A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1) (15 page)

"Alright guys, shows over, go back to looking out the window," I
tell them, glaring at each pair until they've all turned around.

Staring down at my lap, I begin to play with my hands. A silence, more
awkward than before has stretched itself between us. I peek a glance at him
while I ponder what to say. He too is staring down at his lap. I lose track of
my thoughts, but decide to begin the simplest way.

"Hey. . ." Like a string, the word stretches itself out, but fails
to connect us. He glances at me, but doesn't say anything. So I try again.
"You've got my bag."

He's quiet for a moment, but then he speaks. "Yeah I, couldn't find
mine." I nod, glad that I've managed to get a response out of him at all.

"I don't suppose that—"

"I'm not going to tell you what's in this bag, Stella," he cuts me
off and I stop to look at him.

"I think everyone already knows what's in that bag," I say. He
doesn't look surprised by this, but it does cause him to look away. "I
don't suppose you want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head. I stare at him for a moment longer, hoping that maybe
he'll say more. But he doesn't, so I turn to look out the window, ready to
resign myself to silence when he turns to me.

His eyes are smoldering with silent torment.

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

I don't say anything back to him. I only nod.

Because I believe him.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

Logan

I don't like the quiet.

People are naturally noisy. They talk constantly with their irritatingly
loud voices. They find it necessary to add noisy sound effects to their
stories. And above all, they talk over the top of each other, escalating what
could have been a quiet conversation into a very loud, very aggravating
shouting match. But despite all this, it's the quiet I don't like.

Because bad things happen when it's quiet. Too much is hidden in silence.
The world was noisy before the infection, and then, as if the earth were an amp
and someone had decided to turn the volume all the way down, the infection
spread and the world went quiet.

Noise is safe. The house was quiet the day my wife filed for divorce, it was
even quieter the day my daughter died. Maybe the problem isn't that I don't
like the quiet. Maybe the problem is that I'm afraid of it. Afraid of the
quiet, because I know that it always leads to something bad.

Which is why I'm on the edge of my seat now.

The bus is silent. As if the stifling heat and sweat soaked leather seats
weren't enough to bother me. I throw a quick glance around the bus, my gaze
lingering on every quiet person.

The silence is deafening.

Not a single person is talking, and that just isn't right. Even Stella and
Joey are quiet, sitting together at the back of the bus, each looking out a
different window. I watch them for a moment, unsure of how I feel about them
sitting together. She stood up for him. Why would she? Why would anyone in
their right mind defend his actions? The moment I get a chance, I decide, I'm
telling her to steer clear of him. If I have anything to say about it, he won't
be around for long anyway. Shaking the thought from my mind, I turn back around
in my seat and throw a glance in Rocket's direction.

Ever since her confrontation with Joey, that's when everything went quiet.
Since that outburst of noise, no one has uttered a word. How long has it been?
There's no way to tell, but it feels like an eternity. Like I've been trapped
in a silent film, where the coughing engine of the bus is nothing but a
whirring projector in the background.

The bus feels like a prison, our personal vessel from one tragedy to
another, with no way of getting off to pick our own way. I'm about to sink back
into my chair when I hear a sigh across from me. I tilt my head towards the
source of noise, finding Aaron hunched over in his seat, his head in his hands.

He stays like this, his only movement a result of the bus. As I watch him, I
realize that I underestimated him somewhat. Even in the midst of panic, at the
height of chaos, he didn't give up. Only shedding his stoic mask for a second,
he didn't waste any time in trying to fix everything. Even when things were
irreparable.

I respect that.

He's a better leader than I gave him credit for, even if the memory of his
attitude still irritates me.

He sighs again, and I wonder if I should say something. The bus hits a bump
in the road and his head jumps from his hands just long enough for me to catch
a glimpse of his face. His eyes are darker than I remember, his expression a
shattered fragment of the certainty it used to hold.

Leaning over to him in my seat, I clear my throat as a way of catching his
attention. He doesn't look up.

"You alright, Aaron?" His head lifts at the sound of his name, his
gaze finding mine before he returns to his original position. Rocket turns in
her seat to look at him and then shares a glance with me in the rear-view
mirror. Just as I am about to ask him again, he sits up.

"Yeah, I . . ." he trails off, slapping his palms down on his
thighs as he sags back into his chair. "I just." He exhales a breath.
When I think he isn't going to say anymore, he does.

"I worked so hard."

