by Angela Scott
When she finally made her way to him and Wen, she appeared to be in pretty rough shape, staggering and sweating as though the midday sun beat down upon her.
"You sure you're a'right?"
"I will be." She nodded. "I just need a little something to eat. Maybe a drink of water, too."
Wen fumbled around in the saddlebags, none of which were technically his, and handed Red a piece of jerky and a canteen of water. He even uncorked it for her.
Trace noticed her hands shaking, but chose not to mention it. "Wen, why don't you take Red's horse and she can ride with me. A'right?"
Wen gave him a concerned look before nodding agreement. She didn't complain or demand otherwise, which bothered him. It was uncharacteristic for her to follow his lead without a fight.
He helped her climb onto his horse and then swung himself up behind her. He reached around her waist, took the reins, and steered his horse a short distance away as Wen started the bonfire. The flames took hold and licked at the pile of dead bodies—a quick burn that would leave little behind.
Good riddance, Trace thought. He gave his horse the go-ahead, and with Wen close on his heels, they left the circle of wagons and heap of fiery bodies behind.
Chapter 8 – Miniature Rises and Valleys
Red's body slumped against Trace, and he tightened his grip on her. Heat radiated through her clothing as she burned with fever. She was sicker than she'd let on, and getting worse.
He lowered his head and placed his lips on her brow, gently brushing them against her—hot, just as he figured. Damn, this isn't good.
"What are you doin'?" She jerked her head from his touch.
"Not kissing you, that's for sure." He raised the back of his hand to her forehead and touched her skin once again. "You're burning up with fever, Red. We need to find you some help."
"No," she insisted. "I'm fine. I just need to rest is all."
He yanked the reins on his horse to stop their progress. Wen caught up, pulled Red's horse alongside, and looked at the two of them with trepidation on his face. "She getting worse?"
Trace nodded. "She's on fire. We need to find a place to set up camp. Hopefully near a river or something to cool her down."
"It's only a few more hours to town. Maybe they have a doctor there," Wen suggested.
"No!" She became rigid in Trace's arms. "You take me to a doctor and I'll shoot the both of you. That's a promise."
"Okay, okay." It encouraged him that she still had some fight in her. "Settle down. No doctor, it is. But we can't keep going like this. Your fever's getting worse. We need to find a place to stay for the night, or at least until your fever breaks."
"What if it doesn't break?" Wen asked, staring directly at Trace over the top of Red's head, a thick coat of accusation punctuating his words.
Trace wondered the same thing—hated himself for it—but it couldn't be helped.
"She said she wasn't bit—" She wouldn't lie about something like that, would she?
"Sorry." Wen raised his gun and aimed it directly at Red's head. "But I don't believe her."
"What the hell are ya doing? Put that away." Trace held his hand up in a futile attempt at deflection.
"I know you like her an' all, but you can't ignore the obvious. Once someone's bit, it's over." Wen cursed. "We've been riding for two hours now, two hours! She could turn any second."
Trace noticed Wen's hand was steady as he directed his gun at the woman he held in his arms. His face began to soften a little, but he didn't lower his gun.
"I don't want to kill her. You have to know that. But it's the humane thing to do."
"Please." Red tugged on Trace's arm. "Let me down."
With great reservation, he loosened his grip on her and kept his eye on Wen as she worked her tired body off the horse. She tumbled forward and went down on one knee. Trace made a move to help her, but she climbed to her feet and wobbled on unsteady legs with her arms wrapped around her middle as though she might vomit.
"Just leave me here," she said. "Leave me my gun, a few supplies, and go. You can have my horse."
Wen cocked his pistol, and Trace instinctually drew his own from its holster and aimed it over Red's head at Wen. "Don't make me kill you. I like you and I'd hate to have to put a bullet in your skull."
"Hell, I like you too, but we can't be traveling with a zombie!"
"Stop it!" Red held up her trembling hands. "Stop it, both of you! Please."
