Along the Winding Road

by Marlee Pagels

  “All right.” She clapped her hands together. “Good job. I’m sure we’ll use all of it.” She glanced at Blake, who still hadn’t moved a muscle. “Did I miss the sunrise?”

  Arthur frowned. “I’m not sure. It’s too overcast.”

  “Rats.” She folded her arms and eyed the door, which was still open a crack. The wedge of light it let in was dull and colorless. “I’ll let Blake sleep in a while longer, then.”

  Arthur gazed past her shoulder at Blake and lowered his eyebrows.

  “What?” She looked back at her brother. “Not in the most flattering position, is he?”

  Facedown in his pillow, he had one arm crossed under him and pinned beneath his ribs. The other was flung back beyond the edge of the mattress, the fingers dangling. His back was hunched, and his bent knees stuck to each other. His shoes, pushing down at the bunched-up covers, bent at the most comfortable-looking angle of any of his joints.

  He hadn’t shifted in the least from the last time she looked at him. He wasn’t budging at the moment, either. Was his chest even moving?

  She darted over, trying to swallow the jitter in her throat. As she hunched behind him, she thought how ridiculous and paranoid this was. But it was her little brother, and if she was supposed to protect him, she had to get worried sometimes.

  The vague strips of light from the far blinds only let her make out his general position. She briefly thought to open both doors for light but decided that was too likely to wake him. After a while more of peering at his shoulders, though, she flung open the panels and hurried back toward her brother’s bunk.

  He was pale. But he hadn’t been tan in the best of times, and—she just needed to breathe. To calm down and see what was actually there.

  He had seemed unwell yesterday… And a little confused…

  Shaking out her arms, she tiptoed around to his left side.

  “Blake?” she murmured, pulling back the hair that hid his face.

  She nearly jumped. He looked grey, totally grey, and she couldn’t have been imagining that.

  “Arthur.” Her voice quavered. “Does he look pale to you?”

  He stepped over and afforded a glance at Blake. “Um… yes? Quite?”

  She chewed on her tongue and jostled her little brother’s shoulder. He didn’t feel outright cold, but neither did the wooden bed. His muscles were a bit stiff, but he still flopped as she tried to rouse him. Every part of him that rested on the mattress was pinkish-purple, but it could have been bruises. His eyelids were shut, but she didn’t want to open them, didn’t want to see—

  She had to calm down. As if her little brother would be dead for no reason! There was a logical explanation for all the symptoms. If she could just get him to wake up and talk to her, she could figure it out and fix him.

  “Blake. Blake. Blake!” She kept shaking his shoulder. “It’s already morning. Sorry about your teen drowsies, but we have a long way to go, and you need to get up now. Timothy’s waiting for you, you know. Wake up!”

  Biting on her lip, she paused before letting her hand fall off him. A look up proved that Arthur had backed away a few steps, and Dalton stood farther behind.

  “Maybe we could dump a little water on him.” She gripped her elbows hard. “How cold is it?” She jerked her head towards the bucket.

  Arthur took a shaky step towards the pail, although he made no motion to test the water. “Not very. Um, we could probably put it to better use, though.”

  “Yeah.” She re-crossed her arms and looked down at her brother. “If he would wake up the good, old-fashioned way!” She ducked down to face him and hollered his name.

  Upon getting no response, she jostled his shoulder a few more times and straightened up. “Fine, one of you try to wake him. D-don’t know why he’s not listening to me.”

  Dalton watched Blake with wide eyes, while Arthur stared at her and quivered.

  “What?” she snapped, thrusting her clenched hands down. “You’re not even going to try? You’re so sure he’s dead, huh? But how could he be dead? He had enough food stored up, and he definitely didn’t get stabbed while I was watching!” She glanced back down at Blake as if to double-check. “He wasn’t even hurt—or—Well, a twisted ankle”—she tugged his sock down— “is hardly going to kill—”

  The ankle was not sprained. Not that she could tell, at least. She couldn’t be sure when an inflamed wound gaped across the face of the joint. Shreds of purplish skin fading into red bordered the gore, and a froth of watery exudate obscured any deeper damage. The dead tissue went past the lip on his shoe, but she had no desire to see any more.

