A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1) (4 page)

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Logan

If someone had shot me in the head last night, I
wouldn't be surprised. My limbs ache, sore from sitting still on the cement
floor through my slumber; I don't think I moved. Eyes grazing over the dark and
empty cellar, my mind groggily tries to remember how I ended up here. I groan
as merely thinking causes a set of drums to ricochet in the depths of my skull.
Straining, I lift a hand and clasp it over my forehead, pressing down in an
attempt to neutralize the drummer.

It doesn't work.

Instead it causes a round of queasiness that swiftly has me slumped over and
vomiting. Not something I've had to endure in a while, but something I'm more
than trained in. The bile burns in my throat, quickly leaving my swollen tongue
to sit dry in my mouth.

I look towards the stairs, my eyes traveling up their small steps towards
the filtered light pouring in through the opened hatch. With no recollection of
the night before, I'm surprised I didn't die. Although it's probably too soon
to tell. I could always have a bite on me somewhere. Albeit it's still
commendable that I didn't end up walking into a den of infected. Instead I
found myself a relatively safe place to recover.

Good on you Drunk Logan. Hungover Logan appreciates the effort.

Although he doesn't appreciate the hangover.

I stay slumped against the wall for a while longer, which in sickness, feels
like an eternity. Eventually the nausea subsides enough for me to move, but the
drums continue to hammer, a harsh strike retaliating against every small
motion. Pulling my knees up to my chest I push myself off the ground, almost
falling back down half-way.

I stand still hugging the wall as I await the new round of nausea to pass. I
groan once it does, stretching my arms up in the air. Stumbling a little, I catch
myself against the wall as my sore body registers an absence.

There's no gun in my back pocket.

I look down at my jeans, digging my hands into their pockets. My limbs
freeze, muscles becoming rigid as I pull them out empty.

My car keys are missing too.

I drop to the floor, my hands sweeping over the dusty cement, patting its
hard surface in an earnest attempt to find the two. They come to a stop on a
place of warmth. The area I had been occupying for the night. As my palms press
against the warm concrete, a wavering memory returns.

You can't save everyone
.

Son of a bitch.

I pull back and stand up from the floor, dusting my hands off on my pants.
That goddamn kid robbed me. A breath of amusement leaves my lips and I smile
into the darkness. I try to remember her face, but the image distorts in my
mind, muddling itself into nothing but her eyes.

Green.

I flinch and wave the thought away. She was the same girl from the gas
station, that part I'm pretty sure of.

"Goddammit," I curse, turning towards the small set of stairs. My
hands clench at my sides as I climb up them, every step a heavy stomp. Climbing
out of the cellar I look around at the trashed bar, vaguely remembering sitting
at its counter, the burning liquid on my tongue.

I step around the bar and towards the door. Another huff of tempered
amusement leaves my lips as I hear the faint sound of an ignition from outside.
My face grows hot as I step outside and find her sitting in my car, trying but
failing to start its engine. I take a step forward, allowing the door of the
bar to close softly behind me. It shuts with a small
click
, a sound too
small to attract her attention.

I cross my arms against my chest, standing rigid as I watch her try for
another minute.

"There's a trick to starting it," I call out. She jumps in her
seat, her body swiveling in my direction. It isn't so much a trick as an
inconvenience. You only need to twist the key a few times more than necessary.
I'm lucky she hadn't figured it out while I was passed out. She appraises me
for a moment before crinkling her small nose.

"What kind of a shitty car needs a trick to start?" she asks,
dusting a curtain of bronze hair over her shoulder and giving the ignition
another go.

"The kind that I built myself."

Her arm falls away from the wheel as she slumps back in her seat. Staring
off into the distance for a moment, she turns to look at me.

"How's the hangover?" she asks, a mocking smile tugging at the
corner of her lip.

"It's a killer," I reply stoically, staring her down. My eyes
press hard against hers as I will her to get out of my car, the pressure
forcing her to look away for a second before returning her gaze to mine. The
brilliance of her eyes makes me want to flinch away, but I don't. I keep
staring, screaming at her in my head to get the hell out and leave me alone.
Her brow furrows a little as she watches me.

