Link to part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/fiction/s/OK7d1F49qg
Fawn has been staying in the guest bedroom since the day I broke the chain. The first thing I chose to do after getting her situated was make her bathe. I want to be nice— really, I do— but the stench of decay and body odor got really overbearing without the wind pushing it away.
It was somehow the most frustrating thing I’ve ever had to help another person do: Whenever I’d leave the bathroom to give her privacy, she’d just follow me out and hover. She’s not stupid, I know that, but sometimes it’s hard to remember. It took a good five back and forths until she realized what I was trying to get her to do, because apparently telling her “bath” just wasn’t making sense.
Then Fawn tried to get me to stay in the room.
It was innocent— no weird intent— but I like to think of myself as a decent guy who, y’know, wouldn’t stay in a bathroom with a mentally disadvantaged girl who is showering.
I managed after some persistence to get her to scrub her own body (for which I had myself sitting in the corner facing the wall), but she needed help with her hair. It took all my strength to peek over my shoulder. Luckily the water was dirty enough with whatever was clinging to her that I couldn’t see through it.
The sight was a little funny, I have to admit; she was a little bit big for the tub itself, so she had to crumple herself up into a stiff ball to fit. I didn’t say anything about it to her, god forbid I reintroduce the idea of insecurities to her fragile mind.
I wondered for a bit if she wanted me to cut her hair to make things easier, what with it reaching to her ankles, but I decided against it. If she wanted it cut, she could probably do it herself.
Though I would be lying if I said I didn’t mind the length; the mats seemed endless, and each individual knot took me at least five minutes to comb out. By the end there was a pile of white hair next to the tub, and very likely some bald spots on her scalp. I tried to be as gentle as I could, but I’m no nurse— I don’t have the caretaker gene.
After her hair was washed, I was finally allowed out of the room.
It was a good twenty minutes before Fawn emerged. She actually looked… human. Half-human, actually. She was still a sickly grey and the veins gave her a translucent look, but it was progress. With all of the blood and dirt gone, I could see her features better; her skin was scabbed and flaky, mainly around her arms and legs. Without the doses of corticosteroids something was making her itch— I noted that for my next visit to the lab, see if any of the ones A.D. was using are still there. Around her lips and eyes were these dark purple-blue veins, and the skin over them was reddened like a permanent bruise.
She was quite beautiful, I have to admit. But it was off, like seeing the cadaver of someone you used to know in an open casket.
Did she live a normal life before the doctor did this to her?
It’s hard to believe she ever really was human— feels wrong to picture. Inappropriate to imagine. She had thoughts like me, a laugh, unnecessary habits, dreams, aspirations. I wonder if she’d hum to herself in solitude. What her handwriting looked like. If she was scared of forgetting who she was.
It doesn’t matter much now, does it? I doubt she remembers.
How terrible it all is. How terrible.
It’s been a week since then. Fawn’s speech is improving each day, and she is now capable of stringing together simple sentences. She’s actually kind of a chatterbox— always asking “what’s that?” or “why?” or “how?”. I’ve tried to get her to go into the lab, partially to help her remember her past and partially to help me gain more information. Each time she refuses and shuts down, hiding away in her room to sulk. I can’t blame her after the things I read in that journal. I haven’t been able to bring myself to ask her about A.D., instead just kind of hoping she’ll remember something and volunteer the info on her own terms.
I searched the lab once more on my own, and I happened upon the corticosteroids that A.D. was using on Fawn; they were an intravenous form, meant to be mixed with saline solution in an I.V. bag. The daily dosage was… worrying, to say the least. I’m no doctor, but seven hundred milligrams sounds like a large dose to give any patient in any scenario. No wonder she developed cataracts.
I decided against trying to continue that treatment. I don’t want to fuck up on my part, or end up rotting her eyes out of her head. Cataracts can be treated at any stage by a doctor, and I’d rather keep her eyes still functioning in literally any capacity for that reason.
…Can I even get her to a doctor? What would they do?
They’d put her down, like cattle.
Outside help isn’t an option.
Speaking of outside help, I heard on the radio that a new outpost was constructed in the city center, and they’re taking in survivors who couldn’t make it on the initial call. While I doubt we’ll be heading there, it’s good to know if things manage to go to another level of shit.
Anyway, I still wasn’t able to find any sort of ID or detailed information on this A.D. person. I feel like I’m chasing ghosts at this point.
