A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1) (19 page)

"Where do you think the storage room is?" I ask. He shrugs.

"Probably at the back of the building." Without another word he
walks across the room and begins walking down the center hall. He doesn't even
turn to see if I follow. I stare at his retreating back for a moment, wondering
what will happen if we do find any drugs. Will he take some for himself? This
sparks a new thought. Will I take some for myself?

I've done all the work, it seems only right. But Joey . . . will it lead to
another incident like at the school? I don't have to think long before coming
to an answer. And with that answer in mind, I jog down the hall to catch up
with him, just as he turns into a room. I turn with him but stop in the
doorway, floored by what he's found.

Almost an exact replica of the fantasy I had envisioned fields out before
me. Industrial shelves heavy with medication are spread out across the room,
reaching up to the ceiling. I step towards the nearest shelf, moving past Joey
who looks too stunned to even speak. My hand reaches out and grabs for the
nearest bottle.

Percocet
, it reads. I reach for another one, this time reading: D
iazepam
.
My eyes scour over the different bottles sitting neatly on the shelves,
congested together. Some with names I can't even pronounce, some with names
I've never even heard of.

I had hoped to find a treasure chest, but instead I found an entire dungeon,
brimming with fortune.

I don't waste another second. Opening my rucksack I begin stuffing the pills
inside, making sure that I find some penicillin for Logan. In my excitement, I
almost don't notice Joey step up beside me. I watch him from the corner of my
eye as I continue to fill my bag.

He opens his own and begins to select out a few bottles, carefully dropping
them inside. I stop to watch him. His choices aren't random, almost exclusive
with a precision for certain brands. He knows what he wants.

"Joey . . ." I say, the word trailing off along with my voice. He
pauses to look at me, his fingers freezing around the cap of a bottle on the
shelf.

"What?" he asks, his eyes digging into mine. There's no malice in
his voice, yet still it makes me hesitate.

"Maybe we should just put everything in my bag?" I suggest. His
brows shoot together, his eyes hardening in an instant.

"Why?"

I find myself unable to hold under his gaze and let my eyes fall down to the
shelf in front of us.

"I just think . . ." I shrug, "it would be for the
best."

He rolls his shoulders back and angles his body more towards me. "And
why is that?" he asks, his words now as hard as his glare.

I look back to him and try to make my eyes look pleading.

"Joey . . ." I sigh, the word trailing off like before.

"No!" he snaps, "say it!"

I shake my head and turn away again, losing the words on my tongue. This
only works to further anger him as he takes a step towards me, closing the
distance between us.

"Say it, Stella." He's close enough now that I can feel the breath
of every word, warm on my cheek. "I know you're thinking it, so just say
it!"

This is the opposite of what I intended. I didn't want to rile him up, but
now I have no choice but to bite back.

"What's in the bag?" I ask, turning to meet his glare with one of
my own. I didn't want an argument, but he's left me no choice. I don't know
what he has in there, but I have an idea and I know adding to the pile can only
lead to something bad.

The question paralyzes him, an emotion flashing in his eyes so fast that I'm
unable to catch it despite staring directly into them. He opens his mouth to
respond, but no words fall out. This time it's him that turns away.

"I don't think it's safe for you to hold on to these drugs, or any
drugs."

"Why?" He turns to look at me now. "You think I'm dangerous
too? Like everyone else?"

"I think—"

"I see the way they look at me!" he growls, "like I'm a bomb
they're just waiting to go off!" His eyes, usually a light blue are dark
now, as if held under the shade of his torment. "It's the same way you're
looking at me now."

"No," I shake my head at him, "I don't think you're a bomb.
But I do think you need help."

"You think I need help?" he scoffs, pushing himself away and
jutting a finger towards his chest. "You're the only reason I'm in here!
With your little listing game outside!" His finger is pointed towards me
now. "And don't try to act innocent because you and I both know exactly
what you were doing!"

Guilt burns my cheeks, and I begin to turn away when he stops me.

"So you want me to admit it? Fine!" he barks, taking one of the
bottles out of his bag and throwing it to the ground. "You got me!"
He rips out another and hurls it across the room. "I'm a fucking drug
addict! Are you happy now?" he shouts.

I'm about to respond when an infected shouts back. Our eyes, caught in each
other's hold, widen at the sound. And I realize that the bodies outside weren't
dead.

They were sleeping.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

Logan

The pain in my leg has returned with a throbbing
vengeance. All because of that damn kid, acting like she was raised in a barn.
I can't stay mad at her though, not knowing she did it with good intentions. Or
at least, what I
assume
were good intentions. It's more than possible
with Stella that she has ulterior motives. She's made that abundantly clear on
more than one occasion.

