by Astor Penn
I can’t seem to swallow anything either. My stomach is churning—from worry and the anxiousness that comes from waiting for the inevitable. I at least keep sipping water, trying to save it for when we’ll be most desperate. I have to physically lift my injured arm with my good one; I put one hand on my forehead and the other palm on Poppy’s. She’s burning up. I feel icy compared to her. It’s hard to think in perspective, but I think my temperature must be normal, or if I have a fever, it’s very slight. The illness must affect her much more quickly because she’s younger, weaker. It’s coming for me. Only a matter of time.
As the sun sinks lower into the horizon, I move around the river futilely. We might as well set up camp close to a water source as we’re not going to get far on my sprained ankle with Poppy acting as dead weight. Instead of using our limited bottled water, I decide to sterilize water from the river by boiling it. It takes even longer than I expect; of course, our fire is small and low.
In the reflection of the water, I look over my face for the first time in a while. I avoided mirrors, avoided the reflections of our group in the few intact shop windows of the town. The simple reason is that I no longer look anything like the girl I knew; the chubbiness of my cheeks and the roundness of my belly once hid my meekness. Now there’s nothing to hide behind; the bones sticking out tell only the truth, that I am a skeleton. Only one version of myself, the self that must live and nothing more. There is nothing meek about me now.
The water boils, and my face is monstrous.
I wonder if I came face to face with any of my classmates whether or not I’d hesitate to gut them if I had to. I obviously wasn’t popular, suffered through my fair share of bullies in hallways. Both girls and boys—the elegant ones, the ones with money, or the ones who had no money but aced through every exam and scorned anyone who sat near them. I was a halfway; my family wasn’t nearly as wealthy as many others in the school, but I had never wanted for anything. I also wasn’t particularly gifted in schoolwork.
But I am alive. I doubt any of my classmates could say the same, or say anything at all. I can’t help but imagine that all of New York City is wasted by now. The infection was in the streets; I saw it with my own eyes. It was only a matter of time until people couldn’t leave their homes, or maybe the government bombed the entirety of it like some horror movie. Maybe all cities are gone, and it is only the wildest of the wilds that welcome us home. This is the most habitable space, the last place anyone would willingly go. The icy mountains or darkest caves. The bottoms of the oceans. The bottom of a river.
Once the water has boiled and then cooled, I force Poppy to drink. Most of it dribbles out of her mouth pathetically. It feels like I’m drowning her rather than doing her good. Around us, it’s dark again, and I realize this is the first day I’ve spent completely stationary since I left school. Moving is breathing. Moving is life. Such a sharp departure from what I’ve grown used to makes it really feel final—this is it. The beginning of the end.
Poppy seems to be completely catatonic. She hardly blinks, let alone moves any other muscle. Her diaphragm contracts—I can still clearly see her breathing, but any questions I ask her go unanswered. I alternate sitting close to her, trying to comfort her in any way possible, and sitting by myself by the water. Once the sun goes down, it’s colder than ever despite the previously sunny day. Despite the raging fever I can feel through all parts of her body—her head, her arms, even her toes—Poppy remains faintly trembling, so I pile up our blanket with our extra scraps of clothing on top of her. Now my limbs turn numb in the sharp nightly temperature drop, but the numbness feels better than the constant throb of my shoulder or ache in my ankle. I forego the pain meds tonight to remain alert; I am the last defense now.
Regardless of how tired I am in the morning, I still feel well enough to scout the area more thoroughly. I go farther than I probably should, but it’s been so quiet, with no sign of any other life around us, that I risk it. Besides, if those town squatters were to come across Poppy, or anyone else for that matter, I think they’d know well enough to leave her be and move on quickly.
What I’m looking for isn’t clear—I just want to keep moving, even if it’s in circles. I collect some shriveled berries, but I don’t trust myself to know what they are or if they’re poisonous, so I throw them away later. I would love to catch fresh meat, but I’m no hunter on good footing, forget my current injuries. I’d have to sneak up on something and slit its throat with my knife, and I don’t exactly fancy my odds of that happening.
