A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1) (20 page)

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

Stella

It's been ten minutes.

Truthfully, I don't know how long it has actually been. It feels like
forever, but I know in reality it’s only been a short while. No one has said
anything since it happened. No one has even coughed, or so much as swallowed
loudly. It's as if the presence of blood has staled the air, thickening it to
the point where sound is impossible.

His eyes are blank. Having picked a spot on the floor, they have rooted
themselves there ever since. There is no shock or anger, only the hint of
understanding.

Aaron knows that the timer has started. Counting down to the inevitable.
Every second a brutal eternity. Every tick of the clock a resounding reminder.

There is no way of escaping it. Taking only seconds for the infection to
spread through the bloodstream, it renders amputation or any other method
useless. Your fate is written the moment you are bitten.

Joey has not noticed that his brothers time is limited. Not yet, anyway.
After getting on the bus he found a seat, sat down and put his head in his
hands. He has not moved since. I don't think anyone has. Only once the silence
has built a formidable presence does Logan decide to shatter it.

"Aaron. . ." The word is small and practically abandoned. Thrown
out the window and left to fall behind with the infected. "I'm—"

"I know," Aaron cuts him off, his eyes picking up from the floor.
Emotion has fled from his face, retreating from the cold eyes that are already
dead. I almost flinch when they turn to me. "What happened?"

"I. . ." The words struggle to come out. Not because he's angry.
He isn't angry. He isn't anything. But I feel like a part of him will blame me,
like a part of him does now. The rucksack is still on my back, so I move to put
it down on the seat next to me, anything to give me time to think.

"The infected in the hospital heard us," I don't tell them of
Joey's confession, because they don't need to know something that they already
do. "They alerted others and by the time we were outside there were so
many blocking off the road that we could only run back to the bus."

His eyes convey no understanding, not even acceptance or accusation. They're
just blank, like the shell he will become. He drops his gaze to Joey, but
doesn't speak. He watches him for a long minute before sucking in a breath,
taking some of the tension with it.

"What's done is done." He turns to Logan and offers him a clap on
the back, "we need a plan for now, someplace to go and. . ." His eyes
dart to the bite on his arm, "rest, for a while."

"We can go to my place," Logan says, "the neighborhood was
always quiet, so there shouldn't be much trouble."

"Is it close?"

"Very," Logan nods. "It's just on the outskirts of Las Vegas,
we could get there within the hour."

This should comfort Aaron. The infection will have taken his motor functions
by then, but at least he will have someplace safe for what little time he has
left. A luxury most are not afforded.

Yet still his face remains blank, giving nothing in return but a nod and a
simple, "Sounds like a plan."

He doesn't even cover the wound. He leaves it free for everyone to see, to
let the blood trickle down and drop from the tips of his fingers, like dew
falling from the point of a leaf. It's already darker than it should be.

His eyes fall again on Joey and he begins making his way down the bus
towards him. I move out of the way, giving him enough room to slide into the
seat beside him. Joey doesn't stir, only flinching once Aaron places a gentle
hand on his shoulder. Joey lifts his head up now and, as if knowing exactly
where to look, his eyes find the bite.

It feels wrong to watch them, so I turn away and walk to the front of the
bus where Logan stands beside Rocket. I want to think of something else,
anything else.

"How's your wrist?"

He shrugs, "it's alright." A hesitant pause takes his voice, as if
he's not sure whether to continue or not. "Did you find antibiotics?"

I nod and a small wave of relief washes some of the lines from his face.

"Do you have them on you?" he asks.

"They're all in my bag."

He turns to look down the aisle, his gaze falling on Aaron and Joey. I do
the same, noticing that everyone else on the bus has turned to look out the
window, gifting the brothers with a semblance of privacy.

They throw themselves into a hug, probably the last one that Aaron will be
able to give. It's almost a strange sight, considering I have never seen them
so much as shake hands. But they hold still in their embrace, neither daring to
loosen the hold.

