The Black Tide I: Remnants (Tides of Blood)

by Baileigh Higgins

  A surge of affection welled up inside me, strengthening my determination to save him. “I need to get you out of here and I can't carry you.”

  A shiver racked his body and he shook his head. “I'm not going anywhere.”

  “We can't stay here.”

  “I'm sorry. It's no use. Leave me.” My stomach rolled at the words.

  “Don't you dare give up on me, Andrew Peterson. Get your butt off the ground right now.”

  I pulled on his arm for emphasis and after a moment of shocked silence, he chuckled. “I'll try. For you, babes.”

  With a lot of grunting, pulling, and heaving, we got him to his feet where he stood swaying like a reed in the wind. I propped him up and pointed to the vandalized shop across the street. “Over there.”

  Step by torturous step, we walked the short distance that now morphed into a marathon. Every move prompted pained noises from Andy that varied in degrees of intensity. I prayed for it to be over soon.

  Once inside, I leaned him against the wall while I cleared a sheltered corner of rubbish. There were some old cardboard boxes and newspapers lying around, and I piled them up to form a bed of sorts. A single street lamp cast a feeble glow through the broken windows, bathing us in yellow light.

  Andy was growing paler by the second, and I rushed over to help him lie down. I checked the pads. The back one was holding up but the front seeped in a steady trickle.

  “Damn it!” I pulled Andy's balaclava from my pocket and stuffed that in too, trying to stem the flow.

  “You need a doctor. Bad.”

  Andy coughed, holding onto his side, face contorted. “No one's going to help me, Ava. If they see me, they'll kill me. And they'll kill you too.”

  “No. There has to be someone who can help.” I refused to listen. “If I can get you back home...we've got medicine.”

  “No pill can fix me now. It's much too late for that.” He coughed again. “I won't make it back anyway. It's too far. I'm done.”

  I slumped, face in my hands, denying the truth of his words. “I can't let you die. I just can't.”

  “It's not up to you, babes.”

  My head jerked up. “Brian's dad! He used to be a vet. He'd help you, I'm sure of it.”

  Andy shook his head but didn't reply. I gripped his hand. “It's your only chance. I have to go.”

  “It's too late. I...” He stiffened and groaned. “I don't want to die alone.”

  Tears ran down my face again. “I can't sit here and watch you die. I'd never be able to live with myself. I have to try, at least.”

  Silence.

  A shudder wracked his body and he sighed.

  “Go then. But be careful.”

  Smiling with relief, I leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “I will. I promise.”

  Before I left I covered Andy with my jersey and jacket. It was the best I could do for him. I fetched the backpack where I'd tossed it and checked inside. To my amazement, it contained food and drink. Not a lot but enough for a day or two. “Where'd this come from?”

  Andy coughed. “The bastards waited for us to break in...trapped us inside. I'd begun loading stuff. So had the others. Caught us off-guard.”

  He breathed deeply through his nose for a few seconds before continuing. “I ducked down behind a crate when they shouted. Once the shooting began I crawled. Thabo was hit first...went down.”

  “How did you get out?”

  “Matthew. He climbed through a window, called to me to follow. There were more soldiers waiting outside but that explosion...it gave us a chance.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “You gave us a chance.”

  I shrugged. “I don't feel much like a hero. Matthew, Allen, Neill. They're all gone. And you...you're...”

  “Dying.” Andy had said what I couldn't.

  “No. I won't let you.” I pulled out a bottle of fruit juice and pressed it into his hand. “I'm not sure if it's a good idea for you to drink anything but if you get thirsty...”

  “Thanks.”

  Tucking another fruit juice and a chocolate bar into my pockets, I was ready to go.

  “I'll be right back. Just hold on, okay?” I pressed another kiss to his lips, wondering if this was the last time I'd see him.

  I got up and set off in a jog, keeping to cover as far as possible. The last thing I needed was to be spotted now. At least I knew the area around Brian's house well. We'd spent an entire loved up summer there, wandering around the parks and streets.