With a shake of his head, he turns to look out the window beside him. I pull
away, my familiar feelings for him slowly returning. That's what he's been
thinking about? How hard he worked? A chord of irritation twangs within me as I
find my lips pulling into a scowl. I'm about to respond when he continues.

"And now it's all gone."

The twang of irritation subsides, and is replaced with one of empathy at the
sound of his voice. Broken, but not in the way that Joey's is. No, I think. His
voice isn't broken, it's lost. Lost in a sea of dark despair and hopelessness.
As I think of the sound, I realize that I can relate.

"We'll start again," Rocket chirps, "we always do."

Not a sigh, but a snort this time escapes him as he turns from the window to
look at her. "What?" he asks, his upper lip curling with the word.
"So it can all just go to shit again?" He turns with a shake of his
head to look back out the window. Her eyes pounce to mine, striking me with a
clear message: Say something.

I exhale a breath, wondering what I should say. Wondering what I
can
say. "Well . . ." I begin, and he turns to look at me with a set of
hollow eyes.

I flinch from them, because I've seen them before, in the mirror, when my
entire world had shattered and I was living in an apartment on my own,
separated from my daughter. It was supposed to be the last night of my life. In
a dirty bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror.

They stared back at me, sunken and dead. The only evidence of life a streak
of tears streaming from them, dropping on the paper below. I looked down, away
from my reflection, and counted the several tears that had stained the letter.
Small, tiny blemishes, scattered out across the parchment.

My vision blurring, I struggled to refocus my gaze on the last two words,
barely recognizing my own hand-writing.

Goodbye Princess. . .

Another chug, and another pill, and I was closer.

Closer to what I wanted.

Closer to feeling nothing. . .

I have to look away, unable to hold the pain in his eyes, unable to revisit
it. I fall silent, any and all words I had thought of speaking dying on my
tongue. There's nothing I can say to make him feel better. I know this, because
there's nothing anyone could have said to me to make me feel better. Only a
miracle could have made me feel better.

A small pain burns in my wrist, followed by a furious itch. I focus on the
unpleasant sensation, relishing its arrival with a warm welcome, anything to
distract me. I scratch at the bandage lightly, ignoring the yellowish-red
discoloration that has spread across its surface. My wrist burns fiercer at the
touch, and I grimace at the pain, pulling my hand away. I notice Aaron watching
me, and realize that he has been waiting for me to say something.

I shrug, deciding to spit out the first thing that comes to my mind.

"That's survival for you, everything comes to an end and you just keep
fighting like a stubborn son of a bitch." His expression doesn't change,
but he nods and turns away anyway. Again I shrug, already expecting this
outcome. As I begin to turn back into my seat, I once again catch Rocket's
glare, urging me to say more. I glare back at her, tempted by the idea of just
lying down in my seat and taking a nap. But I know I can't do that.

"Look kid," I sigh, catching his attention once again. "I
know you and me got off on the wrong foot, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't
impressed with how you handled things back there." I sigh again,
struggling to force the compliments out. "But you gotta understand, what
happened wasn't your fault. It was Joey's. You did everything you could, and
that's all you can do." I finish my speech with a final shrug, offering
him a look of pity. He attempts a smile, but fails to materialize it and I
figure now may as well be my time to give up.

He'll get over it, just like I . . . well, I suppose you never really
get
over it
. You manage. That's all this has been. Not survival. Managing, and
barely managing at that. But still, there's nothing that I can say or do to
help him move forward. He needs to do that on his own.

"I lost my first six races," Rocket interjects. I can tell she's
going to be much more motivational than I was by the way she increases the
speed of the bus at a steady incline with every word. "My own father and
fiancé both had me pegged as becoming the worst female driver in NASCAR
history. You think I gave up?"

She pauses to hold a steady gaze with Aaron before continuing. "I
removed them from my life and I kept racing! And you know what happened?"

"You won all your races?" he supplies dejectedly.

"Not all of them. In fact, probably not even half of them. But I did
win in the end, because I was happy I didn't give up. If I had given up when
they wanted me to give up, I woulda never known what it feels like to win a
race."

His facade cracks slightly, chipping away with every strike of her tongue.
She notices this as she pauses to look in the rear-view mirror. "You can't
give up, Aaron," she finishes, her gaze injecting the last of its venom
before returning to the road.