"We'll get it later," Logan decides, turning back towards the
front of the bus and telling Rocket to take a right.

The next half hour passes in relative silence, only broken by the murmurs
shared between Aaron and Joey and the occasional direction uttered from Logan.
It feels too soon when he announces that we've arrived.

A string of housing complexes, identical in every aspect and packed together
so tightly that the walls almost touch, I wonder how Logan can even distinguish
which one is his. But his memory must serve him well because he tells Rocket to
stop outside of one. The rumble of the bus dissipates and silence again digs a
trench around us.

We know what this means.

I turn to look back at Aaron. His eyes are no longer brown, his skin no
longer pink. The shades that once colored him have faded to gray, life already
leeched from his appearance. He stares out at the house we have parked beside
with a neutral glare; appraising what will soon be his tomb.

"I'll make sure the house is clear," Logan says. He winces as he
steps down from the bus, gripping the railing for support.

"I'll come with you," I say.

"No, I . . . I need to go in alone first. You just stay here and. . ."
His eyes carry again to Aaron and he doesn't finish the sentence. I watch him
shuffle up to the front door, picking out a key from the potted plant beside it
and disappearing inside.

I don't expect that he'll find anything. Glancing around the street, the
area looks clear. But I have been fooled before.

Without driving as her distraction, Rocket stands up from her seat and moves
to stand beside Aaron. She crouches down beside him, whispers something in his
ear and offers him a hug. He doesn't hug her back. His arm stirs in effort, but
slackens in defeat. His time is short.

As cool and reserved as ever, Rocket stands up from him, offers a final
smile and leaves the bus. I watch her go and lift up the hood, only to dive
inside. I don't think she is actually working on the bus, she hasn't even taken
her tools. She just needs another distraction. The bus goes quiet again and I
wonder if I should approach him.

What would I say?

I'm sorry you're slowly and painfully dying, shit happens
. I'm sure
that's exactly what he needs to hear to feel better. No, I decide, I won't talk
to him. Not when I have nothing to say.

It isn't long before Logan steps out from the house unscathed and gets back
on the bus.

"You ready, Aaron?" he asks.

Aaron doesn't speak, he just stares ahead, not really seeing anything. I
don't blame him for not answering right away. It's an unfair question. Who
would be ready?

He musters the strength to bow his head, the closest he can get to a nod.
Joey stands up beside him and Logan moves down the aisle. Together, they help
lift him up from the seat. I grab the rucksack from the seat next to them and
quickly hop off the bus. Only once I clear enough distance from them do I turn
around and watch, prepared to help if needed.

The deterioration of character, of personality at such a rapid pace is
always hard to witness. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. Looking at him
now, struggling to walk even with the aid of two others, it's almost easy to
forget what he once was.

A leader.

An expression dawns his features now, not of acceptance, but of resignation.
He's given up, the only option afforded to him. Rocket doesn't move as they
carry him off the bus, she keeps her head ducked, her face hidden from sight.

I move ahead of them and hold the front door open, leaving it to close once
they are inside. Logan steers them into the living room where they lay him down
on the sofa, slowly as if he is made of glass, cracked all over and waiting to
crumble.

The front door opens with a click and the nice woman with the hijab sticks
her head in. Everyone else from the bus has lined up behind her. They're
waiting to say goodbye. Aaron notices this and waves Joey closer.

"Joey," the word is croaked, as if his throat is a mineshaft collapsing
in on itself. "Joey I need you to do something for me."

With a clenched jaw, Joey crouches down beside him and leans in.

"I want you to take everyone to Canada, I need to know that everyone
will be safe."

I repress a frown at this.
Canada
, a legend among survivors. Whispers
have travelled suggesting that the infection can't survive up north where it's
cold. I don't believe this, but even if it's true, Canada is far away from
where I want to go.

Joey takes a moment to process his request. Only once it has sunken in does
he begin to shake his head. "I can't, I . . . they'll never listen to
me."