There’s really only one way to find out more, now. I’ll have to bring it up to Fawn.
Fawn is standing in front of the window, staring out into the forested clearing. She’s taken to doing this quite often. I think she can see the blur of light— drawn to it like it’s a beacon in the midst of a void. I wonder if she likes the feeling of the sun warming her face.
“Fawn,” I call.
She releases a shallow breath, waiting a long second before turning to me. “Eli.” She replies.
A small smile grows on my face. “Yes, Eli. I have a question.”
She gives a prolonged blink, something I’ve learned that she does when she’s thinking. “Ask,” Her tone is hesitant, but intrigued.
I close the distance to the bed, sitting on the plush surface. Fawn keeps standing. “You remember how I found the journal in the floor room?” ‘Floor room’ is what she knows as the lab; I couldn’t bring myself to go through the pain of explaining what a lab is to her just for the sake of getting her to use the word.
Fawn purses her lips, sightless eyes searching my direction.
“There were initials in that journal; A.D., does that ring a bell?” I ask.
Her face screws into a scowl. There’s a pause before her hands begin feeling around as she takes clumsy steps.
“Hey— don’t *leave*,” My hand meets her wrist.
Fawn spins around, “Bad. Bad, bad, bad.” Her head shakes fiercely, halting only when her free palm slaps the side of it.
“Why? Why bad?” I stand and grasp her other wrist, holding it firmly. Her nails dig into my skin enough to make me wince.
“He— fffhh..” I watch her jaw clench, then unclench. “Do this, all this,” She gestures to herself as much as she can with my hold on her.
*He*. Dr. D is a man.
“I know, I know.” My teeth catch my lower lip briefly as I pause, feeling the chapped skin.
Just ask. Just get it over and done with. The worst she’ll do is not answer.
“Who was he to you?”
Fawn’s head dips down as she balls her hands into fists. There’s a slight tremble to her bones.
Fear. I can nearly smell it off of her, like an animal.
“My…” Her eyes shut, white lashes brushing her lower eyelid. “Dad.” She spits the word like it’s poison, eager to get the taste out of her mouth.
My grip softens enough for her to take her hands back. She presses the heels of her palms to her eyes, shoulders shrinking inward like a wilting flower.
Dr. A. Dumont. Her *father*.
Should I even call him that? He doesn’t deserve that honor. To be given the joy of a daughter and want to crush it between your fingers— that is the thought of a monster. A *real* monster. One that shadows this creature in front of me tenfold.
He couldn’t even give her the mercy of killing her— tucked his tail and ran like he had the right. Left her to rot along with the deer carcass.
And yet, how different is he from myself? I saw my mother, snarling and bloody with fury in her eyes, and chose to turn the other way. As far as I know, she’s still there. Starving. Parched. Scared. Confused.
Humans really *are* animals.
Fawn snatches up my arm, tugging me out of the room.
“Hey—“ I cut myself off when she tightens her grip.
Fawn feels her way along the walls, claw-like fingers scaling the paint and slipping over picture frames.
She's searching for something— something on the walls?
We make it to the kitchen, where I have to block her from hitting corners every five seconds. She drags her hand over the walls there, touching, touching—
Fawn stops as she feels the wood framing of a picture. Before I can look at the details, she slams her fist off to the side of it, sending the portrait to the ground with the force.
There’s a square-shaped impression, no bigger than a foot in length and width. It was clearly hand-cut into the wall, just fortified with wooden beams. Inside the impression is a beige folder, containing pages of…
Fawn takes the folder and shoves it against my chest, not too rough, but enough to make the point of her not wanting to be near it. After she feels me grab it, she feels her way to the dining table to sit.
I hug the folder to my chest for a moment. It’s so heavy in my arms.
I’ve got this sinking feeling in my stomach, like I am in the middle of doing something I’m not supposed to do. I feel that if I read this, I’ll be committing some unspoken crime.
My eyes draw to my companion. She sits hunched with her forearms crossed on the surface of the table, head hanging with that pale hair covering her face like a curtain.
I’d do it for her anyway. I *will* do it for her anyway: The world owes her someone who will help process this baying hound of a nightmare. Someone who will make legible the blurred stanzas of pain etched deep into her skin.
I pry open the folder, revealing the inner contents.
It’s a *dossier*.
A *research* dossier.
A correspondence between one Dr. Adrian Dumont and the *American government*.
Holy shit.
“Fawn…” I whisper no higher than a breath.