He remains still after this, he too concentrating his eyes on the road
stretching out in front of us. Looking at him, I can almost remember the feel
of turmoil in my own mind. The raging battle that desecrated thoughts and left
me hollow, my eyes left sunken the way Aaron's are now.

From here on it'll be nothing but a spontaneous thought, straying from the
rest that will make his mind up. Whether he gives up or not is entirely up to
him now.

I turn away with a grimace, tempted to clutch at my throbbing wrist. Spikes
of pain stab at it, imitating the feel of the knife first slicing through the
skin. It almost feels wet with blood. I attempt a scratch, running my nail
along the stale wool, but instantly regret it. A new trail of pain burns along
the path my finger sailed, an unmerciful armada of itchiness arriving in force
with it.

Tearing my attention away from it, I focus instead on the slowly sinking
sun, counting the seconds it takes to descend. I reach the high hundreds when
it finally hits ground, sinking behind the hills.

The quiet returns, and brings with it the slowly growing dark of night.

Then a strange whir bites out, followed by a clanking hiss. Rocket makes a
noise in the back of her throat before a blunt sputter coughs loudly from the
engine. Aaron and I exchange a look as the bus slows down, creeping up the road
for several more seconds before coming to a complete stop. No one speaks as the
engine splutters out a final chuckle, before falling silent.

My muscles tense in welcome, not bothering to grieve the death of noise.

Rocket turns the keys in the ignition, but gives up quickly, slumping back
in her seat. "Well shit," she mutters under her breath.

The bus begins to submerge itself into a pocket of silence, when the scream
of an infected pulls it back out.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

Logan

Nobody moves.

A stillness falls over everyone on the bus as we listen to the silence that
follows. It looms over us like a cloud as we stare down the road, struggling to
place the source of noise. After a minute, Aaron begins to stand, rising from
his seat with a slow precision so as to make as little noise as possible. He
turns to look down the length of the bus, twisting his torso so that he can
address everyone.

"Get low, and be quiet," he whispers, his words so hushed that I
wonder if Stella and Joey can hear him from the back. Shuffling sounds of
movement implode within the confines of the bus, deafening amidst the silence.

Aaron waits until the commotion has dissipated before turning to Rocket,
reaching an open hand out towards her. "Weapon," he nods.

Without a word or gesture, she reaches down the side of her seat and pulls
out a golf club. It clatters against the side of the bus as she pulls it up,
the sound forcing her to still a second, before finally handing it to him. He
takes it from her, his fingers wrapping around the grip, his knuckles already turning
white. I glance at his face and notice that his eyes have hardened to their
usual stony regard. The lines of his face have even smoothened out and his lips
have pressed themselves into a thin, concentrated line.

He must have made up his mind.

He must have chosen to keep going. Any evidence of the weak and hopeless man
that had been sulking on that seat no more than a minute ago has entirely vanished.
He stands straight, his other hand coming round to grip the golf club as all
his muscles tense tightly beneath his shirt, stretching the material.

The bus groans as Rocket opens its door, squealing lightly before fading
off. Glancing out the window a final time, he steps down, dropping silently
onto the road. He crouches down by the side of the bus, and begins inching
forward. Disappearing momentarily from my view, I wonder if someone should have
gone with him.

I throw a glance around the bus, noticing everyone ducked down behind their
seats. It doesn't look like anyone's going to help him. I look to Rocket and
consider asking her to go after him, but quickly think better. If things go
wrong, she needs to stay and try and start the bus up. A small sigh flees with
a heave of my chest as I stand up from my seat and limp towards the door of the
bus. I look down the side of the driver's seat and notice that there are no
more weapons. I won't bother asking anyone, I know that they'll refuse. Fear
making them selfish. Rocket gives me a look as I step past her, her brows
shooting together, but she doesn't say anything.

The pain in my leg has numbed itself with pins and needles, making it easier
for me to jump down the steps without making too much noise. Aaron jumps at the
sound anyway, his shoes scraping against the gravel as he spins around, holding
the golf club up.

His expression settles when he sees it's just me. He begins to lower the
club when his eyes widen again.

"Duck!" he yells, heaving the golf club back into the air. I drop
to the ground as he swings it down. A blunt crunch fills the air and is quickly
followed by a warm mist settling on the back of my neck. Another crunch as he
pulls the club free and a heavy thud as the body slumps to the ground behind
me.

Pushing myself off the ground, I turn to look at the infected man, blood
already pooling from the hole in its head. How was he so quiet? He hadn't made
a sound, not even a snarl.