"Look, I'm not gonna ask why you were dumb enough to get drunk when you
knew a horde was coming," she looks at me pointedly, "that's your
business." She goes quiet, her eyes sweeping over the dashboard as she
contemplates what to say next. "But I am gonna ask why you're still
unwilling to help me after I saved your life a second time."

Inadvertently, I take a step back and find myself staring at the ground,
rather than at her. My eyes narrow into slits as I stare at the cracks on the
sidewalk.
Because you look like my dead daughter and I can’t stand looking
at you?
I grit my teeth as the seconds tick by and I fail to conceive a
reasonable answer. Lifting my head back up I find her staring at me, and I
wonder if she has been looking the entire time.

I sigh. "What do you want?"

A smile almost finds itself on her lips, vanishing before it has a chance to
manifest, and I find myself having to rethink whether I even saw it at all.

"A lift, that's all," she says, "I'm just so tired of walking
and I—"

"Cut the flowery bullshit kid," I interrupt, raising a hand,
"just tell me where it is you wanna go."

"Up the coast, as far as you'll take me."

I sigh again, shifting my weight from one leg to another. Goddammit. There
has to be something I can say to make her change her mind.

"How do you know I'm not a bad guy? Like those people at the gas
station?" I ask.

She shrugs, "everyone is bad, it just takes something special to bring
it out of them." She gives me a look, "I don't think it's been
brought out of you yet."

I sigh again, realizing that there's nothing I can do to change the
situation. She did save my life, I won't deny that I owe her that much.

"I'm heading to Las Vegas," I tell her. "But I guess I can
take a detour and drop you off in L.A."

She nods enthusiastically, a broad smile now allowing itself to stretch
across her face. "That'd be great!" she says, her nods slowly coming
to a stop as she looks at me solemnly. "Thank you."

I look at her for a second longer, wondering if I've made a mistake. I
should've just told her to get the hell out of my car and hit the road. There's
a reason why I don't help people anymore, in fact there are plenty of reasons.
I sigh again. I just hope I'm not going to end up regretting this.

"Just gimme the keys," I say, unfolding my arms and stepping
towards the car. Her smile remains unfazed as she steps out and throws the keys
over to me.

"Let's see this trick then," she smirks, running a hand along the
hood of the car as she walks past. I watch her go before I walk around the car
myself.

"What'd you say your name was again?" I ask, opening the door and
stepping inside.

"Stella," she replies, slamming her door a little harder than I
would like. "Can I have your name this time or are you just gonna get
moody and stalk away again?"

I scowl at her, my patience already growing thin.  

"
Moodier
," she corrects, giving a slight nod. I grit my teeth
while starting the ignition, contemplating giving her a fake name. But what
would be the point? It's not like names are even that important anymore.

"It's Logan."

She nods but doesn't say anything more, which I'm grateful for.

She throws her bag onto the backseat as I pull out my favorite map, glancing
at the lines for the right one to take. The detour to Los Angeles is going to
add another four or so hours to my trip, not that I’m in any rush, but it's an
inconvenience nonetheless.

"You know which way the herd was heading?" I ask, tracing a line
on the map with my index finger.

"Probably that way," she says, throwing out her thumb and
indicating behind her. "So if we go straight we should be good."

I squint at the map and bring it a little closer to my face, unsure of
exactly which direction we’re facing. Already my fingers begin to clench around
the paper, my nails digging indents into its surface.

"You know how to read one of those?"

I shoot her a glare.

"Just be quiet," I say.

Screw it. I stuff the map down the side of my seat and pull out onto the
road. I'll probably find my way eventually. There are only so many roads
leading out of this town, it'll only be a matter of time before I find the
right one.

I grip the wheel a little tighter than necessary as I drive, hyper aware of
the passenger in the seat beside me. It's been so long since I've had anyone
inside my car, let alone in the front seat. Whilst concentrating on the road my
eyes periodically dart to her, a coping mechanism, one that makes me feel
safer. As long as she doesn't make any sudden movements then everything should
go smoothly.

She turns around in her seat and leans back, reaching for her bag. I glance
at her as she does so, and notice the handgun sticking out of her jeans. I look
back at the road briefly, keeping one hand on the wheel while I reach over and
snatch the gun from her. She pulls back as I take it and drop it on the floor
at my feet.

"What the hell?" Her hands pat her backside where the gun used to
be as she sits back in her seat. "Give that back!"

