What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

We swam together naked again, but I kept my distance. After what happened last time, I owed it to her.

She was distant as I spoke to her, when I handed her the bar of soap and she scrubbed herself. Her body was riddled with bruises, like a patchwork quilt.

I left her to her thoughts. I left her to whatever was eating away at her. She would come to me eventually with whatever was on her mind.

She still didn't say anything to me when she was clean, when all the blood was washed away by the river. She pushed her wet hair from her face and got out of the water, her limp much more pronounced than it had been yesterday. Maybe that was the cause of her worry.

She limped to her clothing, but only put on an old, discoloured bra that looked more brown than tan; her underwear was also discoloured and full of holes. She turned to me when she was finished.

"I think we should leave," she said, and that was not what I was expecting to come out of her mouth. She leaned heavily on her good leg.

"Charlotte–"

"Don't."

I cocked an eyebrow. She was defensive, and not just her words; she was closed off, arms crossed over her chest, her gaze narrowed. "Don't what?"

"Don't call me that," she said, and I had the urge to huff a laugh. But I didn't. It was liable to make this situation ... worse.

"What do I call you then?"

"Charli," she said. She nodded, as if saying the words out loud confirmed it. "Call me Charli. Don't call me Charlotte. I don't ... I don't want you to call me that."

"Alright, Charli." I emphasised her name. And if looks could kill, hers definitely could. She glared at me from her spot by the river. "Tell me: what has got your panties in a twist?"

At first she didn't answer. She just stared in my general direction, her hands on her hips. "Nowhere is safe," she began. "I just think after last night we need to move on. All those bodies ... they're like a beacon."

I was getting the feeling she wasn't telling me everything. "Where do we go?" I asked her. I wasn't looking for a fight; I just needed specifics. "You can't walk."

"Firstly, your first question is stupid. There are plenty of abandoned houses, abandoned cars, abandoned sheds, barns, open fields, forests–"

"I get your point."

"And secondly, you're going to piggyback me from here to wherever we need to go."

I needed to get dressed for this. I needed a coffee as well, but unfortunately that was hard to come by.

Charli averted her gaze as I got out of the water. She unsubtly moved away from me, maybe to put some distance between us, and sat down next to Dog.

I put on my boxers (which were dry, thankfully) and my jeans, which were not. They were damp and took a lot of convincing to get up my legs.

"Okay, let me get this straight." I turned to Charli as I buttoned up my jeans. "You want to leave, when you can't even support your weight for more than a couple of metres? I can't carry you everywhere." I sighed. "I need to be able to defend myself – and you – especially if you can't walk. I can't do that if I'm lugging you around."

"Well, we can't stay here."

"Like hell we can't."

Explosions. Fireworks – maybe more explosions, because one was about to happen right here.

"Tell me what's really on your mind," I said to her. "Don't use this as an excuse." I gestured to her, to me, to Dog, our weapons, our belongings. "Tell me exactly why you want to leave."

"I want to get your daughter back."

I couldn't help but be exasperated. I wanted to pull my hair out. "Don't use her as an excuse," I said. I could feel my frustration turning into anger. I ran my fingers through my hair and then over my face, because that was all I could do. It was the only way to expel my frustrations without doing anything stupid. 'Tell me exactly what prompted you to tell me that. Tell me why you want to leave. Hell, tell me why the fuck you had to come out here at dawn, wanting to be alone. Tell me why the hell you keep closing yourself off!"

"Because I'm scared!" she shouted. The confession was enough to shut me up. But not her. No, she kept coming. She was an onslaught. "It's because I'm fucking scared, alright!?" She gave Dog a long, gentle stroke that ended with a scratch behind his ear, before she got to her feet. Her eyes were like a forest fire as she turned to me. "Last night was the first time I'd seen you kill someone – it was the first time I'd seen you in combat. And it scared the shit out of me."

I'd scared her? "Look, Charlotte – Charli – you know it was in self-defence. What else could I do? Those zombies would've killed us."

She released a sigh. "They're not fucking dead, Nate," she said. "They're still human."

Which was true. I just liked to think of them as zombies so it didn't seem so personal, so I could distance myself. Was that the whole point of this argument? She didn't like the fact that I'd killed people – that she had as well?

"You're upset because I've killed people?" I asked.

Charli shook her head. "It's really had to explain," she said. "And I know we had to kill those people in self-defence, but–" She struggled to find the right words. She took a step toward me. "How many people have you killed?"

That question took me by surprise. "What?"

"How many people have you killed?" she demanded.

"I don't know."

"How many?"

"I don't know!" I shouted at her. "I don't know – one hundred, two hundred? I don't know!" I didn't know what she was getting at. Why did it matter? What did it matter that I'd killed ten people or a hundred? It was kill or be killed. If you didn't pull the trigger first, then they would. You didn't get much of a choice.

Charli looked tormented – that was the best way to describe her. And I didn't think what I'd just said helped in any way.

She took a deep but shaky breath. "I saw you hesitate before you killed that guy trying to climb into the 4WD," she said. Her voice was so little, so far away, it sounded as though she was addressing herself and not me – though she was talking to me.

"What does it matter?"

"It does matter!" she exclaimed, and she took one, two steps forward. Pleading. "I have killed hundreds of people, and I don't even bat an eye. I killed Ethan for Christ's sake!" Slowly, slowly, we were getting to the root of her problem. "I killed him for no reason! I killed him because I could – I kill because I can. I kill without thinking that that guy has a family, or that chick has a girlfriend she has to get back to. I kill and I don't even care!"

"So–"

"I don't kill because it's me or him – I kill because I can and because I will. I can be cruel. I am cruel. I'm a shitty person, Nate."

"Charlotte–"

She stepped into my personal space. "Don't call me that!"

This whole conversation – discussion – argument – was confusing. I didn't get why she was yelling. I didn't know what she was upset about. She was having a breakdown. She was crashing. The fight with the zombies had gotten to her in such a way that she was crumbling.

"Charli." She was inches away from me, but I knew touching her could potentially be a problem. I kept my hands by my sides, clenching and unclenching my fists. "It's alright. I get it." How could I put it into words? "It doesn't matter what you've done – it doesn't matter how many people you've killed, or how you killed them – when you get down to it, it's either you or him. You just happened to pull the trigger first."

Horror and disbelief clouded over her face, and she took a step back. She winced as she put her full weight on her bad ankle. "No. You don't understand at all."

"Charli–"

"We're always fighting, we're nothing alike, we've got nothing in common," she said. "I think we should go our separate ways."