The Silver Death

chapter three - matthew

I am so, so, so sorry for not updating. I had a lot of personal problems, including toxic friendships with certain assholes and depression issues, so I apologize. Also, I sort of lost interest in the story, but I came back to Wattpad after a while and realized that once I fix a few things, this story has a lot of promise to it. I will try to be more diligent about keeping up my works. Thank you for reading!

It's the man from the gas station. I don't put my gun away, but realize that even if he wanted to attack me, it would be a very poor decision to make, at least in the state he's in now. The bandage I saw earlier is gone, replaced by a very nasty looking cut with blood oozing out of it, down into his carrot orange hair. A purple bruise adorns his temple. His glasses have fallen off, but have not shattered yet. I pick them up and stuff them in my pocket. Might as well temporarily incapacitate him. There is a chance, after all, that he's legally blind, or something similar. The lenses were fairly thick.
I kneel down next to him. I pause, realizing I don't know his name. Oh, well. "Um...sir? Are you okay?"
Really. Are you okay. My gun wavers slightly in my shaky hand.
He makes the faintest of moans and one bright blue eye stares at me from half-closed lids. His eyelashes are pale. Very pale orange, but long and thick. I was right about him being almost blind without glasses; his eyes appear much bigger without them.
"Are you...infected?" That's better.
"...no.." he breathes out with what looks like an enormous effort. I hesitantly lay a hand on his forehead. Normal, if not a bit cold. Layered with sweat, but from effort. It is September, and these are the Rocky Mountains. But no fever. That's what's important.
"Are you alone?"
He doesn't answer right away. He opens both eyes, looking me over. "Yes," he finally spits out, before descending into a furious coughing fit. Not knowing what to do, I only watch. When he is finished, he holds his head and groans. No blood or foam. That's good, at least. He's telling the truth about his health.

"I'm going to give you a place to stay. Keep in mind I have a gun and I can shoot you at any time. You will do exactly as I say," I hiss at him. He gives me the faintest nod. Good. Assuming he's coming back to consciousness, I take his uninjured arm and pull him up.
My first mistake.
He lets out a strangled, gurgled yell and falls over to the side of the gas station. His whole body shakes like a leaf. He vomits. I almost throw up myself, although I normally wouldn't, having a strong stomach.
I go between options in my head, narrowing them down until there are only two: carrying him back to the house or ditching him and high tailing it away on my bike. The former is not feasible, him being almost a foot taller than me and at least fifty pounds heavier, and the latter is just stupid and untrustworthy of me, even though he wouldn't find that house if he wanted to, in his condition. Finally, I decide he'll have to suck it up and walk with me to the house, where he'll lay down and I can clean his injuries and maybe give him painkillers.
"Up you go, Sparky," I say quietly, putting an arm around his waist. I'm too short to reach any higher. I very slowly pull him up. He doesn't complain, but looks a bit green. He hugs my shoulders as I lead him over to the bike. I pick it up and start walking it back down the road. This will take a while, and it's a bit difficult with only one free hand, but I'll manage.
He leans on me heavily. Looking like he might throw up again, I slow my pace. Easy, Hazel. I have short legs but managed to walk faster than anyone in my family, especially when I'm nervous.

