by Weir, R. K.
"You two okay?" I ask. My voice sounds flat, uncaring.
Gale nods. "Is she?"
He points to Stella and for the first time since we left the museum I look down at her. She's still limp, covered in blood and bruises. Has she died in my arms? I refuse to check. Refuse to even consider it a possibility.
She's fine. She's fine. She's fine.
"Let's go," I say, quickly turning away from their concerned eyes and continuing on down the street. The quiet patter of their footsteps follow behind me.
A giant banner, strung up on a brick wall tells us that we've arrived at our destination. Fifty percent off on select storage units. A bargain. No wonder the Gas Man chose to hide his gold here. A tall iron gate that I'm grateful to find unlocked leads us down a dark alley and out into an open space. We're crammed somewhere in between the streets, a narrow driveway leading out to the road on the other side. I can just make out the silhouettes of the infected stumbling past.
The walls surrounding us are covered with white, rectangular, garage-style doors. Some are smaller than others, but unlike the gate we came in through, these doors are all sealed with padlocks. I don't know how deep these units are but I doubt there's enough room in them to shelter all the gas in Las Vegas. He must have buried his treasure in other locations. I wonder if the bandits found most of them. They must have. The Gas Man wouldn't have relented if only a fraction of his treasure was at risk.
I consider handing Stella over to Gale but quickly doubt his ability to carry her. So instead I gently lay her down on the ground, resisting the temptation to check for a pulse, to check if she's breathing. I just can't bring myself to do it. I'm teetering on the edge as it is, perilously close to falling over completely. If I place my hand over her chest and my fingers find only silence, I don't know what will happen.
She's fine. She's fine. She's fine.
Thoughts chanting, shotgun in hand, I move towards the largest storage unit. Using the butt of the gun to break the lock brings back flashing images of what I did to the Gas Man. I'm still covered in his blood. Surprisingly, this lock is proving harder to crack open than his skull. Eventually I manage though. I kick the lock away and pull the door up.
What's inside makes me do a double take. I don't know what I expected. A room filled with tanks of gas. But this storage unit has canned food, bottled water, spare clothing and medical kits. Everything we could possibly ever need. All stacked up around a red SUV. This discovery manages to bring me a brief reprieve from the current state of things. Finally something good.
I walk inside. There's just enough room for me to squeeze between the wall of food and the driver’s side of the car. Things get better. The car is unlocked with a set of keys dangling from the ignition. I slip inside, twist the keys, listen as the engine sputters to life and then I watch as the fuel gauge slowly rises to a full tank.
We could take this car to the coast. There's a brief hesitation when I think of the Jeep, but the pros outweigh the cons. There's no sense in walking all the way back to the Jeep. Not to mention, after everything that's happened, it seems stupid to care about a car.
Or a bus. . .
That thought is quickly smothered before it has the chance to spread. Do not feel bad. Do not feel bad. Do not feel bad. I drive the car out of the storage unit and position it on the driveway. When I get out, I find Gale hunched over Stella, his fingers pressed against her neck.
"She's—"
"Help me load the car up," I say quickly, not wanting to hear what he has to say when I already know. He was going to say that she's fine. She's fine. She's fine.
I open the trunk and start filling it with food and bottled water. I stop to open one of the medical kits and examine its contents. Rudimentary stuff. Gauze, antiseptic, painkillers. Should I give her some painkillers? Or will that only make things worse? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. If she has bleeding in the brain, which I think she might, I don't know what I'm supposed to do.
Gale has made no move to help me carry things to the car, only stands by and watches. Fine by me. I'd rather do the work myself anyway. Focusing on menial tasks seems to be the only thing keeping me sane.
"Logan. . ."
Back and forth, back and forth. No stopping. We have plenty of food now. Need more water, maybe a few more medical kits.
"Logan," Gale says, louder this time. I ignore him, focus on cramming one last pallet of water into the car instead. The trunk is overflowing with provisions by the time I'm done, so much so that it almost doesn't shut. After a few attempts I manage to close it though.
"Logan, where's—"
"Get in the car, Gale," I say.