  Dressed only in a thin vest, I shivered but soon warmed up. I kept up the jog in the open for as long as I dared before resorting to darting from one patch of cover to the next. During the times I was forced to hide, I scarfed the chocolate bar and juice, knowing I would need the energy. It was time-consuming and every second it took was another that Andy lost.

  Deep down, I knew his chances of survival were slim. The bullet had done a lot of damage. But I refused to admit that out loud. Maybe none of his organs had been damaged. Maybe I'd stopped the bleeding in time. Maybe I could get help to him.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  Ten minutes later, I faced the same front door I'd stood in front of a few weeks ago. Only this time, yellow tape was strung across the palisades and a red cross decorated the wall.

  The Black Tide.

  In my haste to get help for Andy, I'd forgotten all about it. Forgotten that Brian's dad had contracted it weeks ago. Forgotten that the army had cleared out all the infected families when they arrived.

  Brian was dead. His father was dead. There'd be no help for Andy today and without it, he would die too. As I stood immobile, staring at that red cross, a sense of hopelessness set in.

  I have failed.

  The shining headlights of an army patrol forced me out of my stupor and into the house. As I leaned against the door, another thought occurred to me. The Black Tide could remain on surfaces―alive and active―for weeks. It was one reason the army did not try to occupy buildings that once housed infected individuals. By hiding inside the house, I could very well contract the disease. My only hope was that it might be long enough since the infection and the virus was gone.

  A sense of futility settled over me. Whatever I did seemed doomed to failure. I'd never subscribed to a fatalistic outlook on life, preferring instead to believe that I was the master of my own fate. Now I wondered if the universe wasn't out to get me after all. If I wasn't just a puppet on a string, pulled this way and that at the whim of some cruel master.

  Then I thought about Andy, dying cold and alone because I failed to be there for him, and my lips compressed.

  The sky slowly lightened with the coming of dawn, and a sense of urgency kicked in. I had to get back to Andy before the sun rose, trapping me inside the house. Rising from my spot, I strode to the master bedroom. There had to be something I could use.

  It was an awful sight. The sheets and pillows were stained with dried, blackened blood. Empty medicine bottles lay strewn about, and a bowl of mold with a spoon sticking out stood on the bedside table. Brian's dad, and perhaps his mom, had suffered a terrible fate.

  I did my best to ignore the sight and searched the cupboards instead, looking for a first aid kit. I found nothing but sleeping tablets.

  After that, I searched the main bathroom, guest bathroom, and the linen closet, grabbing clean towels and a sheet which I cut up into strips. With the cold in mind, I also grabbed a blanket. Touching as little as possible, I washed my hands repeatedly but my skin crawled as I imagined invisible germs latching onto me.

  The kitchen had been stripped bare of food, but I found a sports water bottle and filled it up. It also carried something else that was unexpected but welcome. The Cilliers used to have dogs and in a cupboard, I found medicine for the oldest dog's arthritis. I didn't recognize the names but the labels said anti-inflammatory and pain reliever so I tucked both into my pocket.

  The only room remaining was Brian's which I'd studiously avoided so far. I did not want to see the evidence of his fat
e. On top of everything else that had happened, I did not think I could handle that too.

  I took a deep breath and pushed open the door. A musty smell hung in the air but the room was undisturbed except for a thick layer of dust. Even the bed was made, a pair of shoes lined up with the dresser. With slow steps, I walked to the mirror, my eyes searching for something that my head told me would be gone but my heart knew would not.

  There.

  A photo of us, smiling at the camera.

  Happy.

  Carefree.

  A lump rose in my throat. Even now, I still dreamt about him. About us.

  My fingertips brushed over our faces.

  I looked away.

  Opening the closet doors I searched until I found it. A small first aid kit that Brian had kept tucked inside, reserved for rugby injuries. It wasn't much. A bottle of antiseptic, gauze, plasters, scissors, and a knee-guard. It would have to do. I pulled out a backpack and stuffed the kit inside along with the other things I'd collected and after a brief inspection of the street, set off.