"You alright?" Aaron asks, his voice still a whisper. I turn to
him with a nod, reaching up and running a hand along the back of my neck. I
pull it back to find a dark streak of blood smeared across my palm. Grimacing
at the sight, I wipe it off on my pants. He nods back and moves to the front of
the bus. I follow after him.

The bright headlights throw out two, thick streams of light. Illuminating
the road with a steady yellow glow as the sunlight diminishes into night. The
headlights are comforting, but I only dare to think of the things they may be
attracting towards us.

Handing me the golf club he digs his fingers under the latch and pops the
hood open. Propping it up, he leans forward and peers down into the dark depths
of its mechanical heart, his hands gripping at the sides. I glance around,
making sure there's no movement nearby.

"You know how to fix it?" I ask. He remains still, analyzing for
another moment before shaking his head and pushing away. He pulls the hood down
enough so that Rocket can see him, and gestures for her to come out and help.

I take a step away, making room for her as she steps down and moves to
inspect the problem. She wastes no time and ducks her head in, both her hands
covered in grease before I even blink. While she does this, I glance down the
side of the bus and stare down the long stretch of road we've come from.

Even in the dying light of the setting sun, the black smoke is still
visible. Like an outstretched arm sticking out from the earth, waving all
infected towards it. It isn't safe to be out in the open. And it won't be until
the smoke is gone, or all the infected that can see it have reached the school.
I can only imagine the size of the horde that has probably already congregated
there.

The stuff of nightmares.

I shake the thought away and focus on the task at hand. Throwing another
glance around the street, my stare lingers on the small one-story house we've
broken down outside of. A shadow passes by the window, but I ignore it, as long
as the front door is shut.

"Can you fix it?" Aaron asks, he too looking around the street.
Rocket pulls her hands out with a sigh, her fingers slick with the black shine
of grease.

"I told you the engine was dodgy," she says, almost defensively,
as if it's her fault we’ve broken down.

"Can you fix it?" Aaron asks again, speaking with a harsh bite as the
tensity of the situation works its way into his voice. I don't have to see her
face to know that she is glaring. She looks back down at the engine before
throwing her hands in the air.

"Maybe," she says, reaching down and fiddling with a different
part. "But it'll take time."

Aaron nods as he takes a step back from the bus, his gaze flickering to the
pillar of smoke towering in the distance. "It's not safe yet," he
concludes, stepping towards me and reaching out for the golf club. I hand it to
him. "We'll stay in that house for tonight, and in the morning we'll try
and get things working again." He points towards the small home behind me,
the one I saw a shadow in.

"We'll have to clear it out first," I say, and he nods, walking towards
it with the golf club raised. Rocket and I begin to follow him when he turns to
look at us.

"One of you stay with the bus, tell the others to pack up their
things," he says, glancing between the two of us. Rocket turns to me.

"Your leg—"

"Is fine," I finish for her. I'll be damned if I have to spend
another minute being useless because of my leg. It's practically already
healed, save a light throb that accompanies every step. She gives me a look.
"I'll go with Aaron," I tell her, "you go and get everyone else
ready."

She pauses a few seconds longer, as if expecting me to change my mind. When
I don't, she turns away with a sigh and makes her way back to the bus.

"And, Rocket!" Aaron calls out quietly. She stops to look back at
him. "Turn the headlights off, would you?"

I turn back to Aaron, offering him a curt nod as Rocket walks back to the
bus. He adjusts his grip on the golf club before turning back towards the
house. I throw another glance up and down the street as we approach the front
door. Small dots in the distance move slightly, but fade with the quickly
draping curtain of night. They vanish entirely when the headlights flick out.
As Aaron reaches for the door handle, I wonder how much time we have before
we're in trouble.

Giving it a light shake, it refuses to turn all the way. He pulls back, his
grip on the golf club visibly tightening as a low gargle purrs on the other
side of the door. We both stiffen, afraid to attract its attention in case it
throws itself against the wood, making enough noise to attract any strays in
the area. The sound is deep and guttural, like the snarl of a dog without the
bark. The hairs on my arm stand on end as we listen to the noise die off with a
final, small croak. We wait another minute, only breathing once we hear the
soft drag of footsteps moving away.

"Back-door," I mutter, conscious to keep my voice low. With a nod,
Aaron turns and begins walking across the front lawn and around the side of the
house. I pause at the window, peering through the flimsy curtain inside at the
silhouette moving sluggishly. It looks like only one, but there could be more.