"But—"
"Goddammit, Gale, just get in the car!" I can't handle this. I know what Gale wants to ask, but I don't want to hear the words. He can figure out why we're missing a member of our group on his own. Everything is beginning to bubble up and boil over. We just need to get out of the city. Get to the coast. That's what this has all been about. We just need to get to the coast.
"Can we stop by my place so I can tell my brother that we're leaving?" Maisie asks.
I don't have the patience to deal with her anymore.
"Your brother's dead," I say. "Now get in the car."
She looks at me for a moment, evaluating my words. Then she nods as if I've just told her the weather forecast for the week. "Okay. We should probably wait for Spot to do his business first though, car rides unsettle him enough as it is."
This is what makes me snap, what makes all the emotions I've been holding back come storming out at once.
"It's not a dog," I snarl. "It's a fucking lamp!" Fury overwhelms me and suddenly I'm ripping the lamp out of her arms and hurling it away. It shatters against a wall, exploding into a million pieces.
"Logan!" Gale shouts.
Maisie runs over to what remains of the lamp, her hands stretching out and hovering above the pile of wood, shaking, unsure what to do. She's sobbing heavily. "Spot! No, Spot, please! No. . . "
I try not to imagine what that must have looked like in her eyes. Try not to think at all now. I'm back to chanting. Do not feel bad. Do not feel bad. Do not feel bad. I can't even stutter out an apology. It feels as if my ribs have collapsed inwards, spearing through every organ I have. Gale has run over to console Maisie.
A mess. Everything is just a mess. Ever since we stepped foot in this goddamn city. We just need to leave. That will make everything better again. I cross over to Stella, scoop her up from the ground, carefully place her in the passenger seat and belt her in. Before I shut the door, I hesitate. Then, tentatively, I reach out and press my fingers against her neck.
The thrum of her heartbeat brings me back from the edge, returns some of my senses. She's okay. I step back, feeling my own heartbeat settling in my chest. She's okay. I can hear Maisie crying behind me, Gale comforting her with soft words. I shut the passenger door and turn towards them.
For the most part, I am just numb now. Completely unfeeling. It's like I've built up a tolerance. My hands are trembling but I have no reception to the emotions that are making them do so.
"We're going now," I say, my voice echoing the hollowness inside of me. I don't know if they hear me, I don't stop to check. I just turn and get in the driver's seat, gripping the wheel to stop the shaking of my hands.
After a few moments, Maisie and Gale both slide into the backseat. I refrain from looking at either of them. Silent besides Maisie's quiet sniffling, I drive the car forward and out onto the road. We pass the museum on our way out of the city. I expect the sight of it to rouse some sort of emotion in me, but I look out at it and still feel only nothing.
No guilt. No anger. No pain.
Just nothing.
There's one thing I know will bring everything crashing back. And I can't help but look. My gaze flickers to the rearview mirror, and I see the empty seat between Maisie and Gale, the empty seat that should be occupied, but there is still no miserable sting of emotion.
No rush of guilt. No crushing moon. Only once their absence truly registers to me, does something manage to slither through the cracks and flutter around in my chest.
Relief. Not at leaving the city, but at being reprieved of my emotions. Because feeling nothing is so much better than being bogged down by guilt and remorse all the time. I don't know how I managed for so long. Not even alcohol could numb me as thoroughly as I am now. It's like I've been drowning for eternity, and only now that my head is above the water, that I've tasted air again, do I realize how much pain I was in. How much suffering.
I only hope this state of detachment lasts forever, because if it doesn't, I think I'll kill myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Stella
My dreams are filled with red hair and blood. Or maybe it’s fire, and I‘ve finally arrived in hell. Hair, blood, fire. Whatever it is, I’m engulfed in the stuff, swept up in a wave of it that I can’t swim free of. Something tightens around my neck. Only when I try to rip it away do I realize that it’s a noose of hair pulling me further and further down. Who has fashioned this necklace for me? Rocket? Jacob? Probably both. My lungs are filling with liquid, the taste of blood thick on my tongue. It’s impossible to breathe. A fire is burning somewhere. My nose is filled with the overbearing stench of smoke. Each gasp for air only earns me another mouthful of blood. I jolt awake right before I drown completely.