  Letting the gauze-lined sock snap back into place, she stared at the wadded-up covers.

  She must have imagined that. Hadn’t Blake said he had twisted his ankle? Or had he? He wouldn’t lie to her. He wouldn’t lie to his big sister. Not when she could help him.

  Did he not think she could have helped? She had antibiotics, she had fresh bandages, she even had someone who could do sutures. She could have fixed it. She knew she could have fixed it. Why didn’t he trust her? How could he give up and die? How far gone could he have possibly felt? How could… How did… How…

  The way Arthur started, she knew she must have been talking aloud. For how long, she didn’t care.

  “But he said it was just the other day,” she mumbled, realizing she was locking her knees but unable to readjust. “How could it get that bad? How could it kill him? How could it kill him now? H-how could he be dead? How could—how could it have only been a few days ago?” High-pitched gasping setting in like hiccups, she covered her mouth. “H-how could I be too late?”

  Beginning to sob, she dragged her gaze towards Arthur. He made a choking noise, took a step toward her, froze, choked again, and whirled on his heel. He looked close to vomiting as he fled out the door.

  She stared after him before Dalton started that way.

  “I’ll be back,” he muttered, giving her a nod of apology before hurrying after his friend.

  Head spinning, Charlotte turned back towards the corpse on the bed and wept.

  29

  Arthur ran until he realized he had nowhere to go. He could hide anywhere, really, but Charlotte wasn’t exactly pelting after him, and he was only running from her. And her dead brother, perhaps, but Arthur wasn’t terribly worried about him catching up.

  Blake was dead. Just like that. Charlotte had finally found him, finally realized her wildest dream, just in time for all of it to be ripped away. Because they were too late. Because Arthur was too slow. Because he was too weak.

  Oh, he knew he couldn’t have strained himself much more. Even now, he couldn’t hurry through much undergrowth without having to stop for breath. He’d done his best to keep up a good pace, and Charlotte wouldn’t have had it if he’d tried to push himself too hard. But that didn’t mean it was inevitable—if he hadn’t let himself be stabbed, he could have sloughed weeks off their trek.

  Even then, his nearly dying only to recover at a pitiful rate wasn’t the only way he’d held her back. He had been throwing spanners into the journey since the moment he had found her.

  Found! That wasn’t exactly how he had come across her, was it? Ran her through, more like it—and only luck had kept her from dying then and there. But would he heed the omen? Of course not.

  Why did he leave with her? Had he thought that everything would work out? That he’d pursue her for a while, and she’d return his affections? Then they’d go find Blake together and run back to the village, where everything would be love and sunshine for the rest of eternity? Was he really that stupid? After everything that had happened in the past four years, after all the people he’d killed, had he really thought he wouldn’t add one more person to his list of murders? Had he really thought everything was going to be okay now that he’d found a nice girl?

  Oh, but she was nice, and cute, and strong, and patient, and surely it wouldn’t have hurt if he helped her out on her journey a bit. Des
pite him doing nothing but incapacitating her, he could have proven to be of some use to her, right? Despite him having nothing to offer but a few saved bullets? Despite her clearly not needing his help?

  She was more than capable enough on her own. Or, she had been, until he had shot her. She had recovered from that aside from a slight limp, but what about now? Before, he had wounded her. Now, he had destroyed her. He had taken the one thing she had loved most in the world and murdered him.

  Arthur could still see in his mind’s eye the way she had smiled when she had told him about her little brother. She had been living for Blake the past four years. The thought of his face, stunned at his rescue, had kept her going. Through all of the apocalypse, all of the struggles, all of the fights and wounds and dead friends.

  And what did she get in return for her efforts? A corpse. Not because she had done anything wrong, nor had she failed to strive her hardest. Only because he’d had to stalk after her. Because he’d had to latch himself onto her like a mindless parasite, and he wouldn’t dare let go no matter what it did to her.

