What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER SEVEN

It's funny that when there were billions of people on the planet, I felt alone. And now that half the population has been wiped out, I feel exactly the same. There's just less people to ask if you're okay. The only person I miss asking me that question is my mum. Dad just knew not to ask.

God, I miss them. Their voices, their faces. Despite their fascination with the end of the world and being the weirdest people ever, I miss them like crazy. Ever since I opened up to Nate, just that little bit, I can't stop thinking about them.

I try as hard as I can to not regret anything, or at least live without regret, but man I regret not telling my parents how much I loved them and how much they meant to me – they were gone, just like that. They probably would've relished in this environment, knowing exactly what to do and what not to do. Unlike me, who is now a little emotionally stunted when it comes to forming new relationships. Unwanted ones included, considering who walks behind me.

Even in the glow of the torch light strapped to the strap of my pack – which sits on his shoulders – it's hard to make Nate out in the darkness. He keeps me in sight at all times, though he must know by now that I'm not stupid enough to run from him. All he has to do is lift his rifle and pull the trigger.

"How much further?" I ask. He doesn't even give me a torch to help me find my way, which, I guess, makes it difficult to flee. If I can't see where I'm going, then I can't get far.

It takes a moment for Nate to answer. He comes up beside me, and though the rifle points downward, it's aimed near my feet. His torch lights up a patch of grass in front, maybe a metre or two away. We keep the highway to our right, using it as a guide.

"A few more miles."

We're at the bottom of the ridge, trees rising up to greet us. Beyond is uneven ground and god knows what else.

"Whoa, whoa, wait." I grab his arm, fingers clenching his jacket because it's easier to keep a hold of. I force him to stop. "Your camp is only a few miles away? Why didn't we go there earlier?"

Nate looks at me now, every inch of him screaming annoyance. He leans to one side, his left leg bearing all the weight. And I realise then, having not taken notice before, that his right leg has a brace on it. A crude one at that, made of bits of metal, tied together with what looks to be strips of clothing, maybe some leather, some buckles. It's hard to say whether or not the brace goes through the clothing and through his skin.

"You had a concussion," he says simply, like that answers my question. "I wasn't going to lug you back to camp unconscious. I need both hands to fire my rifle."

Between now and when we left the house, things between us went back to how it'd been when we'd first met. Besides annoyance, he reeks of animosity, and I'm glad for it. It makes leaving easier once I 'help' him.

We fall into silence, and maybe he's simply had too much time to think, or maybe he's made a huge mistake in deciding to take me back to his people. Over-thinking is a killer, and I have no doubt that's why he's no longer sociable. He's bearable to an extent, just like I must be to him.

"How do you think I'm going to be able to help you?" I ask, finally releasing his jacket. I hadn't meant to hold it for so long, and I take a step back to put distance between us. I cannot, and will not, create some familiarity between us. No matter how miniscule. It's too easy to misinterpret.

"I need your hands," Nate says, being enigmatic as ever.

And he leaves it at that. He starts walking again, not bothering in pulling me along. I notice a slight limp the further he gets away. "Hurry up," he says, not even sparing me a look. "I'm not going to carry you."