They drop their packs under a tree, one on top of the other, then remove the crowbars, and place them on the opposite side. Karo suggests rotating three hour watch shifts, each of them getting three hours of sleep at a time. To Daisy it sounded more like an order, but it was punctuated as a question.
The following day of searching passes much the same. The duo find bits of cloth, Daisy speaks aloud to herself, occasionally involving Karo in her chatter, and he continues to respond with short phrases or snorts, peering at her with slanted eyes whenever she jabs at him.
With the sun beginning to lower in the sky they come upon a body. It was an infected, 'was' being the proper descriptor for the creature now. A large, ghastly hole, resides on the face of the beast, where its left eye should be. A block of blue cloth hangs from a branch on a tree next to the infected, larger than the other bits they'd been finding.
"Shit, hope they're alright."
"There's no fresh blood around, that's a good sign. Either they snuck up on it, or it snuck up on them and they handled it quickly. It doesn't appear that either of them were harmed. It's possible one of them was scratched, but let's hold off on the worst case for now."
"Right, clear heads, optimistic outlook."
Before his gaze is even fully fixed on her, the once lawyer is already waving her hand.
"I wasn't being facetious."
A stern and concentrated composure sets in on her. She keeps stride with Karo as they continue on, even finding the next bit of cloth and removing it, before Karo is aware of its presence. The following cut off piece of clothing is located in less than thirty minutes, and its procurement is accompanied by the slight, but distinct, sound of flowing water.
The searchers share a look of heightened excitement, before racing to the delightful sound. Clumped dirt and damp branches kick up off their heels as the tones of the flowing solution grow louder and closer.
A small incline is trudged up bringing the creek into view. It doesn't appear too deep. Rocks line the edges, the water rushes briskly, bubbling and cascading in parts to indicate objects nearly breaking to the surface. No more than thirty yards down stream sits an hold, weather worn, but still standing spring house, covered in moss and mold, the brick stained green and yellow.
With the attorney in tow, Karo crosses the creek, preferring to come up to the spring house from the side it sits on. As they draw nearer they're able to see that there is a small barred window on the side they're facing. Some greenery hangs down over the window, but it's not completely covered, giving the impression that some of the nature has been ripped away.
The spring house is no more than ten feet away, when suddenly a figure darts around the side and comes into view. A hand rests upon the side of the spring house, another hand lay across the chest of the person, and a beaming smile covers from ear to ear.
"I've never been more happy to see a lawyer in all my life!"
Daisy's stride morphs into a sprint, nearly a skip, elation exuding from her.
"And I've never been more happy to see a doctor!"
She leaps into Norman's outstretched arms and clutches him tight, as tears of relief trickle down both their faces. Karo reaches them, waits respectfully, then nods to Norman once their gazes meet.
"Norman, glad to see you."
"You too Karo."
Daisy loosens her grip and leans back, bringing Norman's full face into view.
"Where's Patrick?"
"He's inside the spring house with the cooler."
"We found a body, what happened?"
"It snuck up on us. We're fine though."
Norman's gaze sets upon Karo again.
"If you want to rest for a bit, there's a barn that looks to still be in good shape just past the spring house. Probably only a few hours of daylight left, might as well check it out and camp here tonight, then set off again at dawn."
Karo's head dips, the faintest glimpse of a smile flashing from him.
"Sounds like a plan."
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
A lump in her throat catches her before she can speak. Her chest stalls then flutters. She brushes her hand over his forehead, wiping away sweat. Her tears drip onto his face, running down his cheeks, and dribbling over his lips. He can taste the salt. His hand is pressed upon her face, his thumb rubs her eyebrow. She can feel his strength dwindling away.
Luis Santana Ortiz is sixteen years old. He has lost his mother, his uncle, and his abuela during the course of his life. Abuela a few years before the community he was born in fell, and his mother and uncle when it fell. His family are proud Puerto Ricans, even though only his abuela has ever been to their ancestral country.
The elders in his family spoke Spanish to him and his sister as they grew up, ensuring that the language lived on through them, and that they understood how important carrying forth culture is. Luis and his sister, Adriana, watched their abuela die of old age, slowly becoming less and less herself as years passed by. She died peacefully, in her sleep, laying her head down one night, and never raising it up again.
The Latinx younglings did not see their mother and uncle meet the end of the line, but as the fire engulfed and overtook their community, and their continued search within it to find them proved fruitless, they had no choice but to accept the most probable outcome. Since that day Adriana has been even more overly protective of her younger brother, much in the way their mother was with both of them.
Adriana cradles the head of her sobbing brother in her arms, his neck resting in the bend of her elbow, her arm extended behind his neck, and her fingers nuzzled in his hair. He holds one hand on his sister’s damp cheek, his other against his neck, pressing with all his might to slow the flow of blood. His eyes sparkle then dim, sparkle then dim, his conscience fighting the inevitable, refusing to allow the realization to fully set in.
They do not speak. Neither of them knowing which words to let slip out, instead falling in a synchronous rhythm of breathes, inhaling then exhaling together, feeling the weight of the world, the full breadth of their bond, in what both of them know are the last moments they will ever spend together.