  He could have left. He could have left at any time. He could have at least let himself die from that bloody stab wound. But no. He wanted to fight, for her sake. What rubbish! It was never for her. It was for his chance to be with her. It was for him. How could he have been so selfish? How could he have gone down this road knowing he’d only ever hurt her? He knew he was mad, but that was no excuse! Nothing would ever excuse this!

  With a howl, he ripped a thin branch off its trunk and flung it into a muddy puddle. The water barely even splashed his shoes.

  It wasn’t raining hard enough. It was supposed to be pouring, roiling, drenching, thundering, as turbulent as his own feelings. Instead it was a plain, grey drizzle.

  Mourning. It was more like a rain of mourning. It was for Charlotte, not him. Why would he try to take that from her, too?

  “Arthur.”

  Shoulders stiffening, he turned to see Dalton closing the gap between them.

  “Dalton.” The archer tried to relax. “Are you leaving with me?”

  Dalton drew close enough to come to a stop. “Neither of us is leaving.”

  Arthur took a step back, looking hurt, before he bared his teeth. “Speak for yourself! Why would I go back? She doesn’t need me! She doesn’t even want to see my face. You saw the way she looked at me, after she said we were too late!”

  “She was crying. You can’t say she blames you jut because she didn’t go back to smiling when she glanced at you.”

  “Maybe not, but I can say it because she has a brain.” Arthur made a choking noise, his eyes burning from holding back tears. Or was he even? It was hard to tell with the rain dripping down his cheeks. “Go ahead—try to fabricate how on earth it isn’t my fault.”

  Dalton watched one of the puddles rippling with raindrops. “She slowed down for you, Arthur. Even if you want to shoulder the blame for another person stabbing you, she knew she was taking a risk. She did it because she cared about you. Even if she were angry at you now, she still cares about you. If you leave, it would just make things harder on her.”

  “But if I leave,” Arthur said, eyes glazed, “I couldn’t hurt her anymore. Even if she doesn’t hate me, losing me is nothing compared to losing Blake. She wouldn’t even mind in comparison. It would be worth it in the end.”

  Dalton took a small step closer. “But she needs someone to support her now.” He held out a hand, as if to help him to his feet. “Come on. Unless she tells you herself, in her right mind, that she wants you gone for good, there’s no reason to leave her like this.”

  Shoulders squared, Arthur backed up. “She’s too nice to say something like that to my face. I have to read the cues. Now let me shove off while I still have the chance.”

  Dalton watched him. “What, are you afraid? Afraid that going back would remind you how much you love each other?”

  “If I loved her, I would stop devastating her!” Arthur cried. Breathing heavily, he took a shaky step back before spinning around and running.

  He had barely reached his second step before Dalton caught him by the bow sling. With an enraged shout, Arthur whipped back around and wrenched Dalton’s arm away hard.

  “Arthur,” Dalton barked, rolling his shoulder back with a wince.

  Trembling, Arthur paused for a second before he laughed. “Is that how it is, eh? Fine!” Fisting his hands, he strengthened his stance. “You want me back there so badly, you can drag my unconscious body into the cabin. How about that?”

  Dalton thumped one end of his staff to the ground. “Let’s calm down for a minute, here.”

  “I’m perfectly calm!” Arthur screamed before he lapsed back into an unnerving, askew smile. “Now, do you want me to go back or not?”

  Dalton hesitated. Arthur rocked on the balls of his feet for a moment before feinting left and sprinting past his friend’s other side. Pivoting, Dalton slammed a fist into the side of Arthur’s neck. Spluttering, the archer lost his balance and careened into the mud. It took him a minute to roll off his side and onto his knees, but upon seeing Dalton over him, he cackled and dived at his friend’s shins. On level ground now, Dalton blocked a punch and drove his knee into Arthur’s chest. Arthur hacked but pushed himself to his feet when Dalton did. The two spent little time catching their breath before they resumed throwing punches.

  Dalton took a hit to his shoulder and backhanded Arthur across the jaw. The archer stumbled for a moment, growled, and charged.