  My breath puffed out in little clouds of vapor as I ran, the backpack bouncing uncomfortably. I thought about Lexi, Mrs, Peterson, and Jacob. They all had to be worried sick about us. I wondered if the army had gone knocking on their door, asking questions.

  Frightening them.

  Hurting them.

  There's nothing you can do for them now. Focus on the task at hand. Time is running out.

  For once, luck was on my side, and before long I spotted the graffiti sprayed walls of the shop where Andy lay. I heard his anguished moans before I saw him. At least, he was still alive. The entire time I'd been afraid he'd be dead. Taken away before I could say goodbye

  “Andy. Andy, it's me. I'm back.” I rushed inside, falling to my knees beside him. He was pale, his skin turned a sickly gray. Shudders wracked his frame.

  “Ava,” he said, voice hoarse. He reached out a hand and gripped mine. “You're safe.”

  “Yes, I'm fine. But I didn't find Brian's dad. They're gone.”

  Andy shook his head. “It doesn't matter. I just wish...the pain is...”

  I took off the backpack, rummaging for the water and pills. “I've got something for that.”

  The instructions on the labels said one of each twice per day. That was for a dog, though. A medium sized one. Andy was a big boy and in an extreme amount of pain. After some hesitation, I tipped out five of each and fed them to him bit by bit, hoping I wasn't doing more harm than good.

  When he lay back once more, I studied him. Sweat beaded his forehead and his breathing was harsh. It was likely the bullet had damaged his intestines, in which case he'd die from infection if he didn't bleed out first. It might even have nicked his kidneys or something.

  What about his spleen? Appendix? Liver? I wanted to scream with frustration. Why hadn't I paid more attention in biology? I didn't even know where all these organs were situated. Right side? Left Side? Up? Down? I didn't know.

  Mentally kicking myself, I waited for the pills to do their work while holding his hand and talking to him. I found myself murmuring stupid platitudes about how it was all going to be okay. Neither of us believed a word of it.

  After twenty minutes, the pain had receded as much as it ever would, which wasn't a lot. He needed stronger stuff. The intravenous kind. From the backpack, I took out all the things I'd brought and sorted through it.

  “I need to clean the wounds, Andy. It's gonna hurt but we can't let infection set in.”

  His brow furrowed and he squeezed my hand. “Make it quick then.”

  “Can you sit up?”

  “I think so.”

  Unbuckling his belt, I loosened it and once more pressed his hands to the front. Together we got him upright into a sitting position, and I peeled off his jacket and jersey one arm at a time. With the scissors I cut away the bottom of his shirt, using a towel to wipe off the worst of the blood. With trepidation, I peeled off the pad. The entrance wound, small and round, stared at me like a third eye. The area around it was red and swollen, hot to the touch.

  I pressed a wad of gauze soaked in antiseptic liquid against it, squeezing the fluid inside. Andy cried out, his lungs sucking air, so I worked fast, wiping the surrounding area clean then sticking gauze over it with a big plaster.

  Lowering him down, I tried to look at the exit wound. The material stuck to the skin and I had to soak it off with water. In the light of day, it looked worse than I remembered. A jagged hole half the size of my fist sat on the left side right above the hip bone. With more gauze soaked in the antiseptic, I cleaned around it, wiping away the encrusted blood. I then pressed it to the wound itself, wincing when Andy screamed.

  “I'm sorry,” I whispered, dribbling more of the stuff into the hole itself. His screams rose in pitch. I slapped on a clean dressing made from the sheet I'd cut up, keeping it in place with multiple smaller plasters. It was a makeshift job at best.

  Andy was shaking, whether from shock, pain, or the cold, I wasn't sure. I gripped his face and pressed a kiss to his cheek, whispering, “I'm sorry. It's okay. It's over. You can relax now.”

  He didn't respond so I covered him with the blanket I'd brought. A rolled up towel beneath his head served as a pillow. I sat back on my haunches, shoulders slumped, having done everything I could.