But when she came back from the supermarket, and left as quickly as she had
come, she paused outside the house. The look on her face when she saw me makes
me believe that she did it because she cares, even if she'd never be willing to
confess such a thing.

Although I admit I’m finding it difficult to process the transition from the
girl who told me she'd leave me behind in a heartbeat, to the girl now risking
her life to help me.

"Pass the spanner?" Rocket asks, holding out a hand so covered in
grease it looks like it's been dipped in midnight. Leaning against the side of
the bus, I bend down to rummage through the toolbox. Grimacing at the pressure
it puts on my leg, I retrieve it and hand it to her before quickly moving back
to my original position against the bus.

"Well," Aaron sighs, wiping his hands on the tail of his shirt.
"It looks like you've got things covered here. I'm gonna head back inside
and make sure everyone else is doing alright." He leaves with a nod.

Rocket pulls her hand back with a curse, glaring down at her nails.

"You alright?" I ask.

"Yeah," she nods, "but I'm beginning to think that this bus
is a wasted effort."

I'm not surprised by this. The scowl etched on her lips the duration she's
been working has been enough of an indicator. I'd be more surprised if she told
me she thought she
could
fix it.

"Anything I can do to help?"

She shakes her head and wipes her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a
streak of grease along her forehead. "You can keep me entertained,"
she smirks, leaning back under the hood.

"Oh?" I ask, pushing away from the bus so that I can see her
again. "And how would I do that?"

"I'm sure you can think of something." With her face so closely
pressed to the engine, I almost miss her wink.

"Well," I begin but stop abruptly, the pain in my wrist flaring.
As if melted silver is being poured over the wound, it burns in stabs as it
sinks into my veins. An uncomfortable heat comes with it and I feel like I'm
imprisoned in my own skin.

I stumble slightly as a wave of dizziness rocks me. Rocket doesn't notice,
and for that I'm grateful, but my mind has moved on from whatever game we were
playing.

"Do you think they'll find antibiotics?" My throat is parched now
and I struggle to get the words out, my tongue feeling fat in my mouth. Stella
was right, it's a good thing I didn't go with them.

"Well I pointed them towards the hospital." She stops with a loud
clank, and I wonder if she has resorted to just hitting the engine in hopes of
making it work. "If there's anything left over, then I don't see why
not."

If there's anything left over.

A euphemism for:
No, you idiot, of course they aren't going to find
anything.
I shake the thought away, not wanting to dwell on the fact that
Stella is out there risking her life for nothing.

"How do you know where the hospital is?" I ask. Another loud clank
before she responds.

"Came here for a holiday"—her face scrunches up as she tightens
something—"once, with my fiancé."

"You came here?" The houses are flat and boring, just like the
land around it. The only redeeming quality are the mountain ranges sticking out
in the distance, but even they don't look anything special; more like large
sand dunes. It's the type of place you'd expect to find tumbleweed, not
tourists.

"Definitely not one of the funnest places I've been to; we were
visiting his family."

My mind reels with another whirl of dizziness, a memory twisted in with the
nauseating pirouette. The night we spent together at the school, and her
indifference towards it the next day. Does her fiancé have something to do with
that?

"What happened to him?" I ask, "your fiancé."

"Dead, hopefully." There is no emotion in her voice. "He's
the only reason I know where the hospital is in this town."

She doesn't look at me as she says this, choosing to keep her head hidden
under the hood. I don't ask her to elaborate. I don't need her to. And I can't
imagine that she'd want to relive that part of her life anyway, like I don't
want to relive my time in hospital, recovering after my failed suicide attempt.
I remember how uncomfortable everything was.

The hospital bed sheets were itchy, pulled up over my chest. But I embraced
the irritation, holding it close as a distraction from the body that stood by
the side of my bed.

With my head tilted as far away from her as possible, I concentrated on the
slow dripping IV. Imagining the bag as a pool that I could swim in, and trying
to feel the ripples.

It wasn't long before she cleared her throat, a soft sound despite the storm
I knew was bottled inside of her.

"Logan. . ."

I didn't turn to her, I couldn't.

"You need help, Logan."

Still, I focused on the drip. Constant, reassuring.

"Your daughter needs you."

The world slowed, as if for that instant in time, it had decided to stop
spinning. The drip turned ugly. Reminding me of the tears I had last seen on
her rosy cheeks, and the crystal eyes that brimmed with them.