"I'll tell them to trust you," he pauses to swallow the coal in
his throat. "I know that you can do this, Joey." His arm twitches as
if he's trying to raise it, but then realizing he can't, it falls still.

Joey doesn't respond, but his back begins to warble with the soft assault of
silent sobs. The room has submerged itself under the uncomfortable weight of
emotion. A pressure I find too unpleasant to bear. Soon, Logan will say
goodbye. And then the people outside will say goodbye. I have no intention of
waiting and watching. So I turn away from them now, my eyes settling on the
room across from us.

Emotional exchanges have always made me uncomfortable, and I have no
interest in being part of this one. I leave the room quietly and walk into the
next one, a dining room with a sizable fireplace. The home is cozy, filled with
dark browns and deep reds. Pictures line the walls, with rugs splayed out
across the floors and heavy curtains hanging against every window.

I step towards the fireplace, feeling the phantom warmth of a fire lit long
ago. I can almost imagine Logan, in another life, huddled up with his family in
front of it. Dropping the rucksack at my feet, my eyes sweep over the mantle,
skirting over the framed pictures until my gaze settles on one.

Logan stands smiling, holding a little girl in his arms. A little girl with
no hair and skin so white that she could blend in with the snow around them.

A noise behind me breaks my attention and I turn to see what it is. Logan
has followed me, but his gaze too has fallen on the photo. His eyes hold a
familiar pain, one I haven't seen since we were locked in that bar cellar. The
memory tugs at me.

I couldn't save her
. . .

And suddenly, it clicks.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

Stella

"Your daughter died of cancer?"

The words cause him pain, like I've just slapped him across the face. But
with furrowed brows, he offers a curt nod, his eyes still pressed against the
photo on the mantel.

"So all those things you said, about how you couldn't save her. . ."
The sentence trails away from me and I find myself looking back to the photo.

They say if you ever met a clone of yourself, you wouldn't recognize them.
But staring into her eyes, I can't help but feel as if I'm staring into my own.
The only discernible difference is innocence. Where it swims in hers, it is
barren in mine.

So all that time he had gone on about how he couldn't save her, he was
telling the truth. How could he save her? Cancer is not a battle that he could
fight for her. It is merciless, sparing no one. Not even a child so innocent
and strong that she manages the ghost of a smile for the sake of a photo.

Her cheeks are dimpled and she looks genuinely happy to be held in the arms
of her father. I can't even imagine how Logan must feel, looking at this photo
of a daughter he'll never get to hold again.

"All this time," I mutter, tearing my eyes away from hers. "All
this time you've been blaming yourself?"

It takes a moment for him to remove himself from the picture, a new wall of
agony burning in his eyes when they find mine. Again, all he offers is the
smallest of nods, his jaw chiseled by the tension of clenched muscle.

"Why?"

I can hear the procession of people in the next room, the shuffling of feet
towards the death bed. It breaks my attention, but not his.

"Because," like a dam, his lips part, the word rushing out with
the force of a breath held in too long. "Because I. . ." He cuts
himself off with a shake of his head, his eyes glassy with tears too stubborn
to fall.

"The day she died," he pauses, finding her face once again on the
mantel. "The day she died, I was lying face down in a gutter. Stinking
drunk." His eyelashes clump together like paint brushes with tears as
their only source of paint, working furiously to color the rims of his eyes
red.

"I could barely understand what they were saying when they phoned me.
But I got the gist of it, enough anyway to make me go back into the bar and get
another drink."

He stops talking now, his fists so tightly clenched they have begun to
shake. I can see the memory, alive in his eyes, tearing him apart from the
inside. They burn with the pain, like two pools of blue acid. He clears his
throat and forces his hands to stop their trembling. 

"So you blame yourself because you weren't there for her when she
died?" I ask.

"I blame myself because I wasn't there for her at all."