I walk back toward the river as empty-handed as I left it. Poppy won’t mind; she won’t even see me or know I was gone. When I sit back down next to her, I finally pull from our stores something for myself to eat, just a dusty fruit cup. While I slurp it down, I halfheartedly search for the leather band to tick another day away. It could be the last.
I don’t find it.
Irrational panic seizes me. My heart picks up as if I’ve just seen a hazmat. I riffle through the bag once more before turning the entire thing upside down, spilling its contents all through the mud. Still, the bracelet is nowhere to be found. Tears prick my eyes; it’s stupid, but if I can’t keep track of our history, our faults, and our end, what’s the point? Why are we dying out in the woods with no one to say good-bye to? No one to care.
I can’t even keep my promise to Bryant; he’s been dead a little over two days, and already Poppy is set to follow him. I want to scream. I’ve lost everything he’s given me already, it seems. Did I drop the bracelet? It seems illogical. I clutched that thing for hours in the night before carefully putting it in the bottom of the bag.
That’s when I notice something else different: the pile of blankets on top of Poppy has shifted, as if she got up and walked around before lying back down and covering herself. This too I know is impossible.
“Poppy?” I whisper then shout. “Poppy, can you hear me? Did something happen?” Was someone here? Again, it seems illogical that someone stopped by to move around some blankets or steal a bracelet. Unless they knew what that bracelet was or unless they knew who Poppy was.
Raven. She’s been here. The thought comes so suddenly and yet I do not doubt it. I can see her clearly—she approaches Poppy and sees for herself the illness. She lifts the blankets off Poppy and sees the horrible sweats, the pale skin, and of course the blood trickling out of her nose. She drops the blankets and immediately washes herself in the water. Before she leaves, being so pragmatic to understand at this point a few more seconds won’t hurt her chances of infection after touching a sick girl, she raids our supplies. She sees that leather cuff and takes it, maybe believing we’re goners.
Or maybe she thinks I’m gone already. I can’t see that she actually took much of anything else—she had most of what she needed in my bag already; no need to take much from us. She took only the one thing for sure—the sentimental item. It’s strange. And doesn’t really fit Raven.
I sink into the mud, trying to find her footprints in it, but it’s so slushy that it’s impossible. I just need this one physical reminder of her before my eyes burn so badly with tears that it’s impossible to see anything. What does she think happened to me? Will she come back? She knows I wouldn’t willingly leave Poppy alone, but did she look for my footprints leading away from our campsite?
I choke out her name. At first a whisper, then a scream. She must be somewhere nearby. She has to be. She’s waiting for me somewhere, just like before in the town. Blindly, I charge toward the overgrowth of trees, the easiest place to hide. I leave everything behind except my knife, tucked into my side snugly because it is the first or last thing I always put on me.
I’m near hysterical and certainly reckless. I run without a direction, a sure way to get lost or attract attention, and I’m still yelling, although my voice is hoarse, so it doesn’t carry as far as I think it does. I won’t be left behind again—no, no it was my choice to be left behind, my thoughts betray me—but she’s so close. I need her. I n
eed her like I need air, unlike I need anything else. I need her more than I need to keep Bryant’s last wish. I need her more than I need myself right now—this person, this girl, an idea of survival I cling to that just happens to be tangible.
I’m not sure how long it’s been—could be minutes or it could be closer to an hour—but eventually my ankle won’t take it. My legs collapse from under me, and I’m just as suddenly lying in the mud. I must be in shock; I feel immensely unwell and unable to think. Then I remember why I thought it was a good thing Raven was far away from us in the first place. She’s still healthy, hopefully. Best for her to never find me here, lying pathetically in the mud, panting when I could barely run.
Except she’s touched Poppy. She’s touched our things. The sickness settling into my stomach is akin to hunger pains with a mix of anxiety, nothing more, I hope. I am selfish enough to want to see Raven again, selfish enough to think maybe I’m not contagious yet. Still, I find I can’t quite pull myself to my feet. The desperation hangs heavy, and my ankle throbs so painfully I’m not sure how I’ll make it back to the river. I hope she never comes back for us again, for her sake.
