A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1)

by R. K. Weir

  So all that time he had gone on about how he couldn't save her, he was telling the truth. How could he save her? Cancer is not a battle that he could fight for her. It is merciless, sparing no one. Not even a child so innocent and strong that she manages the ghost of a smile for the sake of a photo.

  Her cheeks are dimpled and she looks genuinely happy to be held in the arms of her father. I can't even imagine how Logan must feel, looking at this photo of a daughter he'll never get to hold again.

  "All this time," I mutter, tearing my eyes away from hers. "All this time you've been blaming yourself?"

  It takes a moment for him to remove himself from the picture, a new wall of agony burning in his eyes when they find mine. Again, all he offers is the smallest of nods, his jaw chiseled by the tension of clenched muscle.

  "Why?"

  I can hear the procession of people in the next room, the shuffling of feet towards the death bed. It breaks my attention, but not his.

  "Because," like a dam, his lips part, the word rushing out with the force of a breath held in too long. "Because I. . ." He cuts himself off with a shake of his head, his eyes glassy with tears too stubborn to fall.

  "The day she died," he pauses, finding her face once again on the mantel. "The day she died, I was lying face down in a gutter. Stinking drunk." His eyelashes clump together like paint brushes with tears as their only source of paint, working furiously to color the rims of his eyes red.

  "I could barely understand what they were saying when they phoned me. But I got the gist of it, enough anyway to make me go back into the bar and get another drink."

  He stops talking now, his fists so tightly clenched they have begun to shake. I can see the memory, alive in his eyes, tearing him apart from the inside. They burn with the pain, like two pools of blue acid. He clears his throat and forces his hands to stop their trembling.

  "So you blame yourself because you weren't there for her when she died?" I ask.

  "I blame myself because I wasn't there for her at all."

  The statement hangs in the air between us. I have nothing for him but a look of pity. It's all that I can afford. All that I can think to offer. There are no words that I can string together to make him feel better. No magical solution to take away his pain. His guilt is his own to bear, and I think that he will carry it with him for the rest of his life.

  He bows his head at my silence and I wonder if he was hoping that I would say something. But just like with Aaron, I find myself at a loss for words. What can I say when nothing seems appropriate? As the silence between us grows heavier, I decide that offering him something is better than offering him nothing. And so I give him the most basic of responses, the template of all consolations.

  "I'm sorry."

  He doesn't lift his head, but he nods.

  "Is this why you wanted to come back?" I ask, "to Las Vegas? Because you wanted a picture of her?"

  He huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so drenched in grief. "I was actually afraid that I was going to forget what she looked like," his eyes lift up to mine, "and then I met you."

  I shy away from his gaze, choosing to look back at the photos instead.

  "Stella," he says, drawing my attention back to him. "I'm really glad that I met you." His expression is one of stone, but his eyes scream conviction. I falter under them, finding any and all expression of emotion an uncomfortable experience. Yet still, I can't help but feel warmth at his words.

  "Thanks," I say. "I'm pretty glad I met you too."

  This cracks the stone, the corner of his lip lifting into the beginnings of a smile. He clears his throat again, "I uh," he begins rummaging around in his pocket, "actually have something I'd like you to have."

  He pulls out a locket, a golden chain as thin as string with an amber heart swinging from it. "It was my daughters," he says, staring down at it.

  He holds it out to me, the heart swinging just below his clenched fist. I stare at it for a moment.

  The gesture is nice, but it feels wrong.

  "I'm not your daughter, Logan," I tell him. The words don't crush him like I thought they would, for that I'm relieved.

  "No," he says, "no, of course not. I'm not trying to pretend that you are, it's just . . ." he pauses, looking down at the locket. "It just feels right that you should have this."

  I offer him a little smile, eased by the confirmation that he isn't trying to mold me into the image of the daughter he lost. That he isn't trying to make me her replacement. A little awkwardly, I hold my hand out towards him, and he drops the locket into my open palm.

  The heart is heavy, it's metal warm against my skin. The chain resembles a strand of DNA, intricately woven and artfully designed. I hold it up and secure it around my neck.

  "Thank you," I say, rolling the pendant along my chest, its smooth metal gliding along the fabric of my shirt. He appraises it, smiling warmly, and I find myself feeling again just a little bit awkward. "I actually have something for you too." Reaching down to the rucksack that lies at my feet, I unzip it and dig out the penicillin. I hold it up for him to see. "Antibiotics."

  "Ah," he smiles, catching it as I throw it to him. "Thank you."

  "Not a problem," I say, before catching myself. "Well, actually, it was quite a problem." I shake my head, "but you know what I mean."

  He emits a breathy laugh before popping the cap off and throwing a pill back.

  "What was her name?" I ask, looking down at the pendant, "your daughter. I don't think you ever told me."

  "Anna," he says.

  I turn back to look at the photo once again, finally having a name to put to the eyes. She looks like an Anna.

  "Well," he sighs, "it looks like they're about finished up in there. I think we've isolated ourselves long enough."

  I nod, moving to look back into the living room. Sure enough, it looks like everyone has left, besides Joey. I leave the rucksack where it is and follow Logan, dropping into one of the seats facing the couch.

