The Silver Death

chapter four - the others

I wake with a terrible memory of a nightmare involving the man and Latino boy and hair that is curly from the bun I left it in last night. I let it down and shake my head around. Still greasy and smelly. I need a shower.
Shaking off the dream, I get up and gulp down a can of clam chowder. I hated it. Still do, but it keeps me alive, so I don't complain. After staring out the window at the rain droplets for a full five minutes, trying to wake myself up fully, I give up and go try to find Matthew.
The uncoordinated trail he left in the dust is quite clear. My careful tread has left barely more than footprints; his concussion mixed with no lighting results in a trampled path of dust bunnies. So, I find him in less than two minutes, curled up on a tiny twin bed. Down the hall, down the stairs, then to the right hallway, room past the bathroom. His feet stick out from the blankets; the bed is tiny, and he's very tall and lanky.
I lean on the doorway. "Matthew."
He doesn't stir.
"Matthew," I say, louder and more forcefully.
The first thing he does when he opens his eyes is groan and clutch his head. I don't blame him. I've never had a concussion, but Kara mentioned the headache she got after falling off the horse, and it sounded bad.
"How's the head?" I ask, a hint of sarcasm in my voice.
"You're seriously asking me that." A statement, not a question.
"What I mean is, can you get up, or will you lie here and be useless?"
This strikes a nerve. Saying nothing, he ever so slowly sits up, glaring at me, and slides off the bed. He's unstable, and is a bit pale, but looks fine. He stands in front of me and folds his arms.
"I guess you'll be useful, then," I say softly. "Get up to the kitchen, we'll decide what we're doing."
I'm being rude. I know it. But I'm at least nice enough to let him trail behind me, stopping every time he slows. Letting him catch up to me. When we reach the kitchen, I pull my pack from the bedroom and meticulously stack the cans on the counter. I sort them by type of soup or food in columns, bigger ones in front, smaller in back, alphabetical order, of course. Matthew says nothing, but I'm uncomfortably aware of him staring at me. When I'm done, I toss a can of tomato soup at his feet. He picks it up.
"Have that for breakfast. I'm going out scouting today – seeing if there's any more gas stations or something similar. This won't last us forever." I gesture to the cans. "Especially with two eating. The water is a good thing, but we'll also run out soon. You'll only slow me down, so you're staying here. Shoot any Foamers you see – wait on any people. And don't even point the barrel at me, if you like your head." I hesitate, reluctantly handing him one of the rifles and a full clip of bullets. "Don't make me regret this. I have another one just like it, with three times as many bullets, a pistol and a knife." (Technically I have two, but I'm not using Winston's butterfly knife until I find him.) That should scare him into obedience, but he merely looks neutral. Not bored or angry, simply neutral.
Of course, this ticks me off greatly.
"Stay here. Don't waste our resources." Without waiting for a reply, I shoulder my backpack and start out the door. Before picking up my bike, I sniff the air, closing my eyes. It rained last night. I didn't have to look at the window. I knew from the sweet, fresh morning smell. The sun lighting the sky but not making an appearance over the hills. The grass, wet with dew, soaking my shoes. This is the real reason I like rising early.
I wipe off my bike seat and start down the hill. My hair whips around for about five seconds before I stop and pull it back into another bun. That's better.
I stop just before the gas station, looking to see any extra activity. Nothing I can see. It looks the same. Even still, I set my pack next to my bike and take my pistol. I haven't tried the rifles yet, I'm unsure if I'll even be able to shoot straight.
I crouch low in the uncut grass, ignoring the way the dew clings to my clothes. Ever so slowly, I make my way to the wall where I found Matthew. The yellow weeds are still red with his now-dried blood. There's no window to eavesdrop in, so I make my way to the back door. If the front was bad, this is abysmal. Overflowing garbage long forgotten, flies buzzing, suspicious–looking stains under suspicious–looking bags. A blood-curdling smell of rotten milk, roadkill and food that is past the point of going bad. And the scariest part, an ominous shine of a black metal van parked by the trash bins, skillfully hidden from view.
I hesitate before pushing the door open, dropping my shirt from where it was covering my nose to block the smell. I find the back where I stole food from. The same pile of blankets where I'm assuming Matthew or Avery slept. I hear voices, and, with a silent step, lean against the door, listening hard.
"She isn't here." A blunt, quiet voice. Male, very deep and a bit hoarse. Although it is rather soft, it manages to carry around the room.
"I know that, Edward! I just saw their helicopters and assumed she might be here!" Female. Kind, sincere, although now whomever is speaking sounds angry with 'Edward.'
"Will you two stop it!" Another guy. This is higher pitched, although still discernible as male. Full, not as deep as the first one.
"We came here thinking we'd finally find her." There's a small scuffing sound, as if he stood up. "I'm going to go get something to eat."
No! I think, as heavy footsteps stop at the door where I'm listening. The logical thing to do would to try and explain everything, or maybe find a good hiding spot with what little time I have left. Either hope he doesn't put a bullet between my eyes, or find me.
So, naturally, I panic.
I start towards the exit and almost make it when he opens the door. I'm too jumpy, too tense from years of being on edge, to resist a look, but barely see anything more than broad shoulders and a gun, gleaming in the faint light of the door I have flung open.
"Hey!"
I don't turn to look at him this time. Without the weight of my backpack, I am even faster and sure-footed than I have been. I don't look back, but do not hear another set of feet crunching through the dry grass. He isn't following, probably to get the other two – or more, probably – to help chase me.
I reach my bike and throw on my pack without buckling it. I pick up my bike and pedal as fast as I can up the hill. It isn't very steep, and I am soon running through the door and sweeping the cans of food into my bag. Matthew probably would have eaten –
Matthew!
I sprint to the twin bed room. "Matthew?!"
No Matthew.
"Matthew! Matthew!" I scream, running through the house. I can't let him go; as angry as he's made me, I can't just selfishly discard another human's life. I finally find the great idiot in the bedroom. He looks up at me as I enter, his eyes wide.
"Hazel? What's going on?"
"We have to leave, now!" I don't wait for a response. I open the window and hop out. Hit the ground running. I don't bother to grab my bike; Matthew would never have been able to hold on with me. We drive now, if he's telling the truth about the woman, he knows how to. Maybe he can even teach me, make me less scared of getting behind the wheel.
I eventually slow down, then stop altogether. I turn around. He's not following me. I screwed up, I think as I sprint back to the house.
I barely get inside the window before someone points a gun at my head.