Hawaii and Zee grew up with the two proud Puerto Ricans. They have known Outlaw since he was born, and Sweetie since each of them were born. They aren’t like a family, they are a family. They could’ve never been prepared to lose one of their own. Hawaii holds Zee, her hand grasped over her mouth, and his head resting against the top of hers. The trickle of his tears leave a faint sheen on her hair, the stream of hers wet his shirt. Their lungs puff, their chests convulse, and they weep.
Rosaline doesn’t often cry. She doesn’t often allow herself to feel sadness, but the sight of the woman she loves embracing someone she cares about so deeply, as the life of that loved one slowly fades away, hits her hard. Harder than she would’ve ever expected, and she weeps.
Mikey holds onto the leg of his adoptive mother. He knows Outlaw is in trouble, and in pain, and he knows the teenager is going to die. He knows people live and then they die, but the process, the outcome, the absence, are beyond him. He doesn’t wholly understand what death means, but he does realize that tomorrow Outlaw will not be walking with them, and he weeps.
KP is still on the ground, having sat up now. She carefully, and quietly, removes her shirt and wraps it around the bite wound on her arm, tugging it firmly into place. She is immune, and will not suffer any dire consequences to her own self from this tragic event. She understands loss, she understands grief, and she knows them well--much more than she would like to. She is not close with these young people, but she cares for them as if she were. They are her responsibility, and in this moment she feels that she has failed them, and she weeps.
When Sweetie raced across the impromptu battleground and fell to the soil, scooping her brother up into her arms, Rad’s knees buckled, his rifle tumbled from his grasp, and he sank to the dirt. Realization, anger, and sadness did not need time to manifest within him. They came quickly, overwhelming him, fil
ling his mind, weighing his body down, flooding his eyes, and weakening his spirit. His brow hangs as low as it ever has, his mouth gapes, his face contorts. He knows he’s hearing the last living gasps that will ever escape his best friend’s lungs, and he weeps.
Luis Santana Ortiz, lovingly known as Outlaw by his banded together family, lay on the ground, mushy dirt soaking his shirt and pants, blood pooling just below his head. His jaw loosens, hanging, leaving his lips agape, his motor functions beginning to fail him. The wound in his neck is large and deep, a baseball size chunk missing, the blood gushes from the lesion, and his hand is no longer properly covering it. His skin has paled, his eyelids have sagged, and his breathing has become shallow.
His hand upon her cheek loses tension and slips. His eyelids quake, for a brief moment, then fall shut. Sweetie pats his face, an immediate urgency overtaking her.
“Luis! Luis!”
She calls to him, her voice low and soft, but the words blurting from her. Her hand taps quicker and harder, each beat intensifying.
“Don’t go, not-not yet, please, please!”
She pleads, she taps and strokes his face. After a short moment his eyelids part, ever so slightly, the whites become visible, a sliver of the curves of his irises coming back into view. His jaw bobbles, his tongue flicks out, licking his bottom lip. He swallows meekly.
“I-I’m gonna miss you.” he says in a hushed whisper.
“Oh” -a sudden heaviness fills her, the dam to her tear ducts breaks- “mi hermano." she says, a tenderness weaved in her words.
His head sways to the side, slipping down her forearm, his eyes no longer gazing at her.
“Bendicion.” he mutters through loose lips.
“Dios te bendiga.” she gently murmurs.
The hand against his neck falls to the dirt, and his body limps in her arms. She clutches him tightly, pulls him up, presses her face against the clean side of his neck and weeps again.
Sweetie remains on her knees, holding the depleted body of her brother, rocking back and forth, and weeping softly for twenty minutes, before KP gingerly approaches her.
“I hate having to say this, but he passed out from blood loss. He will wake up again, but it won’t be him.”
The Latina slowly turns her head up and peers at the Guide.
“I can’t, I can’t.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but-”
“I will.”
The reply comes from behind KP. She pivots to see Rad pushing himself to his feet. He stands defeated, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his knees bowed in, and his face still glossed--no attempts made to alter the presence of sorrow within in.
“I will. H-He’s” -his jaw trembles, his chest ripples- “my best f-f” -another tremble, a ripple, a shake of his head- “I’ll do it.”
KP bows her head, then turns back to Sweetie.
“This is-is, well, there’s nothing I can say, and nothing you want to hear. You will cope however you need to, and that’s more than okay, but we don’t have much time-”
“I know.” the weeping sister replies, her voice hollow and low. “I don’t wanna watch.”
“I understand. It would be a good idea to take your clothes off, um” -she hesitates for a moment, her lips restricting to one side- “fully, and wash yourself, then put different clothes on.”
The distraught sister nods, no fight left in her, no want to drag this moment out. She carefully lays her brother down, leans in close to him, quietly whispers something in Spanish, then, one final time, gently caresses his cheek.
Zee moves from Hawaii’s side, placing her hand on the broken sister’s shoulder. The devastated woman peers up at her, with damp eyes.
“Is it alright if I say a few words?”
The heartbroken sibling gestures a small nod, then returns her gaze to her brother. Zee snivels and wipes her wet face with her arm.
