Slumped against the wall, she stared groggily across the room, her lips glistening with spilled water. “Bad,” she eventually replied in a rough, hushed tone. “Really… bad.”
“Yeah…” Sitting back on my heels, I scratched at my beard. “About that… I’m pretty sure your leg is infected—you probably need antibiotics.”
“Great,” she murmured.
“There’s a town nearby,” I said. “There might be something there.”
Her bloodshot gaze met mine, surprisingly discerning, considering how sick she was. “Funny,” she whispered hoarsely.
I dropped my gaze. Her sarcasm was warranted; there was almost zero chance of finding anything resembling medicine. Right after guns and ammunition, medicine had been next on the list of highly coveted items to rapidly disappear from what remained of the world. We still came across the occasional bottle of expired vitamins or over-the-counter pain pills, however, medical-grade pharmaceuticals were long gone.
When I looked up again, Willow’s head had rolled back against the wall, her eyes closed once more. With a frustrated sigh, I rose to my feet and scrubbed my hands over my face. If Lucas were here, he would be beside himself, begging me to do whatever it took to help Willow. And he would hate me for how I’d treated her yesterday—for the horrible things I’d said to her.
I found myself pacing the room, eventually making my way into the hallway. I looked around blankly, my heart stuttering in my chest. I had to do something, but what? Searching for antibiotics would be a fool’s errand, but I at least had to try.How though, I wondered, knowing I couldn’t carry her again; currently my sore muscles could barely carry my own weight. Neither could I leave her here—immobile and unable to defend herself.
I found myself in the middle of the kitchen. Hands on my neck, I stared up at the ceiling, wondering how I was going to get from here to the town; wondering how I was going to fix this mess.
Dropping my hands, I barked out a hollow laugh.
I’d never actually fixed anything, not one single thing—our current circumstances were proof enough of that. I’d simply been slapping band-aids over gaping wounds and ignoring the seepage. I was everything my father had said I was going to be—I was just like him: full of holes and utterly helpless to fill them.
Gunshots echoed in my memories—one, two, three. I recalled the look of madness on my father’s face shifting to one of surprise. I recalled his hand gripping his chest, as if he could somehow stop his blood from leaving his body.
I recalled having to use a sled to haul his body from the room, and the thump-thump as the sled descended the stairs. I remembered Willow was crumpled on the floor, her young face frozen in horror, and Lucas, with tears streaming down his cheeks, had run from the scene as fast as he could.
Not me though; I hadn’t been afraid or in pain.
I’d been angry.
And I’d been angry ever since.
It was the culmination of a life lived under an iron fist, and the by-product of having your world ripped from beneath your feet. And it was the consequences of an eighteen-year-old who’d been forced to take responsibility, not just for himself, for the lives of two other teenagers.
My hand shot out, gripping the countertop.
We’d never had a chance. All these years, traveling across a dozen different states, working us to the bone, I’d only been prolonging the inevitable. This was always how it would end, because none of us had ever truly left that house—Lucas was still gone, Willow was still crumpled on the floor, and I was still angry.
Angry and still dragging my dead father along behind me.
My head jerked, the smothering deluge of emotions instantly clearing. Taking off across the kitchen, I flung the garage door open and ran inside. My boots ground to a halt in front of two flat-bottom kayaks.
I had a sled. Now all I needed was some rope.