Then she shocked them both as she undid her pants and removed them one leg at a time, while she kept her head down and avoided their eyes. When she reached up and began to unbutton her shirt, Trace had to stop her.
"Wait a minute. What are you—" he couldn't finish. She was out of her mind.
Her shirt and undergarments fell into a crumpled pile at her feet, and Trace's eyes widened in a mixture of surprise and horror. He'd never seen such a thing, and as Wen lowered his gun, it became apparent that he hadn't either.
Red stood before them with teeth marks of all shapes, sizes, and depths—healed over but visible—dotting her otherwise perfect body. Her shoulders trembled and she hung her head, as she used her hands and arms to shield her more intimate parts. A dozen or more scars ran along her upper arms, shoulders, back, and thighs, creating a maze of suffering that covered her pink flesh in miniature rises and valleys. One open wound, fresh and bleeding, oozed from the makeshift bandage wrapped around her thigh.
She'd been bit.
Trace continued to stare. He didn't know whether to be delighted about the possibility that she'd survived being bitten, or horrified to witness her pain and embarrassment. Nothing had prepared him for this, and he was unsure what to do with this newfound knowledge. The inflated reward on the wanted poster now made perfect sense.
"Don't you dare shoot her," he said to Wen. "Don't you dare!"
Wen shook his head. "I'm not planning to."
Red swayed, and before Trace could climb from his horse to catch her, she collapsed to the ground. He clambered from his horse and knelt next to her, feeling for a pulse, a breath, anything. When he found a weak pulse, a great sense of relief washed over him.
He looked up at Wen. "She's still alive."
Wen nodded and slipped off his horse. "That's good."
Trace could tell he meant it, too. Wen tossed him a blanket, and Trace wrapped it around her unconscious form.
"I need your help to get her onto my horse." Trace lifted Red and placed her in Wen's arms.
Wen hesitated briefly, but took her and even rocked her slightly as he waited for Trace to mount his horse. It was hard to balance a nearly naked, unconscious girl and manage his horse at the same time, but having no other way, he'd make it work.
"Let's go." He gave his horse a slight nudge in the ribs to set it galloping.
***
They set up camp just above a tree-lined ridge, high enough that zombies would struggle to climb it, and with enough trees to make it difficult for other potential intruders to see their fire. Even though Trace believed it relatively safe, he continued to stand watch over his fellow travelers as they slept, with his pistol at the ready.
He walked around the outer circle of their camp, listening. Everything stood silent, except for the sounds of nature and Wen's unconscious snores. This was good. He'd come to learn that when nature fell quiet, he needed to worry.
He knelt next to Red and pushed back the damp strands of hair from her forehead. She was still warm to the touch, but not nearly as hot as before.
Red opened her green eyes and looked up at him. She didn't say a word, only blinked in confusion, staring wide-eyed through her fever and delirium.
"It's okay. Get some sleep." He took a cloth, dipped it in a pan of cool water, and wrung out the excess before lifting one ragdoll arm and running the cloth over it. She closed her eyes once more.
Wen had voiced his concerns to Trace when they first made camp. "I know she survived before," he'd said. "But what if this bite is the one? W
hat if this bite flips her to the other side? Then what?"
He'd promised Wen that he wouldn't let anything happen to him. "If she seems to get worse, I'll shoot her myself. I give you my word."
The whole concept of Red's condition baffled them both, but only she knew what her body was capable of withstanding. He had to believe that since she'd survived before, she'd do so again. She had to.
Her eyes flew open and she focused on him with crazy intent. She bolted upright and grasped his arm with such force, his skin pinched and bruised beneath her fingertips. His heart thumped in his chest as he stared into her wild eyes. He instinctively reached for his gun with his free hand. Damn it! She's turning. She's turning!
"Don't tell." Her voice rumbled low and rough as her grip tightened around his arm. Trace winced. Do zombies talk? Do they? Remember!
"Don't tell," she repeated. Her hand slipped away and she fell back against the blankets, her body limp and unconscious, as if nothing had happened.
