“This jacket belonged to Rory,” I tell him, plucking at the sleeve.
“Your brother.”
He remembers.
“Yeah.” Hugging myself, I pull Rory’s jacket close. If I breathe in deep enough, I swear I can still smell him. “It was his favorite. A gift from his girlfriend, he wore it all the time when he wasn’t in uniform. It’s the last thing I have of his.”
Maverick turns to his right, grabbing some of the dry grass he’s stockpiled. He tosses it on the fire and, for a few seconds, we watch as the flames leap up for a taste before settling back down, burning a little brighter than it was. The fierce snaps die down to a soft crackle that is strangely calming.
“Your brother,” Maverick murmurs, “was he a victim or…”
Technically, anybody who died during the Turning is considered a victim, whether they were a victim of the Injection or a victim of someone who Turned.
But that’s not what Maverick is asking me.
“Rory was a firefighter, just like Jack. Except he took the Injection when they offered it to him. Not everyone did.” Maverick obviously didn’t, and cops were some of the first groups offered the Injection. “He was always so sporty and outdoorsy, taught me everything I know about camping,” I add wistfully, “and he liked the idea of never getting sick, I guess. He never wanted to feel weak… he liked saving people. He was a good guy. He didn’t deserve what he got.”
With a soft nod of agreement, Maverick silently encourages me to continue.
And I think with a wry smile,it’s too late to turn back now.
I shudder and close my eyes. It’s like a movie playing in my head, the memory of Rory as he Turned, and the look of hunger twisting his unfamiliar features as he fought becoming a monster. My screams for help, and the way Mom came up from the basement, carrying the laundry, both of us unprepared for a fuckinglurkerin the house?—
“I was home on New Year’s,” I begin, my voice shaky and quiet. I’ve never told anyone except for Jack and Hallie what happened that day—and Hallie, of course, told Chase—but that’s it. It’s my biggest secret, one I’ve tried so hard to forget… that I’ve done too many questionable things to protect… and here I am, spilling it all out to someone I’ve only known for a few short weeks.
“I was home the first day of the Turning,” I start again, “just me and my mom. Rory was at the firehouse. Jack was on the truck, like always. Hallie spent the night at Chase’s house. She missed the worst of it. She wasn’t there to see?—”
My voice cracks, raw emotion already bubbling up inside of me. This isn’t a good idea. It hasn’t been long enough, and thinking about Hallie just makes it worse.
And then Maverick reaches over and places his hand securely on top of mine—and the words start flowing out of me. About how I was just sitting there when Rory popped in, telling us about the reports of people going crazy. Hostiles. Cannibals. Reports of humans eating other humans… he came to make sure Mom and I were alright.
Only we weren’t because that’s when Rory Turned.
It was me or Mom. I don’t know why he grabbed her first. I screamed for her to run when I realized something was wrong, I told Rory “no”, but he was too far gone.
He had her, and he… he started toeather.
“I had to do it,” I blurt out suddenly. It’s like I’m trying to convince myself more than Maverick. “I grabbed a steak knife from the sink and I stabbed him. I didn’t mean to kill him, I just wanted him to stop biting Mom… but he wouldn’t and I kept stabbing and stabbing and stabbing until they were both dead.”
Maverick pulls away from me, stunned. At first I think it’s because of what I said and, horrified that the truth made him react that way, I push on the ground to get to my feet.
But Maverick grabs my hand again, yanking on it. I’m not prepared for the sudden tug and my legs fold beneath me so quickly that I nearly land in his lap.
“Maverick, I?—”
“Don’t go,” he says firmly. “I’m so sorry, Xandra. I shouldn’t have asked?—”
“No,” I reply, cutting him off. In a way, I feel a tiny bit better. I’ve carried the truth around with me for more than nine months, and to tell someone who isn’t judging me, who knows what the world is really like now, it’s as though someone managed to pull the venom from a festering wound.
It hurts, sure, but nowhere near as much as if it was left behind.
And, suddenly, I know I have to finish the story.
“You asked me, and it’s all true: I killed my own brother. I held the mangled remains of my mother as she died. It was like I was in a trance,” I confess. “I left the bodies in the kitchen, then locked the doors because I didn’t know then that that wouldn’t do shit to stop a lurker. I sat in the living room and waited for someone… Jack or Hallie… to come home. I kept that bloody knife by my side until we learned what fire can do. When Hallie finally let herself into the house, she found me sitting by myself on the couch.”
I realize how cold that sounds, but it’s the truth. I wish it wasn’t, and I don’t know why I’m telling him all this.
But I can’t stop.