  It isn't until I've settled that I realize Aaron isn't blinking. His eyes have fallen blank, like a poorly illustrated drawing that has failed to capture the life in them. They stare off into oblivion, seeing something that we can't, the color sponged from each iris.

  Joey sits on his knees beside him. Logan stands by his side.

  Aaron's body does not move, trapped in the purgatory state of stasis. A temporary death weighs him down, restricting every muscle and ensnaring all motion. The room has stopped moving with him.

  Everything is still, until his finger twitches.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Stella

  Joey is picking at a scab on his arm. His attention has not moved from it since. I watch him, his nail digging into the crust and peeling it back to free a bubble of bright red. He wipes it away, smearing it across his skin, and moves on to find another.

  He has not said anything since the reanimation. Not even cursed or sighed at the pain he must be inflicting on himself. He sits in the chair beside mine, his head bowed so he does not have to see the body.

  Logan has found a sheet to cover it, and has draped it over. Still, the outline is visible, with maroon flowering from its head, soaking through the white fabric. Inch by inch, the red creeps against the white, devouring it the way spilled ink taints a page.

  Logan stands silently by the couch, his eyes, like mine, are trained on Joey. I think we're waiting for something. Waiting for him to move, or speak. But he gives no sign of doing either.

  He just sits, picking at the scabs spread out along his arms.

  "Joey?" I ask, twisting my body so that I am facing him. He makes no indication that he has heard me, he just keeps picking.

  Pick, pick, pick.

  Bloody dots cover his arms now. Soon he will have nothing left to pick at, and I worry then that he will begin digging into his skin.

  "Joey say something," I demand. "Please?"

  His finger stops its burrow, his head swaying the s
lightest bit that I'm not sure if it was an intentional movement or not.

  "It's my fault," he says, the words spoken softly, as if he's afraid of waking the dead.

  "What?" I ask.

  "It's my fault," he repeats. "All of it. We wouldn't even be here right now if it weren't for me!"

  "Joey that's—"

  "No!" he cuts me off, his head snapping in my direction. "Don't even try to justify it, Stella!"

  His eyes scare me, no longer reflecting the distant memory of an ocean long forgotten. Their blue have dissolved to a darker tone, taking the color of the sky when night attacks. He tears them away, looking back down at his arms.

  "How many people are dead because of me?" He falls silent and I know that he is counting. "Y'know that's why I didn't want to kill those people at the supermarket?" He turns back to me, "because even though that was you, I still blame myself. Like I should have stopped you or something."

  "But those people were planning to kill us!"

  "I know that!" he shouts, "but I. . ." His voice drops off with a shake of his head and he sighs. "I just don't want any more blood on my hands."

  He rubs at his eyes with clenched fists, as if trying to wipe away the guilt. I share a glance with Logan, unsure of what to say. He looks as helpless as I do. There's nothing either of us can say. We can lie, but what good will that do? He won't believe us anyway. As the silence begins to descend upon us, Joey reaches forward and grabs the red bag at his feet, the one that he has been cradling as if his life depended on it.

  "Here," he says, handing it to me. "Get rid of it, destroy it, do whatever the hell you want with it. I don't care."

  His eyes linger on it as I take it from him, his hand resting on its red fabric longer than necessary. I pull it to my side, out of his reach, and his hand retracts.

  He returns to his scabs.

  Logan clears his throat. "We should probably get going soon. Not much sense hanging around here."

  I don't agree with him. The idea of resting for a while is a tempting one, but I can understand why neither of them want to remain here. The house is a gravestone to them, a place of visit, but not one to stay. So I push myself into the soft cushion of the seat, relishing the comfort while I still can.

  "Yeah that's a good idea," Joey nods. "Aaron wants us," he pauses, his eyes drifting to the body. "Wanted us to head to Canada. So I suppose we'll just take the bus and go straight up."

  No, I think. We can't head straight up, because that isn't where I need to go.

  "Sounds like a plan," Logan says.

  No, I think again, beginning to panic now.

  "Well actually," I say and both pairs of eyes land on me, "I think we should stick to the coast and move up from there."

  Joey's brow furrows. "Why?"

  "Because . . ." I begin, but my train of thought tilts from its tracks and topples away. How can I convince them when I can't tell them the real reason? They'll never understand. Or worse, they'll try to convince me to give up.

  And that's something I will never do.

  My eyes catch Logan's and I remember our talk at the gas station. I can use him as leverage. "Logan agrees with me," I say. This time it's his brow that furrows.

  "I do?" he asks.

  "Yes, remember at the gas station when we were talking about how long you would be staying in Las Vegas? You agreed to go to the coast with me."

  His expression pinches as he struggles to retain the memory. "Because the infected can't swim?" he asks, uncertain. I nod at the weak excuse I had conjured. Even back then I had struggled to make up a reason. How do I make up a reason where there is none? It makes no logical sense to go to the coast, not for them anyway.

  "I thought you were joking about that."

  My lips tug into a frown. "No, I. . ."

