What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER FORTY

You know how sometimes you fall asleep, completely exhausted, and wake up the next morning or afternoon and actually feel like you're reenergised? Or you've had such a deep sleep, that when you wake up you can't tell if you're actually awake or if you're still dreaming?

I'm currently experiencing a cross between the two.

I fell asleep facing away from Nate, him spooning me from behind. Now I face him, Dog somehow wedged in between us. Both sleep soundly and deeply. I don't want to wake either, but we need to get a move on.

It doesn't matter anyway. Nate's eyes flash open, and he rolls away from me, taking the blanket as he does. He doesn't say anything. He's propped up on his elbow, and he stays in that position for well over five minutes, barely breathing, never moving.

Then–

He moves in a blur, rolling on top of me as one of the windows shatter. He covers my entire body, arms over our heads, as another window explodes and glass rains down on us. Dog yaps, a constant bark, a constant alarm.

I feel trapped and claustrophobic, and I somehow shove Nate off me and roll out from under him at the same time. "How many are there?" I whisper. I know he can hear me over Dog's yapping.

"Three," Nate replies. "They're coming from the north–"

I'm already jumping over the back seat and opening the door, grabbing my pack on the way out. Rifle in hand, pack over my shoulders, I crouch behind the car, slipping a bullet into the chamber and pushing the bolt back into place. My handgun's in easy reach at my hip, and if worse comes to worst, I have my knife in my boot.

How did they know we were here? How did anyone know we were here?

We were followed, simple as that.

The stock presses into my shoulder as I lift the rifle, scope to my eye, and search for our attackers. I bring myself and the rifle around the back of the car, and catch sight of one right ahead, in the trees, wearing some sort of camouflage.

I spot him just as he spots me, and as I pull the trigger, the explosive sound of the gunshot ringing in my ears, I'm knocked to the ground, the rifle too, and I know I've missed. I land flat on my back, and with the rifle between us, I shove it upwards and into the chest of my attacker. Except it's not a man – no, it's a MeV, who looks as surprised as I am to see him.

He starts snapping at me, spittle flying everywhere, hands slashing and swiping, teeth gnashing together. Thankfully the rifle's between us, and it presses against his throat, keeping his face away from mine. He's skinny and ragged, injured, clothes falling off his body.

I can hear the screams now, human and MeV, of pain and of recognition. I can hear footsteps, I can hear bushes rustling, branches snapping, and it's hard to tell who's out there, how many there are, where they are.

My arms are getting tired, and the MeV's movements are only getting more wild and exaggerated. His dirty nails make contact with my clothes and not my skin, thankfully.

There are gunshots, there's more shouting, there's more screaming. I grit my teeth and try to force the MeV back, but he's wearing me down. If I don't do anything soon, his teeth will be sinking into my throat.

And to think that Dog would be my saviour. He appears out of nowhere and attacks the MeV, his teeth sinking deep into his forearm.

It takes a moment for the MeV to register the pain, and he pulls back slightly, trying to shake off Dog who is nothing more than an annoyance in its quest for food.

The distraction is enough for me to take one hand off the rifle and grab my handgun from my hip. The MeV notices the change, the movement of the object that's blocking it from its prey, and turns back to me, despite Dog still tugging on its arm.

He snaps at me again, teeth close to my face, and the next time he leans forward, I shove the handgun right into its open mouth and pull the trigger one, two times. Blood and brain matter fly everywhere; I'm drenched in it, the smell metallic and overwhelming and wrong and disgusting.

The MeV falls on top of me, covering me in more blood. The rifle wedged between us helps to lever him off me, and I crawl out from underneath the body, nothing more than a red shape.

There are so many things going on around me, so many noises, that I jump to my feet, rifle slung over my shoulder, handgun in hand, and scoop Dog up without much trouble.

I make a break for the highway, footsteps and gunshots and screams following in my wake as I crash and thrash through the underbrush.

It's déjà vu all over again, as the last time this happened I was pursued by a mob – okay, only one guy in the end – and I'd been this close to being eaten. I'm sick of running. So when I break through the trees, feet hitting asphalt, I tie Dog to the closest car – looping his leash around a side mirror – and make my stand.

The screaming continues, these incoherent but constant noises that blur together, and the genuine sound of people screaming in pain. It scares me that I don't know where Nate is, but I know he'll find me. There's no use in me trying to find him, to wander back into the lion's den without knowing exactly where he'd be.

The handgun returns to its place on my hip, and I heft the rifle into my arms again. I don't need the scope this time, because I just fire at the trees in front of me, hoping to draw some attention my way.

I have six bullets left, so I shoot another round, knowing the crack of the rifle will be heard at a distance, even through the trees.

My first victim appears. He runs straight at me, arms swinging, clothes flying, yelling god knows what. It doesn't matter. I shoot him long before he reaches me, the wound low in his belly. Another appears shortly after, screaming and wailing, and I slowly pick them off, one by one, as soon as I see them hit the last line of trees.

Of course, there's always a flaw in the plan. Remember when I spoke about hindsight and foresight? Well, I see a shadow moving amongst the trees, and pull the trigger a bit too soon. What's the expression? Trigger happy.

I shoot Nate in the arm, thankfully only a glancing blow, but I still shoot him nonetheless. I only realise I've shot him when I hear him shout something about "Fucking zombies" before he moves out from the trees, his expression nothing short of pissed off.

He holds his arm, which is ironically the same arm he'd been shot all those weeks ago. Blood pours from the wound, through his fingers, but he still masters the expression of wanting to kill me instead of anyone else.

My bad.

He's not impressed. He ignores Dog who yaps excitedly at him, and bounces up and down because, "Oh my god, Nate's here!"

Nate glares at me, clutching his injury, his handgun pressed against it as well. Well, it looks like the gunshot wound is his only injury, so that's a good thing, right? And besides, it was only a glancing blow. Nothing serious.

"Charli," he growls, and I swear I've never heard someone say my name that angrily. "I swear to god–"

Something hot slams into my shoulder, knocking me off balance. I stumble forward, pain blooming, all-consuming. There's a responding crack, echoing, ricocheting. I can't breathe. I can't–

Pain, red-hot, searing, flowering, exploding, rips through my back, through my pack, and I collapse, legs unable to keep me standing.

My face slams into the ground, but I don't care; all I feel is pain, explosive, white-hot, spreading. I feel cold. I can feel my blood coursing through me, pouring from me, pooling all around me like the ocean meeting a sandcastle on the beach.

I can't – I can't–

There's more screaming, wailing, shouting; Nate's mobbed by one, two, three MeVs, and Dog barks and barks, wanting to get in on the action because his owner's being attacked.

As black spots dance across my vision, as blood begins to collect in my mouth, I know I'm done for.

Charli, you're such an idiot, I berate myself. You forgot about the sniper in the trees.