Trace sat back on his haunches, unsure of what he'd just witnessed, but whatever it was, it scared him something awful. He scooted away to put some much needed distance between them.
He worked his battered arm out of his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeve to the elbow, and touched the purpling skin of his forearm. Damn.
***
Red rolled her head to the side and clenched her eyes shut as a sharp pain welled inside her skull. It built until it reached a crescendo and then tapered off. She blinked several times in an attempt to right herself, but the fog refused to lift. A dull ache pulled at her stomach and her head throbbed, protesting her every move. She kept her eyes closed for a moment longer. Once again, she'd managed to survive the hell that terrorized her body and mind—the aftermath of a zombie bite.
She recalled that in the midst of the boiling heat that crept through her veins and the pain that assaulted her body, she'd begged for mercy and invited death to relieve her of her burden. Yet here she lay, like all the times before, changed, but not turned, stuck in a world full of misery and pain.
Just once, she'd like to not wake up at all.
In some respects, she envied the walking dead, their fate already sealed. They turned and it was over. No more pain. No more worry or fear. Every bite took her close to the edge, dragged her to the brink of turning, but something inside her fought back every time.
Red opened her eyes and looked through her distorted lenses, trying to make sense of what had happened. Trees. Lots of trees overhead. The leaves swayed in rhythm with the breeze. Sunlight trickled through the crisscross of branches. She shifted her head to the left, taking her time.
Wen slept nearby, and Cowboy sat by the fire with his back to her.
She didn't recognize this place and had no idea how she got here. The last thing she remembered.... What's the last thing I remember? The events of the previous day blurred and ran together.
She placed both hands on the ground beside her and worked herself up into a sitting position. Her muscles screamed and her head pounded, but she pushed through it and took in the surroundings. She noticed the pan full of water beside her, the cloth, and the canteen. They'd been taking care of her. This realization brought a slight smile to her lips. No one had taken care of her before.
The wool blanket that covered her slipped to her waist and when the cool air met her warm skin, a different kind of terror settled in. She was naked and surrounded by complete strangers—two men, no less.
Red snatched the blanket to her chest."Where are my clothes?" She forced the raspy words through her parched lips, and tightened the blanket around herself.
Cowboy turned to face her, surprise and happiness clearly displayed on his face, which confused her even more. "Hey, you're awake. How're you feeling?" He smiled as he approached her.
"My clothes? Where are they?" Panic welled up inside her. What do they know? What did they see?
The smile on Cowboy's face gave way to concern. "It's okay—"
"It's not okay! Where are my goddamn clothes?"
"Okay, okay." Cowboy stopped and raised his hands. "Let me get them for you."
Red lifted the blanket away from her body and looked down—not a stitch of clothing. Oh, my…! She pulled the blanket tighter. If her legs worked right and she didn't still feel like throwing up, she would've grabbed that blanket and run for the hills.
Cowboy returned and held out a pile of clothes. She snatched them from his outstretched hands.
"Why did you take my clothes? What's wrong with you?"
He looked down at her, confused. "Whoa, just a minute! I didn't take your clothes. You took off your clothes. You stood in front of me and Wen and got buck-naked."
She shook her head. That didn't make sense. She'd never do that, ever. Though it did sound vaguely familiar. A dream perhaps? It didn't matter. Whether they stole her clothes, or she took them off freely, they'd witnessed her secret.
"What... what do you plan to do with me?"
Cowboy shook his head. "Plan to do with you? I don't know what you're talking about."
Wen sat up, stirred out of sleep by the conversation. "What's going on? Is she feeling better?"
Cowboy shrugged his shoulders. "She's acting weird. Not making much sense."
Red held onto her blanket and clothes and backed away from both of them. Where are my guns? She spun her head from side to side, pain bouncing off the walls of her skull. She steadied herself to keep from falling to the earth. What have they done with my guns?
Naked and unarmed. She couldn't have been more vulnerable. "Stay away from me!" she yelled. "Don't come any closer."