  "Stella, going to the coast will only add days to our travel time. There's no point," he says.

  Heat rushes to my face and I have to work not to bite back at him. There is a point, you just don't know what it is. It feels as if a cage is slowly shrinking around me, ensnaring me in a trap of my own design. I can't tell him the truth, but I can't convince him without it.

  The only solution I can think of is to tell him half of the truth. So I stand up from the chair and move towards him, gently grabbing him by the arm and pulling him back into the dining room where we had our little heart-to-heart. The memory might help to convince him. He folds his arms across his chest and looks down at me expectantly.

  "I'm looking for someone," I tell him. This isn't what he wanted to hear. Deep lines run through his face as he frowns.

  "Who?"

  I shake my head. "It doesn't matter who."

  "Well how do you know they're up the coast?"

  Ah, the question I hoped he wouldn't ask. This is the point where telling half the truth is forced to cross over into the territory of lying.

  "Because that's where he told me he would be," I say.

  "And how long ago was this?"

  "The last time I spoke to him."

  "And when was that?"

  "Jesus, what's with the inquisition?" I snap, "I came here with you, no questions asked!"

  "Stella you know what it's like out there! It's impossible to stay in one place for too long, odds of them still being there are . . ." he pauses. "Slim."

  "But there's still a chance."

  He sighs. "We have a bus, Stella. If we go to the coast, we'll be on foot."

  "Not if we can convince them to come with us."

  "You would ask them to risk their lives because you think your friend is still waiting for you?" he asks. The answer does not come to me as quickly as it should. I should be able to say yes, without a doubt. But the way he has phrased his question has thrown me off. Not only am I asking them to risk their lives, I'm asking him.

  A realization dawns on me, one that I try to push away. It's dangerous to form attachments in this world, something that more often than not will only end up getting you killed. But I can't deny that that's exactly what I've done here.

  I've formed a connection with these people. I risked my life to get food for everyone, and I risked it again to get antibiotics for Logan. I went back to the school, when I could have left and driven up the coast while I had the chance.

  As I look at Logan, it becomes more and more obvious to me that I can no longer use him the way that I had planned. I can't hold him as my shield, a vessel I can take advantage of to get me where I want. He isn't my bodyguard anymore.

  He's someone that I care about.

  And that will never work.

  I won't ask him to come to the coast with me, because he's right. There's no point for him. Canada is his safest bet. Even if I don't believe that the rumors are true, that the infection can't survive up there. It's what’s in his best interests. It's what's in all their best interests. A chance to be safe. I won't take that away from them.

  But I won't go with them.

  He sighs and I realize I've kept him waiting. "If you really want to go up the coast, I'll come with you," he says.

  "No," I mumble, wondering if I'm going to regret this decision. "No you're right. They're probably not there. We should just go to Canada."

  He gives me a look. "You're sure?"

  I nod. "I'm sure."

  We walk back into the living room where Joey sits up in his seat, an argument already prepared in his eyes. "Aaron wanted us to go straight up to Canada," he says, getting straight to the point, "I have to do what he wanted, Stella."

  He’s so convicted in the way that he has said it. I don’t think I’d be able to convince him to go to the coast even if I tried.

  I fake a smile, and nod. "You're right," I say, "the coast is pointless." For one weak moment, I actually consider believing that lie and going with them. But I can't, not when there's still a chance that he's alive, waiting for me.

  "Alright," Logan says, "then we'll start getting ready now."

  I try to convince myself that this is for t
he best. The sooner I leave, the better. I will go to the coast alone, and maybe if I find what I am looking for, I’ll meet them in Canada. But I remember the size of the country on school maps, how large and unlikely it would be to find them there. And what Logan said only moments ago; people don't stay in one spot for very long. But I don't dwell on that fact, because I know that truly, this is for the best.

  Everyone gets what they want this way.

  Logan moves back into the dining room and Joey steps outside. This is my chance. It feels like it’s happening too fast, because I didn’t think I’d leave them like this, caring about them. But if I don’t leave now, I’m afraid I won’t get another chance. So I sling the bag Joey gave me over my shoulder and make my way towards the kitchen. I can't take anything else, not without them knowing. I’ll probably end up regretting this decision, but for now, I don't care. I just need to leave, before my mind changes or I get cold feet. I reach the back-door of the kitchen that leads out into a small backyard and reach for the handle, but stop.

  Only now do I notice the weight of the locket. It feels heavy around my neck, like it's tethering me to them. It doesn't feel right that I take it, not anymore. So I pull it off and drop it on the counter, its chain splaying out around the pendant.

  It's for the best, I tell myself.

  As I slip out the back-door and into the small garden, I take a breath.

  And I do not look back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Logan

  The sooner we leave, the better.

  I thought coming here would help, thought seeing her face again would help. But I was wrong. Standing in the dining room, it feels as if every photo is pointed towards me. As if every set of eyes is stabbing into me with justified blame.

  I can't rid myself of the guilt, but I can rid myself of this place, showcasing it like a museum. I pick the rucksack up off the ground and sling it over my back, looking at the pictures on the mantel and the walls. There's a photo that I want, but it isn't here.