Along the Winding Road

by Marlee Pagels

  On the other hand, the journey had had to stomp on its brakes before she would even think about what he meant to her. What, was she going to leave him behind if she decided he wasn’t high enough on her likability list? Of course not—but why only now? She couldn’t have been taking him for granted since the day they met, not when she was parading him through unsafe territory. Or was the thought of him getting killed just too easy to push aside until now?

  She definitely wouldn’t want to think about that. She cared too much about him—as a person, not just a defense system. Even if he couldn’t shoot anything when he recovered, she’d wait for him. They wouldn’t have any food to split between them, and that would make things more difficult, but she’d still want him around. Like she had told him, she enjoyed his company. Maybe not quite so much when he was in a scowling mood, but even then he was tolerable because she knew what he was really thinking.

  How important was that fact? Being in his head? She wasn’t the same way with Dalton, who would start jabbering or fall silent at random. But Arthur—even when she didn’t know his whole story, even when he tried to hide it—was easy to read. He was madly in love with her, but he was too pessimistic to make any moves besides helping her out. He was probably mindblown just being by her side after a month.

  Was that such a big deal? She had given him plenty of reasons to believe he was never going to be more than a traveling companion to her. That was all he hoped for now, wasn’t it? With the date’s total collapse, he could only have nightmares about anything else romantic. He probably thought he had blown his only chance of wooing her, but he still wasn’t about to turn his back on her. He seemed eager to leave her now, but only because he was sure he was dying, not because he didn’t want to be near her if she wouldn’t be his. And she was going to let him go to the grave believing that she never would have loved him, anyway.

  She shot down one last infected in her way and marched back to Hektor’s house. Swinging the door open, she sent Dalton into a minor panic, but he recovered by the time she knelt next to Arthur. The archer was lying still, his eyes closed, but she could still detect the sickly, sour smell of his breath. At the end of the couch, she put her chin on the armrest and folded her arms across his chest, just below his shoulders.

  “Arthur,” she started, “after you recover, you’re going to take me on another date.”

  Dragging his eyelids open, he took a minute to locate her face. “What?”

  She exhaled. “When you get better, you’re going to take me on another date.”

  He peered at her for a second before his eyes forced themselves closed again. “Why would you want to suffer through that again?”

  “I’m sure sure you can do better than last time.” She watched the bandages around his waist like they would eat him alive if she looked away. “It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t respond, and she held a hand above his mouth to ensure he was still with them. He shifted his head and made a noncommittal grunt.

  She sighed. “Or do you just not want to date me anymore?”

  He swatted the thought away like a buzzing insect. “I…” He wrenched his eyes open but only glanced at her. “Of course I do, but…” His gaze fell, and he nodded at his wound.

  “Come on, Arthur,” she sighed. “I got an arrow all the way through me, and I got out of that alive.”

  “Well, you’re tougher than me,” he mumbled.

  With a suppressed noise of exasperation, she gripped his solid arms and prepared to comment, but he drew in a sharp inhale first.

  “Can you—grab a bin or something? I think I’m about to be sick.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry.”

  “It’s no problem.” Frowning, she got to her feet and turned to investigate the living room. Dalton was already hurrying back from the kitchen with a dusty green wastebasket. He offered it to his roommate, who nodded a thanks and took it. After a few false starts, some watery meals resurfaced, leaving Arthur to groan and lean his head back on the armrest. Exhaling shakily, she used the already-warm rag on his forehead to wipe off his chin and put it away to be cleaned at a better time.

  “I don’t remember you doing any of that,” Arthur mumbled, nodding at the wastebasket.

  Swallowing, she wrung her hands.

  Dalton replaced the washrag on Arthur’s forehead. “Have you been feeling nauseous before now?”

  “Somewhat, I think.” He swallowed, crinkling his nose.