"It is frightful to think of what true love means
Never more apparent than a true loss grieved
A brave soul, a bold soul, a beautiful gentle spirit
A shining beacon of light, joyful and fearless"
The poetic woman's chest inflates, her lungs filling suddenly, tears flow again, but her soft words continue.
"For we are but wisps, whims floating in dreams
Leaves fall from branches, tears fall from cheeks
Innocence and wonder, magnificence caught by breeze
Our fair little Outlaw, our gorgeous little bee
May you rest in peace eternally, ever so serene."
CHAPTER FIFTY
“We go east from here, we should run into Route 19 in a few hours.”
“We’re really that close?”
“Florida isn’t more than a day away, Oasis three, four days at most.”
She beams, her mouth moves to one side, a half smile forming. She looks over her shoulder to Norman, his eyes full, he exhales heavily.
“That’s the best news we’ve had in weeks.”
Karo folds the map back into a small square as he regards the doctor.
“We’re not across the finish line yet, but it’s in sight, and that does feel good.”
Daisy briskly swats her hand on Karo’s arm, no real force behind the action.
“Slow down there cowboy, we might take that as optimism.”
That glare from beneath slanted eyelids, one she’s all too familiar with, presents itself upon the stoic wanderer. She chuckles, tapping his arm once more, before turning her attention to Patrick. The teen is to the side of Norman, a bit behind him, but not enough that Norman would need to rotate to bring the boy into his view.
“What do you think about that Patrick? There’s a real chance we’ll be arriving to Oasis in four days, maybe less.”
The timid teenager, with one arm clutching the other, does not reply with words, instead offering a meager bow of his head to the elated woman.
“Yeah, I like the sound of it too. It’ll be nice to sleep a full night.”
Norman holds his hand up, patting at the air.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We still don’t know if they’ll let us in.”
“They will.” Karo says, his voice gruff.
“You’re certain of that?”
“I am. You’re good people. If Oasis is still standing, they’ll take you in. I don’t see how they won’t have need for another doctor, and if they’re progressed according to the plan they set a few years after the outbreak, a lawyer would be beneficial for them.”
“It only takes an apocalyptic event to give my profession a good name, how about that?” the attorney responds, a cheeky expression exuding from her.
“And Patrick’s young. Young people are always a valuable asset.” Karo says, brushing past her snarky comment.
Karo opens the side pouch of his backpack and restores the map to its safe holding space. Daisy detaches the canteen from the strap holding it to her pack, removes the lid, and takes a swig of water. Norman picks his pack up off the ground, motioning for Patrick to do the same.
The quad of Nomads carry on, pushing through thick brush and trees, crossing over a small creek, and staying to the outskirts of a moderately sized town. The hours pass by no longer or shorter than they ever have, only their perception of the time changing. These hours seem to fly by, their anticipation mounting, pulling them forward.
Their destination, U.S. Route 19, comes into view. A faint sight in the distance, perpendicular to the path they'd been carving out. They'll need to cross into the town they're near to find the on-ramp of the interstate.
"Traveling on the interstate itself isn't the most strategic path, but it is the most direct."
"What about camp?" the doctor posits.
"There should be cars littered all around. Certainly one of them will be empty, unlocked, and its windows intact, right?" Daisy replies, a bit of enthusiasm to her answer.
"That's what we're hoping for."
"Hope?" She replies, her brow raised, "Do
c, check this man for a fever." she teases, her face morphing into an animated display of sarcasm.
Norman chuckles, a rarity for the half-hearted man these past few weeks. Daisy's gaze flashes to him, twinkling and illuminating.
"It's good to see you laugh Norman."
"I still enjoy humor Days. It's just been" -he sighs, his hand brushes over his head- "oh, rough. It's just been rough."
"I know." she says, her eyelashes fluttering, "I'm just glad to see it coming back."
Their harmless small chatter carries on for another few minutes, then Karo gets them in line and ready to venture on. They stay low, and silent, through the derelict town.
This town, like all other towns, is eerily silent, brooding, and molded. Areas are beginning to be shrouded in freshly growing and extending green, buildings washed and deteriorated, vehicles strewn on all sides of the roads, some of them ran into shops, or smashed against structures, some showing signs of rust, some much more than others, and this once lively and populated area of human concentration features the one sight that all previously congested zones do--the remains of lives lost long ago, and every so often the decayed remnants of a full body.
These places always present a sense of unease, an underlying sensation of dread and caution. If nothing else these unwillingly abandoned comfort zones reinforce that nothing should ever be taken for granted. Those that still live, and are old enough to have experienced a substantial amount of time in the world before the outbreak, before the disease sank its frantic and unforgiving fangs into the world, know this one simple fact to be true; nothing is ever promised and nothing is ever certain.
The four determined nomads pass by shops and ruined homes, keeping their focus in front of them. The interstate is close and in clear view. The on-ramp just two traffic lights ahead. There have been no diseased, no Adapted that they've noticed. Of course, Karo knows this could be a fallacy, they could be watching the beating hearts, waiting for an opportune time to attack, just as they did when the monsters took Jack's life.
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