I walk down the side of the house, feeling confined between the brick wall
and the wooden fence. It leads out into a sizable backyard, a large tree
standing proudly in the middle. I'm about to inspect more when Aaron slides the
glass door open, a curtain billowing out at him with the wind. He turns his
head to the side as a heavy stench comes with it. I move towards him and grab
at the curtain, struggling to get a grasp as it weaves around wildly.

Eventually, my fingers manage to claw out a tuft. I wrench it away, an
infected woman appearing on the other side. It lunges with a shriek, its
attention torn between the two of us. Aaron swings the club at it, knocking its
jaw out of place with a crack. It stumbles back at the impact, but manages to
wrap a hand around the stem of the club. Aaron pulls the club towards him in an
effort to shake the infected off, but he only pulls its body closer.

Like a crow jumping from a tree the infected swoops at him, its body
colliding with his and knocking them both to the ground. It screams, spittle of
saliva flying from its open mouth. Stepping forward I kick it in the ribs,
knocking it off of him. Discarding the club Aaron straddles and holds it down
by the neck.

"Use the club!" he shouts, struggling to keep its writhing body in
place. Its arms flail wildly whilst its neck snaps out at his, like a turtle
from a shell it extends further than it should. It isn't until I'm reaching for
the golf club that I notice the skin on the back of its neck beginning to
split. Another violent lunge and the gash spreads across its neck, almost
decapitating its head completely. It continues to snap out at him regardless,
but its head lolls around more uselessly now, like a rag doll. I don't bother
watching anymore.

Swinging the club down, the head of it impales its forehead. Its arms go
limp, falling to the wooden veranda with heavy thuds. Aaron holds its body down
for a moment longer, only moving off once a dark pool of blood begins to spread
out. Panting heavily, he stands catching his breath. After a minute he tosses
his head towards the body.

"Well she was a bitch," he smiles, reaching out for the golf club.
I offer him a smile back but little else, failing to find the humor in the
situation. Taking the golf club, he steps into the living room. I follow
closely after, my eyes squinting into the darkness, struggling to comprehend
the dark silhouettes. The interior is pitch black, no light spreading from the
gentle stream of moonlight filtering in through the open door. We pause for a
moment in the stream of silver light, allowing our eyesight to adjust.

"You check out the kitchen, I'll go look in the bedrooms," Aaron
states, already walking off. I look around the dark living room, wondering how
the hell I'm supposed to find the kitchen. With my arms extended out in front
of me, I take tentative steps around the room, my shoe eventually moving from
the gentle spread of carpet to the hard welcome of linoleum.

I reach out to the nearest wall, finding the handles of cabinets. Assuming
this is the kitchen, I glance around the small space, satisfied when I don't
see anything moving. My stomach, sensing that it's in a place of food, rumbles.
I clutch at it, surprised at how hungry I am. I consider looking through the
cabinets for food, but think against it. What's the point if I can't see
anything? My stomach groans in protest, but I ignore it, moving out of the
kitchen to go and look for Aaron.

"Aaron?" I hiss, my voice feeling lost in the dark. After a moment
I assume the silence has taken it when a shape moves towards me.

"Looks like it's all clear," he says. "Let's get everyone
inside." We both move at the same time and end up crashing into each
other. Apologizing, we step back.

"Where was the front door?" I ask, my arms held out against a
wall. I hear a shuffle of movement beside me and snap towards the sound.

"Easy! Easy! It's just me," Aaron says, moving out of my way.
"I think it's over here." The creaking sound of a door being pulled
open fills the space, but no moonlight filters in. "Guess not," he
mutters, shutting the door with a quiet click.

It takes several moments before we find ourselves back in the living room.
An embarrassing length of time considering the size of the home. Together we
move towards the front of the house, throwing open the curtains to allow a
semblance of light to seep in. The moonlight makes little difference, but
enough that we can now find the front door. We open it in time to see Rocket
waving everyone off the bus.

I hop out onto the front lawn, eager to escape the dark confines of the
house. Judging by Aaron's quick pace, I assume he feels the same.

"It's all clear," he states, waving the small group of people
inside. Reaching the front door, they're hesitant to walk inside, but a
trusting nod from Aaron is all it takes to nudge them in.

Stella and Joey are the last to get off the bus. They begin making their way
towards the house when Rocket grabs Joey's shoulder and pulls him back.