  “It may just be the antibiotics,” Dalton concluded quickly, glancing at her. “Since we gave him more, it would make sense for the side effects to be worse.” Looking back at his roommate, he let out a deep breath. “I’ll go make something else for you to eat—drink? Down some fresh water in the meantime.”

  Arthur grunted in an affirmative fashion, leaving Dalton to hurry away and Charlotte to sit beside him.

  “Where were we?” she prompted, leaning against the armrest sideways this time.

  Arthur remained silent for a minute before blinking his eyes open and lowering his brows. “What? Um… You were trying to convince me there’s no reason to think I’ll die.”

  Sighing, she folded her arms. “There is a reason, but it’s not enough for you to be spouting off famous last words, all right? If you give up, you aren’t going to make it. You ought to know how survival works by now.” She waited for a minute, thumbing the top of his shoulder, but he just watched the ceiling with half-closed eyes.

  “And you have plenty to fight for, right?” She smiled as he turned his head towards her. “Even if you don’t think too highly of yourself, Dalton and I need you around.”

  “Yeah?” He turned away before he exhaled and forced down a swig of water.

  She bit her lip at the dullness of his voice. “Yeah,” she said. “We need you. I’m not sure what we’d do if you died on us.” She glanced at Dalton, but he seemed engrossed in the water he was boiling. Meanwhile, Arthur’s half-closed eyes made him look a lot less interested in everything.

  “Are you listening to me?” Her voice was quiet but not without some force. “I know you’re not feeling well, but it’ll only get worse if you don’t let yourself care now.”

  His eyes slid shut. “No, I’m listening, I just… I don’t know.” Sighing, he strained to set the water bottle on the ground beside him.

  Easing the bottle out of his hand, she waited for him to say something else, but he just lay there.

  “Don’t know or don’t care?” She let out a short exhale. “Think about it, Arthur! You’re important to us—what do you think we’d feel like if you just let yourself die? I…” Despite his eyelids cracking open, she stopped to figure out what she was going to say. What she needed to say. What she felt.

  “I—” she got to her feet so he wouldn’t have to strain to look at her “—I can’t imagine exactly how badly it would hit me. Because, honestly, I don’t want to think about it. But I wouldn’t just say goodbye and go on my merry way. I-I guess I would get going eventually, but it wouldn’t be like I had never met you. You’d still be in my head, or my heart, a-and…” Pinching the bridge of her nose in an attempt to stifle the tears, she had to take a breath before continuing.

  “And it would still feel like you had only just died, and there’s no way I would suddenly get over it once I was walking again. I would still be thinking about you. Wondering how I could have saved you, what you’d be saying if you were still there, what you could have gone on to do if you had pulled through.”

  As she gave on up not crying, she smiled down at him. “And you know what? In case all the grief isn’t bad enough on its own, it would make me distracted. As I’m walking along, as I’m crossing others’ paths. You’ve seen some of the survivors. What do you think is going to happen to me if I’m not on my guard around them?”

  Eyes finally wide open, he made a vague choking noise.

  Finally sure she’d gotten his attention, she put her palms down against the armrest. “If I don’t just forge
t to eat and get bitten by an infected,” she went on, “any number of things could happen. The survivors could rob me. They could beat me. They could cripple me, could torture me, could take advantage of me, could definitely kill me. Heck, they could beat me, rob me, take advantage of me, and then kill me. And then they might keep going. Use my dead body as bait for infecteds, or strip off my fat to fuel their home generators. Or if they’re really psychos, just chop me into bite-size pieces and—”

  “Shut up!” Arthur’s cry rang in the room like a pounded bell despite the strain behind it. Quaking, he clenched his eyes shut, but she had already seen enough red in his eyes to know he was on the edge of crying. Although she had already started to gather an argument for how terrible Dalton would feel if Arthur died, she dropped it. She had already gotten to him, and deeper than she had needed to by the looks of it.

  Swallowing, she lowered herself enough to throw her arms around his shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, wondering if he had been trying to stop her the whole time but hadn’t found the voice for it. “I went too far with that.”