She may have needed me, but I couldn't help her.

I didn't help her.

"You alright?"

I shake my head, the memory disappearing with the movement.

"What?" I ask, reaching out to grip the bus for support. A blur of
movement catches in the corner of my eye, and I turn to see what it is.

"Are you—" She stops abruptly, pulling herself away from the bus
as it purrs with sputtering life. "Oh my god!" she shouts. "I
did it!"

But I'm not listening to her. My attention has fallen on the two people down
the road, running towards us. Like antelopes, afraid of getting trampled by the
herd of wildebeest stampeding behind them.

"We have to go, now," I breathe, not taking a moment to share in
her victory.

"What? Why? I still have to make sure tha—"

"Aaron!" I shout, cutting her off. "Aaron!" I've
abandoned the delicacy of silence, not caring who or what might hear me. Rocket
takes the urgency in my tone and turns in the direction I'm looking, her joy
bleeding out. She slams the hood of the bus down as the door of the house pops
open. Aaron peers out from its doorway.

He doesn't need to ask what's wrong. His eyes find the problem before he's
even half-way out the door. He pauses, but only for the length of a stuttered
heartbeat before he's back inside, shouting.

I look back to Stella and Joey, and the horde that is behind them. They're
close enough that I can hear their footsteps now, faint but growing. I don't
worry that the horde will catch them. They're far enough ahead that I know
they'll be safe.

I worry that the horde will catch us, before everyone is on the bus.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Rocket curses, throwing her scattered tools
into their box and heaving it onto the bus.

The door of the house bursts open. Aaron holds it that way while everyone
else pours out, stumbling over one another to reach the bus first. They act
like sheep, flocked by a clan of wolves.

"Let's go! Let's go!" I shout, distracting them from the
approaching swarm and waving them up the steps. The bus jostles from the
movement, knocking the golf club over from its rest. I bend down and pick it
up, brandishing it in the air as I swing around, expecting them to be upon us
by now.

Stella charges past as the round lady waddles from the house. "Why are
you on the bus? We'll be trapped!" she yells, slowing her pace but not
stopping.

"It's fixed, get on!"

She hesitates but doesn't question me. Once the fat lady has hoisted herself
up, Stella jumps on and Joey follows.

Aaron is running across the lawn when they reach us. I swing the golf club
at the one nearest me, knocking its jaw loose with a crack. It stumbles to the
side and makes room for the next in line. What once was a skinny man throws
itself at me, like a bundle of bones. I jab the club at its chest, knocking it
back far enough for me to raise the club and bring it down atop its head. It
slumps to the ground as the other one gets up.

Aaron reaches me with one of them clinging to his arm. He tries to shake it
off but only brings its mouth closer. I swing at it, the club catching in its
open mouth, breaking teeth and forcing them down the back of its throat.

It falls away as I retreat up the steps of the bus, swinging at any infected
that gets too close. Aaron reaches the bus just as one barrels into the side of
him, knocking them both to the ground. He lets out a yell and I think it is too
late for him when I step down and throw my leg out, kicking the infected man in
its side and knocking it off.

"Get up!" I yell at him, my voice lost amidst the sea of howls.
There are too many for me to stay outside now, and more are still coming. I
swing the club once more, clearing a path for Aaron before I stagger up the
steps of the bus. I turn back to make sure that he is following. He is.

"Come on!" Rocket yells, revving the engine.

His hand reaches out for the railing, ready to pull himself up when an
infected crashes into him again. He manages to stay upright as its teeth drive
into his forearm. Blood bubbles out around its lips as Aaron shouts out. I don't
register what has happened, I just swing the club down, leaving a dent in its
skull, like a sinkhole, pulling hair down. It falls slack against him, it's
teeth still in his skin. He stands frozen, staring down at the body beside him.
I push it off of him and pull him on board, just as another infected appears
behind him. Rocket shuts the door just in time.

The bus lurches forward, struggling against the fence of bodies piled
against its front. It knocks them down, several falling beneath the wheels
while others retain a semblance of sense and stagger out of its way. Every limb
is pointed towards the bus. Their screams almost overruling the cracks and
snaps below its wheels.

The bus rocks violently as it passes over the living graveyard. My breath
catches as the engine sputters a noise in protest, but churns on anyway, only
returning to its usual groan once the bus stills.

The infected fall behind us, but I don't look back at them. No one on the
bus looks back at them. Every head is pointed towards the front. Every eye
falling heavily on Aaron and I.

And the bleeding bite that is on his arm.