Logan
Cursing, I swung at the block of empty shelves, cursing again as my fist collided with solid wood. Shaking out my injured hand, I bit back a groan. My hands were a mess, my nails cracked, my fingers blistered, the skin on my palms rubbed raw after two long days of pulling Willow behind me in the kayak. Punching that shelf, splitting open the skin over my knuckles, had only succeeded in adding insult to injury.
I’d managed to drag Willow to Elkins Point, where I’d combed through every building, only to come up empty-handed every time. There was nothing here; the entire town had been picked clean of medicine, not even a box of bandages remained. There’d been very little to find along the way as well, with the exception of a small group of Creepers that had nearly gotten the drop on me. Recalling the one that had almost bitten Willow, I continued cursing. I was exhausted, in pain, and without a clue as to what I should do next.
Returning to the front of what had once been the town’s apothecary, I dropped down beside Willow, still secured in the kayak, and pressed my palm to her cheek. She was still in the thick of it, sleeping fitfully; the aspirin I’d been giving her only providing brief bouts of relief from her fever and chills. She still called out for Lucas, seeming to be completely unaware of what had happened only days ago. She wouldn’t eat; she drank very little, and her leg…
Jesus, her leg was a goddamn mess and getting worse.
As gently as I could, I unwrapped the sweat-soaked shirt from her calf, cringing at the sight of her swollen leg, still bewildered by how quickly it had gone from bad to worse. It only proved what I’d guessed all along—how precarious our situation had always been, and how unbelievably lucky we’d all been… up until recently.
Leaving Willow’s leg unbound, I sat back on my heels and dropped my face to my hands, wondering if I should attempt searching out the camp I assumed was nearby. But in what direction would I search first? I hadn’t come across a single map—not one single shred of fucking paper that might help me figure out where to look.
This was the end of the line—there was nothing more I could do. Willow would either get better on her own, or… an image of Lucas falling into that goddamn ravine came to mind. God only knew what had happened to him after that.
“No,” I growled, jumping up. She was all I had left in this miserable fucking world, and I wasn’t going to just sit here and watch her die.
After redressing Willow’s leg and slipping back into my gear, I gathered up the length of rope and dragged Willow inside the kayak out onto the street. The road curved left as we departed the main drag, the town quickly disappearing from view. Approaching a fork in the road, I made a split-second decision to venture right, a direction that took us through small clusters of homes among short stretches of wooded areas. Each neighborhood we traveled through I noted the distinct lack of street signs. It was subtle at first, only a few signs missing from their posts, and then it was on every corner, both post and sign gone.
They were smart, whoevertheywere. Leaving the town virtually untouched while strategically removing any information that might lead wayward travelers to their location. It was what I would do if I were them—if I had the good fortune of finding an entire town’s worth of resources and enough people to form a working community. At least, that’s what I was hoping they were—decent people with decent intentions and the materials needed to realize those intentions.
I continued down the road, the clusters of homes growing farther apart until there were no more neighborhoods to circle through. Until I’d run out of road and was left standing in front of a crumbling concrete road barrier and rusted sign that read: DEAD END. Beyond that, trees as far as I could see.
Panicking, I dropped the rope and turned in a circle. “I missed something,” I muttered. “I must have missed something…” Glancing at the setting sun, I knew there wouldn’t be enough time to head back to town before darkness fell. Looking at Willow, still sleeping in the kayak, blissfully unaware of the danger I had just put us in, I knew she didn’t have that kind of time either.
“Fuck,” I said, shaking my head. “Fuck.”
Running my hands through my messy hair, I stared at the DEAD END sign, my frustration turning quickly to anger.
“Fuck you,” I spat, pulling the gun from my tool belt. Aiming for the sign, I unloaded the entire clip. Once it was empty, I whipped the weapon as hard as I could, slinging it at that goddamn sign. It clanked hard against the metal post before falling out of sight.
Laughing through a sob, I sat down hard on the ground beside Willow. “I’m sorry,” I said hoarsely. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. I really liked that sign.”
I jumped to my feet—a bit of black leather and a long blonde braid were visible between the trees, as was the double-barreled shotgun aimed at my face. Reflexively, my hand went to my crowbar.
“Now, don’t be doin’ anything stupid, son.” A new voice emerged from behind me, deep and definitely male. Never mind the blonde’s shotgun; I was outmanned. Letting the crowbar clatter to the ground, I put my hands in the air.
Meanwhile, the blonde had exited the trees, pausing on the side of the road. Twirling her shotgun like a baton, she said, “Stupider, you mean—’cause he’s already been doin’ stupid stuff, Davey-cakes. What do you call shootin’ up a sign and wastin’ valuable ammo? It ain’t exactly smart.”
The man behind me—Davey—snorted. “You got me there, Britta.”
Britta twirled her gun straight up into the air, catching it with one hand and then shoving it into the holster on her thigh. Her heavily lined eyes narrowed in my direction. “You got any more guns on ya, sugar?”
I swallowed. “No, I’m just—”
My words cut off as I was grabbed from behind and a thick arm encircled my neck, tight enough to reduce my air flow but not cut it off. I struggled at first, gripping the arm at my neck, only to freeze the moment I felt the hard press of a gun to my ribs. Releasing the arm, I lowered my hands, holding my palms out.
“Smart,” Davey murmured, tightening his hold.
Britta rushed forward and began patting me down. “Good gravy, he’s got more blades on him than Edward Scissorhands,” she said, pulling out the strap of knives I kept tucked into each of my boots. “And all these tools—you into some kinky construction shit, Eddie?” Laughing, Britta divested me of my tool belt, adding it to the growing pile of weapons she’d already taken off me.
“Listen,” I said, gasping between words. “My-my—” I gestured in Willow’s direction. “She’s sick… she needs… doctor… antibiotics… please.”
They both ignored me—Britta remained busy sorting through my tool belt while Davey roughly pulled my pack from my back and tossed it to Britta. Britta dug briefly through the bag before setting it aside and glancing curiously up at me. “Don’t exactly have a whole lotta gear on ya, do ya—y’all got a camp nearby?”
“No,” I wheezed. “Lost… gear…”