I snort. "You stole it from me!"

"After you stole it from those rednecks!"

"After
they
stole it from me!" I shake my head at her.
"I'm not giving it back."

Even if the gun weren't mine in the first place, I wouldn't let her have it.
The first reason being because I trust her as much as I trust my gardener to
perform heart surgery. The second being how rare guns are in general. God knows
what happened to them all, but if you're lucky enough to find one, odds are it
won't have any bullets with it.

I focus my attention on the road but I can feel her glare as I drive. From
the corner of my eye I can see her gritting her teeth, her body pointed in my
direction. She stays like this for a few more moments before turning away and
slumping back down into her seat like a toddler throwing a tantrum. She doesn't
look much older than nineteen, which makes that description all the more apt. I
glance at her once more, glaring out her window. I smile to myself, finding far
too much amusement in her temper.

"It's nice to meet you by the way," I grunt.

She huffs in her seat.

"Just shut up and drive."

CHAPTER
EIGHT

Stella

Sweat trickles from my brow as I watch the sun creep to
its highest point in the sky. The glass magnifies its radiance and boils the
interior of the car. Cranking down the window does little to soothe my
discomfort as a blast of hot air pours inside. I roll it back up and lean into
my seat, wincing as the hot leather scorches and sticks to my skin.

"Jesus Christ, it's boiling," I say, fanning my hand for exaggerated
effect. I look over to Logan, waiting but not anticipating a reply from him. He
too looks like he’s suffering from the heat, blonde hair darkened with sweat
and blue eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. He keeps his attention
focused on the road, making no indication that he's going to respond. I drop my
hand onto my lap, on the verge of surrendering to his silence.

The best reply I've gotten as of yet is a grunt. And not even an
enthusiastic one at that. It was one of those “I don't really care, please stop
talking to me,” kind of grunts. 

"You don't talk much, do you?" I comment. He takes his gaze away
from the road to look at me for a second, but doesn't say anything. "And
here I am chattering away," I continue, "I guess it's just because
it's nice having someone to talk to, because I've been on my own for a while,
you know?"

He shifts his gaze to me again, his lips parting ever so slightly. But as if
he thought better, his lips close and he returns his attention to the road.

I sigh quietly, turning my own attention to the road and the barren land
surrounding us. I guess there isn't really any need to make conversation with
him. I've already gotten what I wanted, which was a lift. It was a worthwhile
shot trying to make “friends” with him. If it had worked, I might have been able
to squeeze even more out of him. Maybe even have gotten him to drive me all the
way up the coast. But he remains resolute in his vow of silence, and it becomes
apparently obvious to me that he isn't going to break it anytime soon.

Tucking my hair behind my ears I throw it over my shoulders so it falls down
my back and keeps out of my face. My entire body is soaked in sweat as I
concentrate on the road ahead. The air waving mercilessly with heat in front of
us.

"You see that?" Logan asks. I sit up in my seat, looking over to
him. His expression remains the same and I wonder if I imagined it. He looks at
me and then nods his head down the road. I follow his indication and squint my
eyes, barely making out the movement of a few black dots far off in the distance,
their silhouettes morphing with the heat.

"Infected?" I wonder aloud, watching the dots slowly grow as we
continue to drive.

"Probably."

"Should we go around?" I ask. He shakes his head, his eyes focused
on them.

"We should be safe, runners don't usually come this far away from a
town without a horde," he pauses to yawn. "We should be fine going
past them."

I tear my gaze away from the dots to look at him, only now noticing the
darkness under his eyes.

"Want me to drive and you can get some rest?" I ask, noticing his
hands visibly tense around the wheel as I say this. I'm beginning to think that
he's smarter than I give him credit for. He probably knows that I'll try and steal
the car first chance I get.

His eyebrows pull together as he chucks a glance in my direction. "How
old are you, do you even know how to drive?"

I scoff. "You think I was going to steal a car without knowing how to
drive it?"

He gives me another look but stays quiet.

"And I'm eighteen," I tell him. "Or maybe nineteen, I don't
know," I shrug, trying to calculate how long it's been since the infection
started. I give up quickly, it's impossible counting days when they're all the
same. Running, hiding and trying not to die. "How old are
you
?"

