Before it was just pus and heat. Now it’s bright red around the navy thread I used to hastily stitch him up, and the red has spread outward in thin tendrils. Poison looking for his heart and organs. He’s going septic, which means he’ll be dead in a few hours.
No. He’s not dying. I can’t lose him.
I run at the gate and pull and push as hard as I can. Shouting at it, screaming until I taste blood. The chains around the gate hold but I kick and kick, trying to... I don’t know what.
My legs are angry with me for biking through the night and they refuse to hold me up while I abuse them further. I fall to my knees, scraping them against the asphalt. I look back at Jamie in the cart, still sleeping. Still dying.
Cara has her hands clasped over her ears and her back to me.
Shit. The Andrew Bomb has gone off.
“I’m sorry, Cara.”
She doesn’t turn. She’s probably going to be like this for a while. The last time I screamed in frustration—when we found the burned-out hospital—she didn’t move for an hour. Though I think it was more to do with the burnt hospital than my yelling. She responded similarly to the burned-down shopping center we tried to camp in. But we don’t have an hour for her to settle down now.
There has to be something, anything around here. I’ll turn back and look through every house in Homestead searching for bolt cutters if I have to. Cara can stay here alone. I’m not going to let Jamie survive the bug only to die from fucking bacteria because a bunch of psycho militiamen shot him.
“Cara, I’m going back to Homestead. You can stay here or you can come with me.” I take my bike handles and start to turn the bike around, but she isn’t listening to me. I’m usually patient with her but I’m not now. I can’t hide the annoyance in my voice. “Hey, I’m leaving. Come along or stay here.”
Her eyes are closed, too.
I want to scream at her. I want to shake her and yell at her and...
Movement draws my eyes behind her. Beyond the gate.
There’s a truck coming.
Now my voice is calm. “Cara, look. Someone’s there.” Either the thought of someone coming up behind her or the calm worry in my voice brings her back. She opens her eyes; they’re wet with tears that threaten to fall and my heart breaks. I’m sorry, but I don’t say it. I’ll say it later.
If there is a later. I leave my bike and walk toward the gate, my hands held high above my head. I’m unarmed and they need to trust me.
The truck comes to a stop about ten feet before the gate. A man gets out from behind the wheel and walks to the front of the truck. The passenger opens the cab door and stays half in, half out of the truck. He’s tall and has brown skin. There’s a rifle slung over his shoulder and he keeps his hand on the strap. The driver has his hand at the gun on his hip.
“Can we help you?’ asks the driver, a white guy in his fifties.
I don’t know what to say. I was so ready to either be shot or to find nothing but more dead bodies and empty stores that my mind blanks. Cara doesn’t even say anything, so she must be thinking the same thing. Or she’s nervous about a Fort Caroline repeat.
The man with the rifle asks something in Spanish, but I don’t understand it with the two years of high school Spanish I’ve forgotten.
“Uh,” I say. “Sorry. I... We need help. It’s my friend.”
The rifle man moves quickly, pointing the rifle at us. I flinch, expecting him to pull the trigger, but he doesn’t. “Is he sick?” His voice sounds panicked now.
“Y-yes,” I manage. “But it’s not the bug. I swear. He was shot by... people who wanted to hurt us.” God, there’s so much backstory, but it’s not important right now. “His wound is infected and he might be septic. He’s dying. Please help us. You don’t have to let us in, just give us any antibiotics you might have that could help.”
The men look at each other. They aren’t going to help us. We’re useless to them; why would they give any medicine to us? This is just like Walt from Fort Caroline. Jamie shot him and Fort Carolinerefused him meds and let the infection kill him.
It’s karma, but Jamie doesn’t deserve it. Karma has the wrong person. Jamie did nothing but love me and save me and I can’t save him.
“Please,” I say. Tears well in my eyes and the world blurs. “I’ll work off whatever it costs, my whole life if I have to. But please help him. I can’t lose him, too.” But they aren’t going to. They look as if they’re about to say, “Thank you for your application, and while your skills are impressive, we regret to inform you...”
“Help him.” Cara’s voice surprises me. “He’s not bad. None of us are. You have to help him.”
The man with the rifle hands his gun to the driver and takes a tentative step forward. The driver says, “Eddie. You sure?”
He shrugs. “Who is anymore, man?”
Then Eddie takes out a set of three keys and uses one to undo the padlock and chain around the gate, then pulls it open.