  At least he wasn’t laughing anymore. Maybe this was calming him down. Maybe if Dalton kept this up, he could wear him out enough to talk, to actually talk. Arthur wouldn’t come to terms with everything immediately, but he might at least listen if he could vent enough of his misery.

  There had to be better ways to do that than fighting, but maybe there weren’t. Arthur wanted to go back to Charlotte, but, with all his guilt, he didn’t believe that he deserved to get anything he wanted. He wanted to fight; did he want to be injured? To be punished? Would he be more willing to go back and see her if he had been penalized enough to accept one little reward?

  Or was Dalton completely wrong? There had to be a better solution than fighting, but everything had happened too fast. He couldn’t have thought it through any more than refusing to use his staff. What else could he have done if Arthur wouldn’t listen? How else was he supposed to help his closest friend?

  Dalton was too full of adrenaline now to think on it further. It was too late, anyway. The fight had begun, and Arthur wasn’t giving up on it. As long as neither of them was seriously injured, it couldn’t have been too horrible a decision. It was worth the risk if Dalton could make anything about this situation less grotesquely backwards.

  A fist to Dalton’s abdomen doubled him over, and he got in an answering blow before crashing to the ground rear-first. Struggling for breath, he noticed Arthur standing above him and raised his arms in defense. Arthur stood panting before he dropped into a squat. Narrowly avoiding a fall, the archer shook from the strain and watched Dalton, who slowly lowered his guard.

  “What are we doing?” Arthur groaned, his eyes tired or swelling, or both.

  Dalton swallowed, trying to get his breathing under control. “Acting out of our minds.”

  Arthur smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’d hoped that wasn’t contagious.” With a deep exhale, he forced himself back to his feet and offered a hand to Dalton. Bruises were already forming on Dalton’s cheek, but that couldn’t have been the entire extent of the damage.

  “Sorry,” Arthur muttered, letting his eyelids sink shut for a minute.

  Dalton accepted his help, although he tried not to pull down too hard. “Don’t be. I started it.”

  Arthur shook his head and stared at the tree trunk ahead of him.

  Turning towards the cabin, Dalton looked back at his friend.

  “I’m not going,” Arthur mumbled.

  “Yes, you are,” Dalton responded s
oftly, grasping the archer’s sleeve.

  From the look on Arthur’s face, he could have been swallowing a wriggling slug, but he didn’t pull back. Instead he just trembled. “Don’t make me. Please don’t make me.”

  Dalton thought for a moment before turning his gaze ahead and giving the shirtsleeve a friendly tug. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  “What?” Arthur cried, stumbling ahead a step. “Nothing about any of this is okay! Nothing is even somewhat okay—Blake is dead, Charlotte is broken, we’re beating on one another—”

  “I didn’t say everything is okay.” Dalton trudged ahead. “I said everything is going to be okay.”

  “No, it’s not.” Arthur sounded strangled as he kept up.

  Dalton let out a breath. “Everything is going to be okay.”

  “Are you just going to keep saying that?”

  “Everything is going to be okay.”

  Arthur ground his teeth. “How?”

  “I,” Dalton said, turning so Arthur could see his smile, “have no idea. But that won’t stop me from trying to make it that way. It shouldn’t stop you, either.” He turned ahead again.

  Arthur’s only response was an unfocused stare. He couldn’t avoid letting out a sob when the cabin came into view.

  “I can’t do this,” he wheezed, finally fighting back against Dalton’s pulling. “I can’t do this to her.”

  “Everything is going to be okay.” Dalton came to a brief stop and sighed. “I wouldn’t do this if it was bad for you and Charlotte. I know that this is a lot to ask, and I can’t tell you why you should, but—” he met Arthur’s gaze “—trust me.”

  Quivering, Arthur shook his head madly, but he followed Dalton to the ladder without resistance.

  30

  After a few timid steps took him into the cabin, Arthur made a strangled sound that approximated speech. He cleared his throat a few times, swallowed a few times, and stepped forward.

  “Hi,” he started, voice thready.

  Charlotte sniffed and leaned more heavily on the mattress. “Hi,” she echoed, no more strongly.