  After the flurry of activity, I felt drained. With lethargic movements, I pulled on my jersey and jacket. Andy no longer needed them now that he had a blanket, and I was freezing. I wiped my hands clean, packed everything up and sorted through our food supplies. Two bottles of water, three bottles of fruit juice, a chocolate bar, and crackers.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Better,” he lied.

  “That's good,” I lied in return.

  It was the first move in a long game of pretend that we would play throughout that day. He'd tell me he was okay and I'd tell him he'd get better. At first, I rationed the pills and Andy put on a brave face, but by the time night fell he was in so much pain he screamed nonstop.

  The term gut shot came to me during the day from some old western movie I'd watched with my dad. That guy had screamed for hours too.

  I fed him a big handful of the pills along with a few of the sleeping tablets. After an agonizing hour, he quieted, falling into a fitful sleep. His skin radiated heat, blazing with fever and I knew infection had set in. While he slept, I sneaked a look under the dressing. A foul smell assaulted my nostrils, and pus leaked from the wound. I was faced with the inevitable.

  Andy was dying.

  He didn't sleep for long, waking after two hours and resumed screaming on and off. Harsh, tearing cries that echoed through the building. Miserably I wondered if someone could hear him. Though far from the nearest inhabited house, sound traveled.

  I gave him the last of the painkillers but he declined the sleeping pills. “I want to be awake at the end.”

  Tears pricked at my eyes. We were done playing pretend.

  When the pain subsided enough for him to bear, he looked at me. “I'm sorry, Ava. I should have listened.”

  I shook my head. “No. It's my fault. I should have tried harder.”

  He shook his head. “Don't blame yourself.”

  A knot formed in my throat.

  “Tell my mom and Jacob I'm sorry, and I love them.”

  “I will.”

  After a moment of silence, he said. “I'm cold.”

  “I'll keep you warm.” I lifted the blanket and crawled in next to him, pressing my body against his.

  A feeble hand brushed my hair before falling away. “Maybe, if we'd had a chance, you could have loved me.”

  I looked up into his eyes, placing a hand on his cheek. “I do love you, Andy.”

  Placing my hand over his heart, I pressed my ear to his chest. Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. It was faint, barely there.

  Not long now.

  The exact moment he passed, happened somewhere between the last th-thump and a lon
g exhale of breath. With my eyes squeezed shut, I held onto him and tried to swallow my tears but the sobs tore loose from my ribs, scraping my throat raw. With my fingers fisted in his shirt, I cried into the night, lost and lonely. When sleep stole over me, it offered welcome relief from the pain and I surrendered, falling into the dark.

  19

  Chapter 18

  It was a Wednesday afternoon, late autumn. The type of day the waning sun cast just enough heat to create a warm spot on the couch. I lazed in said spot, clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt covered in food stains.

  The sounds of Cartoon Network droned in the background with Lexi lying on her stomach in front of the TV watching her favorite shows. I was texting Brian, my fingers flying back and forth across the keys as I fired off and received one message after the other.

  We were discussing the Matric Farewell, or at least, I was. It was still months off, it being only April, but it was a hot topic among the girls already, and the boyfriends were being dragged in by default.

  Black seemed like the obvious choice for me, while Brian was pushing for orange. Orange! As if I could pull off the pumpkin look with my muffin top. It would clash horribly with my hair too. I was pretty sure he was only fooling around with me, though. In the end, he'd wear whatever I told him to.

  “Ava, could you go to the shop quickly?” my mom asked, appearing in the doorway wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

  I groaned, slouching down further into my nest, wishing she'd forget I was there.

  “Please? We need bread and milk and your dad's working late.”

  “Why can't you go?” I dreaded the thought of going out into the chilly air.

  “I'm cooking dinner. Do you want to eat tonight or not?”

  I rolled my eyes. She could be such a drama queen. “I'm busy.”

  “Busy with what?” Her eyes narrowed, cheeks growing as red as her hair. “Get your lazy butt off that couch right now, or I'll give you something to keep you busy for the rest of the day.”

  Lexi snickered and I stuck my tongue out at her. Little brat.