8
Chapter Eight
SIN
I'm not turning backfor her. That's what chicks like to do. They crave attention and they want you to go running after them so they can play up the dramatic bullshit. Love. Fuck love.
I don't know how long I've been walking since Reese stopped following me, but I'm guessing now that she was pretty serious about giving up on this idea of finding food and water. I thought it was just for attention; although, if that were the case, I would have assumed she'd pick up her pace when she realized I wasn't playing into her game and turning back for her. Twisting around to see if I can catch a glimpse, I see now that there is no sight of her for as far as I can look, which right now, is probably at least a couple of miles. I can't turn back for her. Not now. I need to get water and food. That's why we were coming out here. I'm surprised as hell that I've made it this far without croaking, but dammit to hell, I'm not giving up now. I can smell the water. Or I hope it's water. Drinkable water. She didn't realize how close we were.
I come up on a small creek…a creek thin enough to step over, but there's water. God, could I be lucky enough to find some fish or frogs in this murk? I dip my hand in slowly, testing it for the flesh eating crap that's in the water closer to the camp. Nothing so far. I grab a bottle out of my backpack and dunk it in. Pulling it out, I admire the floating particles of dirt and whatever other sediment is in this crap. I place the bottle down and search through my bag for the iodine I grabbed from Dad's dresser. That stuff is like gold in this town.
As I pour the iodine into the bottle and close it up to let it sit, I find myself looking back down the path I had been walking, wondering what the hell Reese is really up to. I heard her say she was giving up and I hadn't thought much about it until now. What did she mean by that? She was preaching to me just an hour ago about how we can't give up. How we've come this far and have to keep fighting. It seems odd she would just flip a switch. Although, adding in the combination of starvation, dehydration, and exhaustion, God knows what’s going on with the signals in her brain. God knows what's going on in mine, or what has been going on in mine for years. What has this place done to me?
Never mind. I know what she meant by that and I ignored her. I ignored her because deep down, I know damn well, I am my father and I refuse to let anyone know how much alike we are.
I screw the cap back on my water and drop it into my bag. Dammit, I swore to myself I wouldn't do this with her. I swore. Now I'm chasing after her like a moron.
She hasn't once struck me as the type to be brave enough to tough this place out alone. I know she has been trying to put on this whole tough girl act, but I see right through it, or I thought I saw right through it. I'm second-guessing myself now, though. Maybe the girl is batshit crazy.
I continue walking for what feels like way longer than the time it took to leave her, but there's no sight of her anywhere. No footprints, nothing.
As I see the tree line approach in the distance, I know for sure she was still following me past the point of where the trees ended.
Shit.
I pick up the speed, feeling the heaviness in my head weigh me down more than it already has been. Please don't tell me I'm seeing what I think I'm seeing. The closer I get, the more confirmation I have. My legs are carrying me at a speed I didn't think I was capable of at this point. I'm fearful of the damage that has already been done, and I'm fearful for the damage that might be irreversible.
Shouting as loud as I can, I startle every one of them to divert their attention from her to me. She's screaming. She's alive. Thank God. I whip my pistol out and start popping it at every moving target. There's a newbie, she looks like she was just caught robbing a bank, except this is nothing like robbing a bank. Her hands are up in the air, dried blood encircles her mouth and her eyes are large with fear, for good reason since my pistol is aimed directly at her head.
This is the fear I was trying to help Reese avoid. The desperation which follows starvation—cannibalism. All of them have fled, except for those who I shot dead. I let the woman, still staring at me with unblinking eyes, go. "Get the hell out of here!" I shout to her.
Reese is writhing in pain, lying ten feet in front of me. It takes me a second to analyze the landscape of damage covering her body. Bite marks, deep flesh wounds over fatty areas, blood dripping from her nose, likely from the fight she probably put up. There were at least eight of them, and only one of her. Slowly, I walk over, guilt saturating every fiber in my body. I am an asshole. I can't control my moods, my behavior, or my attitude and this is what it’s caused. I don't have enough medical supplies to treat her. I barely had enough to treat my head and I'm afraid we've used most of what we had for that.
I drop to my knees, scooping my hand under her head. I want to tell her I'm sorry, but it's too late for an apology. I want to tell her I was wrong. I want to tell her I love her, too, and that it's making me lose every piece of sense I thought I had left. People don't love each other after a week, but I think I loved her since the moment she tried to protect me in the hospital five years ago. She didn't know me then, yet she still believed I was good. Since that day, she's the only one who has believed I am good. But the truth is clear, I'm not good. I'm as evil as everyone else here.
"Hey," I say softly, nervous to hear her words. Nervous to see the look in her eyes when she opens them. She thinks she's seen it all now. She probably thought being kidnapped and locked up in a shed for three years was the most horror one could experience in a lifetime, and she should have been right about that. Survivors are supposed to get their time to share their story, grieve, and work on a form of survival after the storm has passed. I wanted that for her. The second I found her in the shed, I wanted her to have a survival story, but in truth, I'm not sure either one of us will have anything like that. If I manage to escape, I'll be nothing more than a runaway convict, regardless of doing nothing to earn that title.
Reese's eyes remain closed as her head twists from side to side. Her face is crunched in pain and her arms and legs are trembling. Her bare stomach is contracting and expanding quickly and each time she exhales, trickles of blood drip from her open wounds. I open my bag and pull out the last of the medical supplies, debating which of her wounds are worse. "Reese," I whisper softly.
She struggles to open her eyes and tears follow. "I wanted to die," she says. "That's all I wanted."
"You don't want that. You don't." Of course she does. That's all I've wanted, too.
"Yes, I do. Sin, please."
"Please, what?" No. No. Don't you fucking say it.
"Do it," she growls through a groan. "End me."
"No! Are you out of your mind?" I shout.
"Yeah, I am. So are you. Now do it."
I take my pistol back out, my hand shaking as I tighten my fingers around the pistol's grip. "This is what you want?" I press the barrel up to her temple, watching as her eyes clench tightly. "Open your eyes so I can see them one last time."
She does and I lean down and press my lips against hers, feeling her mouth tighten and tremble. Her tears fall between our noses and now tears are about to fall from my eyes, as well. I can't do this. I don't care how much she wants this. "Do it," she cries. "Don't drag it out."
"This isn't some sick love story, Reese. I'm not going to end you and then finish myself off so we can both rot here under the sun until some of those fucks come back here and dispose of our bodies to feed their starvation."