"We didn't hurt you and we're not gonna hurt you." Cowboy tried to approach her, but she just moved farther away, so he stopped.
"You saw me naked!" They knew she was a freak of nature—a highly dangerous piece of information for them to have.
"You didn't give us a choice. We didn't ask you to take your clothes off. You did that on your own!"
Red shook her head. She must have been out of her mind to strip down and risk everything by showing these men—these strangers—her hideous scars. It didn't make any sense.
"So what are you going to do to me now?" She looked from Cowboy to Wen and back again.
If they tried to dismantle her piece by piece to discover why she lived when others couldn't, or sold her to someone who would, then she could blame only herself. She shouldn't have been traveling with them in the first place, but had disregarded her internal warnings.
"The only thing I want to do is keep all three of us alive." Cowboy squatted down to look her square in the eye. "We're not going to hurt you." He looked over at Wen, who nodded agreement. "That's a promise. I'll do everything I can to protect you."
Wen pressed his hands together and bowed slightly from the shoulders. "And I will do the same."
"Hell, Red," Cowboy continued. "You're giving us hope. I now know those damn zombies can't win—you actually have the ability to beat them."
She shook her head and kept her eyes locked on his, still unsure whether or not to trust either of them. "What's the point of beating them when the people I love can't?"
Chapter 9 – Uglies and Nutters
"Does it hurt?" Wen asked Red as they sat around the campfire. "I mean, what does it feel like? I just... well, I'd like to know what to expect when it happens to me."
"You plan on gettin' bit?" Trace asked him.
Wen looked over at Trace with a grave expression. "There's a good chance one of those Uglies will get me. Probably you, too."
Uglies? He'd never heard that one before. It was almost as good as "The Nutters," which he'd heard from one old man.
"They won't get me if I can help it. You know, when you talk like that, you're just inviting trouble."
"I jus' wanna know." Wen ignored Trace's comment and looked to Red. "I'm curious. So tell me, what's it like?"
Red's eyes flickered toward Trace, and a knowing look passed between them. He sensed that she didn
't want to describe the experience to Wen any more than Trace wanted to hear it. Her little mannerisms expressed a whole lot without her saying a word: a crinkled brow when annoyed, biting her lip when nervous, arms crossed over her chest to signal a heap-load of trouble headed his way.
"Talk amongst yourselves," he said, standing. "I'd rather go water a tree."
He meandered off a little ways, so he didn't have to hear what she said. Denial was a more forgiving place to live in than reality ever could be. He tucked his gun in the waistband of his pants and unbuttoned his fly, thinking back to the saloon, where Red had warned everyone to carry a gun at all times—"while sleeping and pissing" had been her exact words. He'd followed her advice ever since. No way in hell would he be ambushed with his pants down.
He couldn't imagine a fate worse than being left to wander the plains as a naked zombie.
With his business complete, he returned to warm himself by the small fire. Wen sat with shock and disbelief on his pale face. Whatever Red had said must have not settled well. Trace couldn't help but smile. It served the fool right for asking.
"So, you glad to know now?" Trace squatted by the fire and held his hands out over the flames. The nights had turned chilly, and winter would soon be upon them.
Wen shook his head in slow-motion shock. "I don't know. Just promise that you'll shoot me if I happen to get bit. Shoot me real quick. I don't want to suffer like that."
Trace glanced at Red, who lifted a mug of steaming coffee to her lips and avoided his gaze.
"If you're ever bit, I'd be proud to put a bullet in your head." Trace mocked him.
Wen took Trace's hand and shook it, clenching the deal. "Thank you. And I'll do the same for you."
Trace smiled at the absurdity of their conversation. "So, we're all in agreement. I get bit, you shoot me. You get bit, I shoot you. Except her," Trace nodded toward Red. "She gets bit, leave her be."
Red put down her mug. "No, I want in on the agreement."
Trace glanced at Wen, who raised his shoulders. "You want to be the one to shoot us? That's fine. If I'm bit and you're closer, you have my permission to shoot."