The trees are sparser here, I realize. Maybe I’ve come farther than I thought. Maybe I’m getting close to the town again. Or the road. Either way, I need to get up and leave this unfamiliar area. It’s still quiet—just the crack of a tree branch moving in the wind. Now I wish I had taken the pain meds this morning; I’m so stiff and sore I end up on all fours, crawling forward at a painstakingly slow pace through a light rain.
My heart is racing—is it the illness? No. It’s the distinct feeling of someone else watching me. Suddenly I know there is someone out there. They see me, but I can’t land eyes on them. There aren’t many places to hide here, just the trees. The trees! I arch my neck up and scan the tops of them for anything. Movement. Distinct, unusual color. There’s nothing.
Just a pinprick of cold metal against the back of my skull. I freeze; I know what that is. It’s a gun.
“Bang. You’re dead, doll.”
Relief folds my body in half like a prayer. I whip around without any thought of a loaded gun pointed at my head and throw myself at her feet. For a moment, I forget the pain of my physical body, because emotionally all I want is here. Until she takes a step away from me.
“Your little girl is infected.” Even though I stay frozen where she dropped me, she takes another step away. “Which means you’re probably infected by now.”
“I’m not—” But I stop. I know what I look like, and it’s not good. My ankle is still swollen to comic proportions and my arm looks half rotten. My face is pale, sunken, and ringed with dark circles. Bruises in every color and size. Infected cuts. “I’m injured. I’m not sick.”
Yet, we both think. She doesn’t have to say that aloud. I know. It’s best if I let her keep her distance, yet it hurts more than I’ll ever admit. I told myself—I told myself I would be strong enough to do this.
“You came to me,” I say. “Why else would you come if you really believed I was infected?”
Raven doesn’t answer at first, and I realize the gun is still tight in her hand. It’s aimed at the ground about a foot away from me. I’m not sure whether I’d bet that the safety is on or off.
“How long has she been like that?”
“Almost twenty-four hours.”
“How was she infected?” I hear it—the faint undertone of concern in her voice, but I doubt it’s for Poppy.
“There was at least one woman in the town carrying. She was the one who tried grabbing Poppy.” The poor woman probably couldn’t even stand up on her own any longer, but Raven won’t care to hear these things.
“Fever?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have one?”
I frown, automatically touching my own forehead. To me, it feels normal. But I guess it would even if I was burning up. “I don’t think so.”
A moment passes in which we only stare at each other. I’m still kneeling in the mud because I can’t get up, and I don’t want to. Part of me is broken from Raven’s physical rejection. What I think I see in her face is pity; she won’t come near me. It’s a death sentence. Why she’s still standing even this close, I don’t know. I’m dead to her now.
But then—yes, it starts with a jerk in her right hand. It travels through her body and forces her to take a step toward me, toward her tragic ending, her imminent demise. She reaches a hand for me, and I flinch backward.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Stay still.” Her hands latch onto my wrists; her touch is fire. It’s spreading through my nerves. Maybe I do have a fever. I try to jerk away from her, but even if I was at my full strength, it would hardly be a match. She holds me in her steel grip, and I am powerless.
Her cool palm brushes against my forehead; I lean into the touch, closing my eyes. Here, now, it is simple. Actually, it’s beyond complicated, our situation, our relationship, teetering on the edge of something more than a friendship. Companionship. Partnership. There are no casual friends anymore. We keep who we need to survive close to us and no one else.
I need someone like Raven to survive. I see this now. But Poppy needs someone like me to survive one more day.
When I open my eyes, I notice that Raven’s are likewise a little unfocused, as if she’s the one with a fever. I notice her hair has been haphazardly pulled back and that she didn’t quite escape from the other night without a few scrapes of her own. They’re cuts down her bare forearms, shallow but jagged and red. Now it’s her turn to jerk back when she notices I’m staring at her without shame.
“You feel fine,” she mumbles, standing up from her crouch. She looks across the horizon, dutifully studying our surroundings, like anyone could be out there watching us. And it’s true—anyone could be out there.