The world around me is zooming past at an impossible speed. For an instant I think I’ve been handed from one nightmare to another. Who will kill me in this one? Then my surroundings fully register to me. I’m in the front seat of a car that’s speeding down a dark road.
“You’re awake.” I turn towards the voice and find Logan sitting in the driver’s seat. His gaze flickers to me. “How are you feeling?”
Something about him looks wrong. I notice it immediately. Like he’s been replaced with a doppelgänger who hasn’t quite mastered the real Logan’s mannerisms yet. The pinch of his brows that makes it look like he’s constantly scowling is gone. So is the rigid, tense posture that usually has him hunched forward slightly. Even his grip on the steering wheel is different. It’s slack, where normally it is firm. These are all small things, but combined they paint a picture of him that doesn’t quite come together the way it should.
When I don’t answer him right away, he casts another glance in my direction. “You killed the Gas Man,” I say, my voice rusty.
I don’t know why this is the first thing that leaves my lips. Maybe because it’s the last thing I can remember that made an impression on me.
“Yeah,” he says. “So?”
So, I want to say, that isn’t something you would do. Murder that isn’t motivated by self-defense. You’re supposed to be the good guy, who wants to help everyone and feels guilty when he can’t. But instead of saying any of this, I just mumble out, “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” he asks.
For Rocket. For making us go to the coast instead of Canada. None of this would have happened if we stayed with the others, if I didn’t go off on my own. There’s no way of knowing for sure, but I’m almost certain Rocket would still be alive if I didn’t direct us off course. Or, she would most definitely be alive if I had just taken her hand. Instead I left her to die. The more I think about it, the more responsible I feel for her death. It no longer feels right to even share the blame with the bandits or the Gas Man.
All of this is too horrible to say aloud, so I shake my head in response. “I don’t know.”
“Have some water,” he says. I look down to my right and find an unopened bottle sitting in a cup holder.
“We’re not in the Jeep,” I say, opening the bottle and drinking half of it. I don’t remember the Jeep having any cup holders, and I’m right, it didn’t. Logan explains finding the SUV in one of the Gas Man’s storage units and how it made more sense to take it than risk going back for the Jeep. He tells me all this with a flat, hollow voice. Just how much has Rocket’s death torn him apart?
Now is not the time to find out, when the wounds are still fresh and bleeding. The fact that he chose to abandon the Jeep, that he looks and sounds different tells me they will be bleeding for a while though.
In an effort to turn my attention elsewhere, I twist around to get a look at the backseat where Maisie and Gale are sleeping. When my eyes start to linger on the vacant space between them I quickly turn back to the front.
“I broke her lamp,” Logan says.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
I’m not sure if I’m fully recovered yet. Or if I’ve suffered any permanent damage from all that head trauma. My thoughts are still somewhat foggy. Logan doesn’t seem too worried about me though, which I interpret as a good thing. My head is throbbing and despite being unconscious for an unclear amount of time, I’m somehow still exhausted. But other than that, for the most part, I don’t feel too bad. The fact that I can lift my head up now without feeling nauseas is an indicator of my good health. I must still need rest though, because after a few minutes of silence I’m drifting back into the cradle of my nightmares.
When I wake again, the world is still. My eyes peel open to find a cloudless, azure blue sky that converges almost seamlessly with the ocean below it. My gaze follows the sparkling waves to where they kiss the shore and meld with the glowing sand.
“We’re at the coast,” I say, almost disbelievingly.
Warm sunlight bathes the car in a pool of gold, but a certain chill manages to remain. One that no amount of sunshine will be able to remove.
Logan just nods.
We are both barren of emotion. There’s no sense of vigor or achievement. And why should there be? Coming here doesn’t feel like a victory. It borders on being a mistake. But I am going to make sure that it doesn’t become one. I will make sure that Rocket’s death was not in vain. I will meet up with Max and I will find the happiness and security that I once had.
Or I will die trying.
END OF BOOK TWO
Thank you for taking the time to read A World Together. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review on Amazon or Goodreads. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and is greatly appreciated. Thank you for your support!
- R. K. Weir
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