He huffs out a sound of amusement, the corner of his mouth actually pulling
up into a smile. A small, contained smile that he's quick to repress, but a
smile nonetheless. "Thirty-seven."

"Wow," I say, nodding my head and looking at him in appraisal.
"I didn't think the elderly could survive this."

He laughs, a deep and guttural sound that resounds through the small
confines of the car, but like usual he’s quick to collect himself. 

"Right, well I'm still not gonna let you crash my car," he says,
keeping his attention on the road and the growing silhouettes.

"If I crashed, it would only be to make an artistic statement," I
tell him.

"And what statement would that be?"

"I don't know," I muse, "but probably something ironic."
I look over to him only to find that he isn't smiling anymore. The corners of
his mouth have pulled downwards and his eyes have narrowed into slits.
"What's wrong?"

He takes a moment to reply, his shoulders tensing forward and his entire
body becoming more rigid.

"I don't think those are infected," he says. I look at him for a
moment longer before turning my attention back towards the road. The
silhouettes, still indistinguishable in the distance don't sway in the way that
infected do. Their posture seems too graceful, their movements more calculated
than a shamble.

"People. . ." I don’t believe it even as I watch their dots grow
closer. Why would they hike through the desert on foot? Logan only nods as we
both watch with caution, the dots large enough now to distinguish that there
are several of them. We pass a road sign and I just manage to read its faded
letters.

San Bernardino
.

Probably where they’re coming from. Minutes pass and I can now see that
there are at least six of them, all carrying heavy bags.

"Hey, pull up next to them," I say, sitting up a little straighter
in my seat. The person leading the group is a man, probably around Logan's age.

"We can't help them," Logan states firmly, his grip on the wheel
remaining firm.

"We don't need to," I tell him. "They might know something we
don't. I want to know why they're leaving; they'd have to be pretty desperate
to walk through the desert."

"And how can you tell if they're friendly?" he asks, a growl
beginning to underline the tone in his voice. I look back at the group of
survivors, watching them for another moment.

"We're in a car," I tell him, "if they try anything we can
just drive away." I look back to Logan. He studies me for a moment before
shaking his head, the gurgle of annoyed reluctance rumbling in the back of his
throat.

He slows the car and turns the wheel, pulling up closer to the group. I
count them before lowering the window. Eight in total, exhaustion tugging their
bodies closer to the ground. They probably don't have the strength to even
consider robbing us. One man steps up to the window while the remaining seven
stand at a further distance. He scratches at his beard as his grip on his
baseball bat tenses in warning. A short silence separates us before his brow
shoots up in question.

"You guys come from Los Angeles?" I ask. He surveys me for a
moment, his blue eyes bright with caution. He scratches his beard again before
giving a curt nod.

"Yeah . . . yeah we comin’ from there," he says, his gaze dropping
to the ground for a short second. "I wouldn't suggest headin' that
way."

"Why not?" I lean closer to the window, the dirt on his face
taking a reddish tinge with the closer distance.

"Place is completely overrun," he shakes his head, "thousands
of them."

I lean back at this, processing the information and trying to ignore the
audible “Humph!” of Logan as he slumps back into his seat.

In return, I tell the stranger about the horde roaming around where Logan
and I have come from. With another scratch of his beard, he nods and steps away
from the car, signaling his group to continue walking. I roll up the window as
Logan starts the ignition and pulls back onto the road.

"See, they helped us," I mumble, staring down the road and
pondering this new information.  Logan doesn't reply.

After what seems like a few more hours of driving, houses begin to pass us
as we continue down the road, slowly growing in density as we approach the next
town. A gas station sits still at the end of the street, its interior appearing
empty as Logan pulls in. I can’t help but feel disdain at the sight of another
gas station. Turning off the ignition, he sighs, his grip on the wheel only
tightening.

"Alright, here's your stop," he says, barely turning to look at
me.

I throw a glance at the gas station in front of us before looking back at
him. "What?" I ask, a sound of ignorant amusement escaping my breath.

"You wanted me to drive you to L.A. and that's not an option anymore."
I nod along, trying to understand what he is getting at. "So this is as
close I can take you."

I look back at the gas station, and then to him again, a flimsy smile
stretching my lips. "You're kidding, right?"

