this, because there's nothing anyone could have said to me to make me feel better. Only a miracle could have made me feel better.

  A small pain burns in my wrist, followed by a furious itch. I focus on the unpleasant sensation, relishing its arrival with a warm welcome, anything to distract me. I scratch at the bandage lightly, ignoring the yellowish-red discoloration that has spread across its surface. My wrist burns fiercer at the touch, and I grimace at the pain, pulling my hand away. I notice Aaron watching me, and realize that he has been waiting for me to say something.

  I shrug, deciding to spit out the first thing that comes to my mind.

  "That's survival for you, everything comes to an end and you just keep fighting like a stubborn son of a bitch." His expression doesn't change, but he nods and turns away anyway. Again I shrug, already
expecting this outcome. As I begin to turn back into my seat, I once again catch Rocket's glare, urging me to say more. I glare back at her, tempted by the idea of just lying down in my seat and taking a nap. But I know I can't do that.

  "Look kid," I sigh, catching his attention once again. "I know you and me got off on the wrong foot, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed with how you handled things back there." I sigh again, struggling to force the compliments out. "But you gotta understand, what happened wasn't your fault. It was Joey's. You did everything you could, and that's all you can do." I finish my speech with a final shrug, offering him a look of pity. He attempts a smile, but fails to materialize it and I figure now may as well be my time to give up.

  He'll get over it, just like I . . . well, I suppose you never really get over it. You manage. That's all this has been. Not survival. Managing, and barely managing at that. But still, there's nothing that I can say or do to help him move forward. He needs to do that on his own.

  "I lost my first six races," Rocket interjects. I can tell she's going to be much more motivational than I was by the way she increases the speed of the bus at a steady incline with every word. "My own father and fiancé both had me pegged as becoming the worst female driver in NASCAR history. You think I gave up?"

  She pauses to hold a steady gaze with Aaron before continuing. "I removed them from my life and I kept racing! And you know what happened?"

  "You won all your races?" he supplies dejectedly.

  "Not all of them. In fact, probably not even half of them. But I did win in the end, because I was happy I didn't give up. If I had given up when they wanted me to give up, I woulda never known what it feels like to win a race."

  His facade cracks slightly, chipping away with every strike of her tongue. She notices this as she pauses to look in the rear-view mirror. "You can't give up, Aaron," she finishes, her gaze injecting the last of its venom before returning to the road.

  He remains still after this, he too concentrating his eyes on the road stretching out in front of us. Looking at him, I can almost remember the feel of turmoil in my own mind. The raging battle that desecrated thoughts and left me hollow, my eyes left sunken the way Aaron's are now.