  He took a few more halting breaths before he started to shake his head. “No,” he stammered, mouth twisting into a hysterical smile. “I-it couldn’t get to you that much. You wouldn’t let any of that happen to you. Y-you’re tougher than that!”

  “I may be tough,” she conceded, pushing some of his bangs up away from his face, “but I still have a heart, Arthur!”

  “Well—” He flicked his gaze to the side. Mumbling something too garbled for even him to understand, he took a deep breath and groped for the water bottle.

  “Well, what?” she murmured, guiding his hand to the bottle. “I haven’t given off that impression?”

  “Of course you have,” he stammered, attempting to sniffle quietly. “You’re putting your life in quite urgent danger for some time just to check on your little brother.” After downing a swig of water and recovering from the effort, he added, “And you’ve put up with me this long. That takes a very caring person.” He glanced at Dalton but returned to his drink.

  She sighed, straightening out the damp rag while her hand was there. “Then act like you care back, okay?”

  Watching her, he gave a little nod as his eyes slipped shut.

  ~*~

  Sitting backwards on the folding chair, Charlotte watched Arthur sip at some water.

  “Are you feeling any better today?” she started.

  He made a mumbling noise and lowered his arm, which trembled from the workout.

  Exhaling through pursed lips, she rested her cheek on her hand. “Are you trying to feel any better today?”

  The couch crinkled as he turned his face towards her. “Yes,” he managed. With a weak but unforced grin, he said, “I’m not going to die here if you need me.”

  She grinned back and nudged him. “That’s the spirit.”

  He barked a laugh, letting go of the water bottle so he could rub his bruised shoulder. This, in turn, made her laugh, and he returned to his water without losing his smile.

  She sighed, but not without cheer. She may have torn into him too harshly yesterday, but she got him to keep fighting.

  As she watched him wrap his fingers back around the water bottle, her countenance faltered. Why was it about her? Why would he only push himself to heal if her wellbeing was at stake? Would he be fine dying if she didn’t need him?

  He had leapt into some fights with total abandon, but that had been about her, right? But those dangerously worn-down shoes… His refusal to eat any immunity jerky… His complete lack of concern over punching infecteds in the teeth… Did he care so little about living to see the next day?

  “Arthur?” she started, making him open his eyes. “You—you know it’s okay to fight for your own sake, right?”

  He frowned. “Yes, I suppose so.” He grasped his forearm to keep it from shaking when he lifted the water bottle, but his plan didn’t completely pan out. “But it’s—” he glanced at her but shook his head. “It’s not as easy to, uh, justify.”

  Lowering her eyebrows, she scooted the folding chair closer. “How so?”

  He took a deep breath before examining the cushion against his uninjured side. “I just deserve to die,” he muttered, adding a faint shrug.

  She frowned harder as his eyes drew closed.

  “But don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve evaded fate this long, and I can keep it up.”

  “I appreciate that,” she started, crossing her arms, “but why on earth would you think you need to die?”

  His eyes flickered open, but he turned away from her before saying, “I’ve… done some horrible things. Killed a lot of people. All that.” Shoulders fidgeting, he pressed the side of his face harder against the armrest.

  She stood and stepped over to his side, resting her hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been doing a great job with your second chance, don’t you think? It’s not like everyone else has been living in perfect harmony since the epidemic.” She smiled at him. “You wouldn’t have wanted to be around me when things first went downhill, let me tell you.”

  “You don’t understand!” He turned on her. “I—I—” His breath caught in his throat, and he looked down scowling.

  “The things I’ve done,” he started flatly, “are honestly unforgivable. But if cowardice has kept me from justice this long, surely love will do even better.” He turned to look at the ceiling again, though his eyes closed. “Now, can someone grab the barf bin again?”

  Frowning, she dropped her hand from his shoulder. “Sure thing.”

