“Turn as best you can,” he says. “I’ll pick it up and throw it to you when you’re out there.”
I want more than anything to let out a frustrated sigh, to tell him he’s a jerk-off.
But the jerk-off’s got a gun, so I don’t. The world has ended, but jerk-offs still have a leg up.
Ha. Leg up.
Christ, even after the apocalypse I can’t resist a pun.
I turn my foot like I’m doing some fucked-up version of thehokey-pokey. You put your right foot in, you put your right foot out, you put your right foot in and get a bullet to the chest.
I finally have my back to him when it hits me—he could have been lying all along. Maybe he doesn’t want to look me in the eye when he shoots me.
“Please,” I say, glancing back. “I need help. I can’t make it much farther out there. Please just help me and then I’ll leave. I need to clean this wound and wrap it with a bandage that isn’t a shitty Walmart T-shirt before it gets infected.”
“I don’t have any supplies.” His voice breaks as he speaks. Is that his tell? Is he lying?
“Bullshit. You’re telling me you’re out here, alone, with no first aid supplies?”
“I am. Now step forward.”
“How?”
“Hop.”
“Christ.” I let out the annoyed sigh I’ve been holding in. Finally, I put my back against his wall and slowly, carefully, slide down.
“What are you doing?” he asks. I use my hands to brace myself as I scoot down the wall, being careful to keep my right leg up until my butt hits the floor. Then I lower it slowly.
“Shoot me if you want,” I say. The pain’s excruciating, and at this stage of the game, what the hell’s the point anymore? I survived the bug when better people didn’t. Better people like my little sister.
Now all that’s left is people like me. I focus again on the gun pointed at my chest, and the boy who’s holding it.
People likeus, I guess.
“But remember,” I say. “If you do, you’re the one who has to carry me out of here.”
“Get up.” He points the gun right in my face.
Good. Then it’ll be over quickly.
“I’d make aDreamgirlsreference and tell you I’m not going, but this doesn’t seem like the right audience for that.” His silence and confused look prove my point. I let out a joyless laugh. “Just do it, dude.”
The idea of a quick death is actually starting to sound appealing. It lets me off the hook. No more guilt. Who knows what comes next—maybe a movie theater that will show me all the watershed moments inthisguy’s life that led to him shooting me—but even if what comes next is just darkness, it’s better than the pain. Better than being aware of how truly fucked everything is.
Still he doesn’t pull the trigger. I watch his face change from anger to fear.
He isn’t going to do it.
“Get up.” But his voice is wavering.
Wait. What’s that feeling in my gut? Is that... hope? Maybe I was wrong before about his eyes. They were frightened, not frightening.
“I. Need. Help.” All confrontation and fight have left him. I can see he doesn’t want to shoot me just as much as I don’t want him to. He’ll help me if I can convince him. “I’m alone,” I say. “I have been for over five months. Please.”
He’s lowering the gun now.
“Please,” I beg him. “My name’s Andrew. I’m not infected and my last family member died five months ago. My sister. She was twelve years old. You’re the first person I’ve talked to since.”
