He puts a finger to his lips, then moves to the door, machete raised. He eases it open, peering into what appears to be a hallway. After a moment, he gestures for me to follow.
We move silently through the house—living room, kitchen, small bathroom, one bedroom upstairs, with another bathroom. Everything neat, undisturbed. No signs of struggle. No blood. No bodies. Just the eerie emptiness of a place suddenly abandoned.
“Clear.” Julien lowers the machete. “Looks like they got out in time.”
I sink onto the bed, the adrenaline that’s been keeping me upright ebbing away. “Or they’re walking around outside somewhere.”
“Optimistic.”
“Realistic.” I touch the back of my head, fingers coming away sticky with half-dried blood. “Think they have a first aid kit?”
“Bathroom probably.” He hesitates, looking back at me. “You okay here for a minute?”
I manage a tired smile. “I promise not to pass out until you get back.”
“Hold you to that.”
His footsteps fade down the hall, and I let my eyes drift around the room, taking in the happy couple photos on the wall, a half-finished crossword puzzle on the bedside table, and a dreamcatcher above the headboard. Normal things from a world that no longer exists.
Did they make it? If they’re alive somewhere, I hope they don’t mind us being here, using their home as temporary shelter while the dead walk outside.
I trace my fingers along the quilted bedspread, focusing on its texture to anchor myself as the room tilts and shifts around me.
Footsteps in the hallway signal Julien’s return, and I straighten my spine despite the pain.
“Found some supplies.” Julien appears in the doorway, arms laden with towels, a white plastic box with a red cross, and a bottle of amber-colored liquid. Rum? “For medicinal purposes.”
“My father would approve.” I chuckle awkwardly, regret the words instantly.
He sets everything on the nightstand without comment, but his eyes find mine, asking a silent question I’m not ready to answer.
“So what’s the verdict?” I offer my arm.
He kneels in front of me, gentle as he takes my arm, turning it to examine the cuts. His shirt is darker in places where sweat and blood have soaked through, face streaked with grime and something darker. “It’ll heal, but this will sting.” He uncaps theamber bottle—whiskey, not rum, by the smell—and pours some onto a clean cloth.
I bite down on my lip as he dabs the alcohol-soaked fabric against the first cut. They’re shallow but numerous, crisscrossing my forearm like some sick, abstract artwork. The burning sensation makes my eyes water, but I’ve had worse.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?” He doesn’t look up, focused on cleaning each wound with the concentration of someone threading a needle.
“For coming back for me. For not leaving me there. For…” Killing him to save me. “I mean, why did you even come after me? You could have died. It was risky.”
His hands pause for a second before resuming their work. “You’d have done the same.”
“I don’t know if I would have.”
“You would.” No doubt in his voice. Just certainty.
I watch him work, the way his brows furrow in concentration and the tightness around his eyes that betrays his own pain. Blood still cakes his temple, and his split lip has swollen. And here I am letting him take care of me.
“After you finish with me,” I say. “It’s your turn.”
“No need.”
“But you’re hurt.” I tilt my head, trying to catch his gaze. “So please just?—”
“I don’t need your help.”