He shakes his head, his lips pressed together in a firm, white line.

"Wh—" I look back at the gas station, "thi—" I stutter.
"This wasn't part of the deal!"

"The deal was—"

"I know what the deal was!" I bite back. A silence breaks itself
between us as we both glare out the windshield at the dormant station. His
hands fall slack on the wheel, sliding down to its base.

I suck my lip in for a bite as I frantically think of an alternative. The
car is my best bet of getting there, I can't lose it now; I need to convince
him to let me stay. He clears his throat, his acts of impatience fueling my
frenzy of thought. He parts his lips to speak, but before he can, I jump in.

"Drive me to Las Vegas!" I blurt, a new plan spinning itself in my
mind. If I can't go through L.A. then I can go around it. And the more time I
spend with him, the more chances I'll have to steal his car. He sighs, dropping
himself back into his seat with an exaggerated grunt.

"Kid I'm not your chauffeur, I'm not driving you wherever you want to
go!" he exhales sharply, snatching the keys from the ignition.

"You said you were going to Las Vegas anyway! What difference does it
make!"

"It makes all the difference!" he shouts, his fingers tensing into
a tight fist around his keys as he glares at me.

I pause before replying. His shoulders rise and fall in a staggered manner,
and his brows have knitted together so tightly that he couldn’t look more
pissed off if he tried. I'm not going to get anything from him in this state. I
need a new tactic.

I turn away, exhaling a low breath before turning back.

"Logan, please," I say softly, letting my bottom lip tremble the
slightest bit. "I'm not asking for much." I allow my voice to break
at the end, not so much that it's obvious, but enough that he can catch it.

I make sure to make eye contact. He maintains my stare for all of three
seconds before turning away, a deep sigh bleeding from his frowning lips. He
stares at his lap for a moment, fiddling with the keys in his hand. His jaw
tenses before he shakes his head, another sigh fleeing him.

"We need gas," he mutters, turning and opening the car door.

A smile stretches itself across my lips for a second, but I'm quick to
repress it before he has a chance to see it. I step out of the car and shut the
door behind me before walking round the back and finding Logan pulling the boot
open. He pulls out an old gas canister and hands it to me before pulling out
another. Closing the boot, he turns and begins walking down the road. I stare
after him for a second.

"We're not getting gas from the gas station?" I ask.

"No," he replies, not bothering to stop or glance in my direction.
I throw one last glance at the gas station before following him. As we walk
down the road, the sun dips below the tree line, casting an orange haze along
the street. It tinges itself with purple before drifting into darker territory.

Logan stops several steps ahead of me and turns. He doesn't say anything,
but he waits for me to catch up with him.

"We siphoning from a car?" I ask as I finally reach him. His eyes
hover above my shoulder before snapping to meet my gaze. He nods curtly, his
features tense. He turns and walks forward a few more meters before pointing
towards a car parked precariously on the sidewalk.

With his free hand he grabs my arm, his fingers gently tensing around my
bicep. Stopping beside the gas tank of the car he kneels down and pulls me down
with him. I lean against the hot metal and stare up at him questioningly as he
unscrews the cap of his gas canister.

"Someone's following us," he says, his gaze diverting to mine.

My eyes drift down the street we've come from, analyzing the waving trees
and still houses.

"How do you know?" I ask, leaning closer towards him. My gaze
travels further down the street and back to the gas station, paying attention
to every swaying shadow in the growing night. He inhales slowly and carefully
before nodding his head.

"I know," he mutters, exhaling quietly.

For a moment, I think this may be an elaborate plan for him to try and ditch
me. But his muscles are tense and his posture rigid, and I find myself taking
him for his word. Another glance down the road and I whisper. "Back to the
car?"

He nods.

We stand up at the same time, our attentions catching simultaneously on the
figure that stands motionless on the other side of the car. Logan wasn't lying.
A small gasp flees into the night as I take a step back and Logan's hand snaps
towards the gun in his back pocket.

The stranger's arms hang limp at his sides, his stature still and silent.
Brown eyes shifting leisurely between Logan and I are the only movements
visible. His body is clad in all black, a hoodie pulled almost to his brow and
a balaclava smearing itself across the majority of his face. He blends in with
the night, his frozen demeanor and silent facade imitating its depths.