What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Nate sobers immediately, which is exactly what I was hoping. "L.A.," he says quietly.

Outside of Oregon, L.A. had the next largest quarantine zone. In a state of frenzied panic, those within the zone broke free to escape what they assumed would happen to them, too. In doing so, they unleashed the horror the government was trying so hard to hide and eradicate.

You see, the new strain of measles killed anyone who was too young, too old, too weak, those with compromised immune systems. And those who survived turned into crazed, mindless cannibals within twenty four hours.

It was total bloodshed. It was total bloodshed all over the country, with quarantine zones no longer containing the infected. More bombs were dropped, too many innocents died. But the disease had spread too far by then.

The man before me was there. His wife had given birth to Emmi, and the three of them had somehow gotten out alive. How, I have no idea.

I don't say anything. Instead I twist my head slightly so my face isn't so close to his. It must have been horrific.

Nate watches me, and I swear he can see straight through me. "I'd rather not talk about it." He leans forward, following my movements, until his lips are right by my ear. "And I know what you're trying to do."

At this stage, I don't know what he wants or what he's playing at. All I know is that I don't like it, whatever it is. So I push his face away, attack his arm with the needle, and start to sow him back together.

His groan rumbles through him, and I feel it under my hands as I work, as I slowly staunch the blood flow, as I pull his skin together and stitch him up.

"I have known you all of twelve hours," I say, poking the needle through his skin and pulling the thread along with it; Nate sucks in a breath. "One minute you want to kill me, the next you want to fight me, then you basically make heart eyes at me. Make up your goddamn mind."

I am projecting my thoughts and feelings onto him, and I don't really know what I want. Part of me welcomes his attention, the part of me that craves for human interaction after going without it for so long. The other part of me, it wants me to bolt and leave this all in the dust. I think that's known as rational thinking.

Nate grabs my jaw and turns my face to him, and I have no choice but to look at him. Where I'd like to avoid eye contact, he relishes in it. And I see nothing. He shows me nothing. The depths of his eyes are bottomless. Again I get the notion that he can see right through me, but I can't see anything of him – because he chooses to show me nothing. And it's not fair. I feel like an open book, and he's running his finger down my spine and I'm showing him all of my secrets.

"I know you want it too," he says quietly. His thumb strokes my chin, my bottom lip.

His words are like a slap in the face, a wake-up call to my conflicting thoughts and emotions. I can't do this. I can't be in this situation, I can't get intimate with someone. Anger races through my veins, but at myself, not at him. I should never have put myself in this position. Once upon a time I would have welcomed intimacy and friendship; now, being a shadow of my former self, I all but fear it. Avoid it.

I pull Nate's hand from my face, turn back to what I'd been doing, and poke the needle forcefully through his skin. It pokes out through the other side, and I pull the thread with it. I yank on it, hard - a gesture to coincide with my anger at myself - and that part of the wound closes, coming together as though I'm tying a pair of shoelaces.

Blinded by my own thoughts and feelings, I realise too late what I've done. Nate shoves me away, a reflex in response to pain, and as I fall right on my tailbone, I take the needle and thread with me. The wound rips open as the thread is yanked from his skin, from where I'd been sewing him together.

I don't know who's angrier: me or him.

Nate jumps to his feet and seethes at me as fresh blood pours down his arm and chest. His chest heaves, sweat trickles down his skin. "What the fuck?" he snaps. He presses his hand to his shoulder, hissing from the contact. Blood seeps through his fingers. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

My tailbone aches as I drag myself forward, until I get onto my knees again. Nate stands over me, and though he's never truly hurt me before, I don't know if maybe now might be when he does. I pull my knife from my boot and hold it in front of me. "Don't come any closer," I say. And like it has been between us since we met, things have escalated quickly – a melting pot of small rooms and big personalities.

Nate takes one look at my knife and promptly ignores it. "Oh, I won't," he says sarcastically, his comment dismissive.

My anger evolves to encompass not only myself, but him as well. "I could gut you," I say. "I could gut you like that creep from before." His face appears before me, in my mind's eye, his intestines spilling from the gaping hole in his stomach. I bite back a shiver.

Nate huffs a laugh. "I've seen you with Emmi," he says. "And I know you wouldn't do that to her."

"You can't be too sure," I say as a spike of pain races up the base of my spine. I wince. "I'll do whatever has to be done."

Nate eyes me, his gaze moving between my face, my knife, my hand stained red from his blood. I can tell he's not quite sure whether I'll follow through on my words, but I can definitely tell he's leaning towards the 'not likely' end of the spectrum. Which only pisses me off even more.

He can tell it does, and he only toes the line more by turning his back on me before he sits on the toilet again. He leans back against the blood-stained cistern, eyes bright and all-knowing. Blood pools beneath his open palm, but he ignores it, watching me as I watch him, as I pull myself to my feet.

"Don't ever touch me like that again," I say. I know it was a knee-jerk reaction to my actions, but still.

He lifts his arms in a show of surrender. "Never again."

I have decided that I never want to be stuck in a room with this man ever again. "Good." An answer that any five-year-old would be proud of.

A small smirk curves Nate's lips as he says, "You'll be gone, and we won't cross paths again." He spares a glance at his chest, at the sweat that coats his skin, at the hole that continues to pump blood between his fingers. I swear this guy can read my mind. Or my face just projects every little thing I'm thinking.

I laugh without humour. "I guess no one told you I was staying."

If Nate's surprised, he doesn't show it. His smirk only grows. "Don't make promises you can't keep," he says finally.

Needle and thread in hand, I stalk out of the bathroom. I resist every urge to push his hand away and dig my thumb into his gunshot wound as I pass him. "I'm going to check on Emmi," I say by way of explanation. I don't even look at him. "And don't think for a second that you're safe just because you have a daughter."