The statement hangs in the air between us. I have nothing for him but a look
of pity. It's all that I can afford. All that I can think to offer. There are
no words that I can string together to make him feel better. No magical
solution to take away his pain. His guilt is his own to bear, and I think that
he will carry it with him for the rest of his life.

He bows his head at my silence and I wonder if he was hoping that I would
say something. But just like with Aaron, I find myself at a loss for words.
What can I say when nothing seems appropriate? As the silence between us grows
heavier, I decide that offering him something is better than offering him
nothing. And so I give him the most basic of responses, the template of all
consolations.

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't lift his head, but he nods.

"Is this why you wanted to come back?" I ask, "to Las Vegas?
Because you wanted a picture of her?"

He huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so drenched
in grief. "I was actually afraid that I was going to forget what she
looked like," his eyes lift up to mine, "and then I met you."

I shy away from his gaze, choosing to look back at the photos instead.

"Stella," he says, drawing my attention back to him. "I'm
really glad that I met you." His expression is one of stone, but his eyes
scream conviction. I falter under them, finding any and all expression of
emotion an uncomfortable experience. Yet still, I can't help but feel warmth at
his words.

"Thanks," I say. "I'm pretty glad I met you too."

This cracks the stone, the corner of his lip lifting into the beginnings of
a smile. He clears his throat again, "I uh," he begins rummaging
around in his pocket, "actually have something I'd like you to have."

He pulls out a locket, a golden chain as thin as string with an amber heart
swinging from it. "It was my daughters," he says, staring down at it.

He holds it out to me, the heart swinging just below his clenched fist. I
stare at it for a moment.

The gesture is nice, but it feels wrong.

"I'm not your daughter, Logan," I tell him. The words don't crush
him like I thought they would, for that I'm relieved.

"No," he says, "no, of course not. I'm not trying to pretend
that you are, it's just . . ." he pauses, looking down at the locket.
"It just feels right that you should have this."

I offer him a little smile, eased by the confirmation that he isn't trying
to mold me into the image of the daughter he lost. That he isn't trying to make
me her replacement. A little awkwardly, I hold my hand out towards him, and he
drops the locket into my open palm.

The heart is heavy, it's metal warm against my skin. The chain resembles a
strand of DNA, intricately woven and artfully designed. I hold it up and secure
it around my neck.

"Thank you," I say, rolling the pendant along my chest, its smooth
metal gliding along the fabric of my shirt. He appraises it, smiling warmly,
and I find myself feeling again just a little bit awkward. "I actually
have something for you too." Reaching down to the rucksack that lies at my
feet, I unzip it and dig out the penicillin. I hold it up for him to see.
"Antibiotics."

"Ah," he smiles, catching it as I throw it to him. "Thank
you."

"Not a problem," I say, before catching myself. "Well,
actually, it was quite a problem." I shake my head, "but you know
what I mean."

He emits a breathy laugh before popping the cap off and throwing a pill
back.

"What was her name?" I ask, looking down at the pendant,
"your daughter. I don't think you ever told me."

"Anna," he says.

I turn back to look at the photo once again, finally having a name to put to
the eyes. She looks like an Anna.

"Well," he sighs, "it looks like they're about finished up in
there. I think we've isolated ourselves long enough."

I nod, moving to look back into the living room. Sure enough, it looks like
everyone has left, besides Joey. I leave the rucksack where it is and follow
Logan, dropping into one of the seats facing the couch.

It isn't until I've settled that I realize Aaron isn't blinking. His eyes
have fallen blank, like a poorly illustrated drawing that has failed to capture
the life in them. They stare off into oblivion, seeing something that we can't,
the color sponged from each iris.

Joey sits on his knees beside him. Logan stands by his side.

Aaron's body does not move, trapped in the purgatory state of stasis. A
temporary death weighs him down, restricting every muscle and ensnaring all
motion. The room has stopped moving with him.

Everything is still, until his finger twitches.