Like now.
"What's your name?"
He doesn't answer right away. He takes a deep breath. "M-Matthew Wing. Yours?"
"Hazel," I reply after a short pause.
"...Hazel what?" Prodding for a last name. My liking of him is going down by the minute.
"Hazel Nothing," I blurt.
He chuckles. "H-Hazel Nothing. What...a-a name. Do...you have r-running water?"
I purse my lips. "No. I have bottled. We'll clean your injuries when we get back to the house." I pause. Decide I might as well break the ice. He's staying in my house, after all. "How'd you meet her?"
"F-Found her in...the woods. She was running from the...the people. That shot at us. We drove around for a while, until the truck...exploded. I-I injured my head. A-Avery hit her heel against a tree. She thinks she shattered it."
We're near the house. I throw down the bike next to the door and reach for the knob.
"What's your story, Hazel N-Nothing?" He sounds more coherent now than he has recently.
I pause. I can feel my face tensing. "Tough," I say simply, throwing open the door with more force than necessary. I will tell no one about Kara and Jared, only those I trust. And this freckly redhead is far from that.
He stays silent as I go down the hall and into the master bedroom. I help him lie down, and then perch on the edge of the bed, peering into his head wound. I know he's watching me, and for some reason I find this uncomfortable. I ignore it, however, and instead speak directly to the slash.
"I think...normally you'd need stitches. I'm not a doctor, however, and I don't have anything to do it with, anyway. I'll clean it and put some Neosporin or something on it, and change your bandages...twice a day. You also have a concussion. Don't move unless you have to. You'll have a bad headache and probably emotional distress."
"How...how do you know this much?"
I pause. "My best friend and I fell off a bareback horse in the pen when we were thirteen and she hit herself in the face with both of her knees and on the bar, getting a concussion."
He frowns for a moment, digesting this information. The story is so bizarre, so uncalled for, and the way I delivered it is so blunt that he cannot help but laugh weakly. "What'd you do that for?"
I crack a smile. "We were thirteen and stupid. Her family called me Bareback Jack from that point onward." He looks relieved to be joking with me. I stand up. "I'm going to get the bucket in the bathroom."
I do as I said I would, and am relieved to find a spare washcloth in it as well. It might not be sterile, but that's the least of my worries right now. Besides, I have isopropyl alcohol. He'll be fine.
I pour a small amount of said alcohol onto the washcloth and empty about half a bottle of water into the bucket. Matthew watches me. Is it Matt or Matthew? I don't feel like asking. He's Matthew from now on.
I gently probe the edge of the cut, being as gentle as possible, but already Matthew has stiffened, sucking in a large breath. I resist the urge to sigh. Ignoring him the rest of the cleaning, I finish after patting the scrape on his arm. I stand up and rummage around in my bag, tossing the half empty bottle of water and the Ibuprofen at him. "Take two." There's a rattle of pills and a crinkling of water bottles as I retrieve a spare change of clothes and my eye stuff. I turn around to him as he swallows the pills.
I wave my pistol at him. "Take one step into the bathroom and I'll blow your head off your shoulders."
He rolls his eyes as I leave. I change quickly, and then spend a good five minutes struggling with my hair. It's just long enough to all pull back into a bun, but several hairs fall back, tickling my face. Finally I give up and move on to taking out my contacts, replacing them with my glasses. My eyes are tired. I trek back to the bedroom, where I see Matthew picking at a loose string on the bedspread. He looks up as I enter.
"Where...where can I sleep? Can I stay here?"

I press my lips together, deciding. He can't hardly move because of his headache. But I still want to keep an eye on him. "I don't know. This is the only bed left upstairs. And I am not sharing it with you." I say the last part forcefully. "I'm tired, and I don't really want to walk down two flights of stairs."

I'm feeling irritable. I'm angry that I have to aid this injured, inquisitive redhead with every aspect of his existence, simply because I may or may not have felt bad when I saw him. And I'm getting angrier because I don't know why I'm so angry about this.
He scoffs. "I guess I'll do it myself, then." He struggles to stand. A small, human part of me, untouched by the ending of the world, yearns to help him to the bedrooms downstairs. But I can't; my stupid pride means too much to me.
He almost falls out of the bed, but catches himself by the doorway. He glances back at me. "Well...goodnight, Hazel Nothing."
He's gone. I stare angrily at my shoes and repeat every curse word I know in my head. Sometimes under my breath. I can't tell anymore. I don't bother to move to the bed as I grow tired. The windowsill has a nice cushion that I curl up on.
I stare out the window as I fall asleep, thinking about Matthew Wing and Hazel Nothing.