“I feel—” Lost. Confused. Hopeful. Grateful. Sick to my stomach, but not from chronic illness. No, I’m inexplicably nervous. I gulp and choke out, “Okay.”
“Maybe you’re immune,” she jokes. It falls dead. There is no such thing as immunity. “What happened to you, then?” At first I’m not sure what she means—everything happened to me—but I see her looking at my shoulder in its thick bandaging.
“I was shot.”
“Trying to save that girl.” She snorts, shaking her head. I bite my lip; blinding anger finds me. How dare she try and mock my actions? Just because I cared enough to help someone else, I deserve to be hurt?
“Someone has to take care of her.”
I expect her to reply with No, they don’t. She wouldn’t be wrong. This isn’t a world where the dependent survive. “It doesn’t have to be you.”
“There is no one else.”
“Brie.” It’s a whisper and an apology when she says my name. Her face softens; she licks her lips. I’m so entranced by her that her next words hit me like a sledgehammer because I can’t anticipate them. “It doesn’t matter. You see that, right? Poppy is sick. She’s not going to make it.”
I don’t feel her take my hand, but when I look down, her darker skin is laced through mine. Light and dark. The day and night.
“I didn’t come back for her. I didn’t come back for anyone but you.” She sinks down in front of me and grabs my face with her two hands, not kindly, rough. Her fingers are sandpaper. “I don’t know how to convince you. You’re a survivor, Brie. You and I, we can make it. Poppy’s dead. She’s breathing now, but she’s dead. It won’t matter if you stay with her until the last minute. She won’t even be able to tell you were ever there. She’s gone. It’s important now to save yourself.”
The world is frozen between her and me; we the statues and the trees around us bending in the wind. The leaves fall. The clouds roll overhead. But I’m frozen beneath her hands. She stands, looking down at me.
“If it’s not too late.” She moves her eyes back to surveying the area. Unfrozen. Thawing. Freezing again. “It’s your choice. I won’t be coming back for you this time
if you say no again.”
“You want me to just leave her? Now? What about our things?”
She lifts her bag, my bag. “We’ve got the essentials for now.”
There was a promise made to Bryant. Bryant is dead. Poppy is dying. My promise is as good as broken already. Still, even if it means nothing, I can’t leave a little girl to die on her own in the woods. Not when everything else is gone and buried already. She may never know, but it matters to me, because this is the last thing I may be able to do to prove my worth. That I’m human, a good person. Even if it’s a lie.
So I eye the gun in Raven’s hand. “How many bullets?” I nod at the gun because I know better than try to pry it out of the girl’s hand.
“Two.”
“You’re lying.” I’m calling her bluff even though I’m not sure I’m right; it’s something I’ve thought about since. Bryant may have been keeping enough bullets for all of us if the time came to it, but that doesn’t mean Raven has been so frugal since, even if I think she knows better than to waste a single shot.
She eyes me warily. “Five.”
“Then we can spare one.”
She doesn’t even blink. “You planning on shooting her?”
“What else can I do? Didn’t you just tell me she was already dead?” I continue to walk the line of hysteria. I need to keep it together. Think calmly. It’s hard—even when it’s not my life on the line, the thought of watching someone die up close is unbearable, and the thought of pulling the trigger? In all this time, I’ve never had to kill anyone. I’ve thought about it, what would happen if someone stood in my way. Could I cut them down? Would it be worth it? Now, I have a choice—watch someone die in agony, or let them kindly out of their misery early. It should be a simple choice. It’s not. I can’t imagine pulling a trigger on open air, let alone something or even worse, someone. What will happen to me after the gunshot? I won’t ever be the same. How could I be?
“I’ll do it.” I look up sharply at Raven, her face taking back its stone-cold edge. It’s the same face she had when we met just some days ago. Everything moves so quickly now; gone are the days when nothing would happen in a twenty-four period. Now anything can happen before the day ends; every morning I feel a hundred years older and a thousand pounds heavier. There are gray strands mixed into the front of my otherwise dark hair. I don’t pull them out anymore; I wouldn’t have any hair left at this rate.