  ~*~

  Arthur sat up and watched as Charlotte unrolled a package of crackers. “How many of these do we have left? You only got a few weeks’ worth of food, if I heard right.”

  Swallowing some dried apricot, Dalton rested a hand on his food bag. “There’s enough for a while longer. Don’t worry.”

  She sighed. “By ‘enough,’ you mean how many?”

  He glanced inside the bag and zipped it back up before anyone else could get a glimpse of the contents. “I mean ‘enough.’”

  She paused, mouth open for the next bite of cracker. Lowering the wafer, she looked at him sideways. “We’re on your last bag, aren’t we?”

  He shrugged. “It happens.”

  With a sigh, she picked out two more crackers and rolled the bag closed. “I’ll go see if I can find another house along the way. Everything on this street has been picked clean, but I’m sure something worthwhile is waiting farther on.”

  She handed off the crackers to Dalton, who hesitated. “You know, Char’, I could always go scavenging myself.”

  She tilted her head and pressed her lips together. “I think I would rather have our unlicensed physician staying with the patient.”

  “Point.” He glanced at Arthur, who frowned and got to his feet.

  “I’ll,” the archer started before collapsing back onto his rear. Blinking, he tried to finish what he was saying but just sat in the same uncomfortable position, looking stupefied.

  Charlotte stepped over and shook his shoulder. “Arthur? You okay? Here, lay back down for a second.” She started to tilt him, but he shook his head and pushed himself back up.

  “I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “I stood quickly to be dramatic, and it, uh, sent the blood rushing to my head. Anyone would get dizzy from that.”

  “Bad time to be dramatic,” Dalton responded under his breath, whistling quietly when Arthur shot him a glare.

  “I guess.” She let go and watched him rearrange his limbs. “But there’s no reason for you to go out there now. You need time to recover, and marching around in the heat doesn’t qualify as rest.”

  “Then I won’t ‘march around.’” He leaned forward. “I’ll find a good patch of shade and wait for something to fly or scamper past.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Wait, you intend to shoot something down?”

  “Well, yes.” He wrapped his hands around his elbows.


  Putting her hands on her hips, she tightened her lips. “Can you even keep your eyes open long enough to hunt?”

  “Of course I can!”

  “Can you draw your bowstring back?”

  “Of course—” he faltered “—um, yes, of course I can.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she replied slowly, raising an eyebrow at him before turning to fetch his bow. He tugged at his collar as she presented the weapon to him.

  “And you even get to string it first.” She handed it off.

  Nodding absentmindedly, he grasped the wood and wobbled onto his feet. He had no trouble looping the string or positioning the bow between his legs, but he came to a pause before he tried to bend it. Taking a few loud breaths to steel himself, he pressed on the wood with his right hand. It did not yield. Although he felt Charlotte’s gaze on him, he didn’t dare look up as he gave it another shot. His head was still whirling from getting to his feet, and he only forced his trembling hand on the bow for a moment.

  “Okay,” he mumbled, “I’m useless. I’ll go back to bed now.” Handing the bow to Charlotte, he planted his rear back on the couch.

  She slipped the bow back into its carrier and leaned it against the wall. “That’s fine. You’re starting to get your strength back, but there’s no need to push yourself. You can get back to hunting when you’re good and ready.”

  Sighing, he pivoted and reclined back to his usual pose. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She grinned. “Good boy.” Handling her rifle, she checked her ammo and went for the door.

  “Dalton, do restrain him if he tries to come after me.”

  Dalton cracked his neck both ways and grinned at Arthur. “I’ll pin him in no time flat.”

  Arthur’s only response was an exhale between his lips. Rubbing his forehead, he sat up a bit before she could grab the doorknob. “Be careful,” he called weakly.

  “I will.” She gave him one last smile before heading out.

  23

  Victoriously, Arthur lifted his hand from the strung bow and tried to stop his arms from shaking. Dalton grinned, while Charlotte smiled, clapping her hands together.