I see her shift through the corner of my eye. “Him.” She states grimly.
She knows what’s in here, or at least something of it.
“How did you find out?” My brows knit together as my eyes skim the page.
‘Privately funded’, ‘Progress report’, ‘Highly classified’. All of it makes me feel nauseous.
“Told me,” Fawn mutters, “thought— thought I wouldn’t be free… thought no one would find.”
Arrogance.
I pull out the chair across from her and take a seat. “Do you know what’s in here?”
She shrugs halfheartedly. One of her clouded eyes peeks over her arm to look at my blurred form. “Me. S’all he say. Important.”
It’s more than only her, that I can tell from a glance. This is *way* bigger. She’s just a byproduct in this scenario.
Do they intend to come back for their missing cargo? This whole operation couldn’t have been cheap. I can't imagine they’d just forget about Fawn… right?
Silence fills the room. I can hear the wind ripping through the cracks in the walls.
“Eli read?” Fawn asks. There’s a hint of apprehension in her tone.
I glance at the papers. “Yeah, yeah.”
And yet, I can’t bring my eyes to the paper. My lungs draw in an involuntary breath, deep and shaking.
On one hand, if I read this, I’ll know some deep secrets.
On the other, I’ll know some deep *government* secrets. I’m basically putting a big paper target on my back that says ‘shoot me, I know too much’.
But it could tell me how to help her. I can’t pretend I haven’t seen her trembling, covering nosebleeds, and drooling more than before. I can’t pretend I don’t know she’s getting worse without treatment. Her legs have buckled under her one too many times to be ignored.
So, I tuck my fingers between the pages and begin to read.
The materials necessary for Fawn’s treatment are inaccessible without direct communication to the government, and there is nothing left in the lab.
Fawn will die in a month, judging by the symptom-to-death-estimation notes in a two-page document. The end of her life, condensed to two pages. The existential dread is not lost on me.
I haven’t been able to tell her, break our calm routine by putting a timer on her life. Deep down, I think she knows. I *hope* she knows. Having to deliver that kind of news to someone… I don’t want to think about it. Makes me dizzy.
The more I read the worse it got. Fawn was legally adopted out to Dr. Dumont from an orphanage in Chicago when she was eight years old. They were moved out here to be closer to the Harvard Research Institute, as well as the military outpost. When Fawn reached the age of twenty-two, she was forcefully infected under the orders of the United States Government for Project Doe.
In short, Project Doe was meant to test if Creutzfeldt-Jakobs Disease could be amplified by Chronic Wasting Disease as it was by Mad Cow. As of this spring, there were at least twelve successful infections, all of which were adoptees to various researchers.
And… they knew. About *everything*. They knew that Creutzfeldt-Jakobs was transferable from person-to-person and they didn’t say anything until it got out of control. Instead, they played with it, infecting innocent men, women, and children. Yeah, the youngest documented subject was aged nine.
Y’know, maybe this is why Fawn didn’t try to eat me when I walked up to her; after she was infected, her diet was restricted to non-meat substances. I wonder if that nurtured the urge to eat human flesh out of her system. Did they do the same with the other subjects? Or rather, what I should be asking, are there any other subjects left?
Only God knows.
If there is one, I hope he’s killed them— had mercy on their souls. Let them rest.
Fawn is outside now, sitting on the porch. She’s wearing a plain grey sweater and black cuffed sweatpants. The weather has been getting colder, rougher on her weak joints, but she still likes to sit outside. I didn’t want to stop her— instead I made a deal that she’d only be out there during sunny days; never at night, never when it’s cloudy. She accepted.
It was a sunny day today, warm. Likely one of the last we’ll get. The sun is sinking over the horizon now, cleaved into pieces by the surrounding pines. I can see the orange light cut against Fawn’s skin, breathing life into its pallid surface.
How alive she looks, basking in the dying sun.
I move from my place at the window, finding my way to the sliding door. Fawn shifts in acknowledgement as I slip outside.
“Getting cold.” I remark.
She hums, mind focused elsewhere.
My legs carry me to sit on the steps next to her slouched frame.
She looks so peaceful; her eyes are shut loosely, and her usual furrowed expression is absent. If she hadn’t regarded me, I could’ve mistaken her as sleeping.
I pull my gaze away, staring down at the paling blades of grass below. The light catches on a strand, then fades.
“Do you remember how a sunset looks?” My hands clasp together, wringing nothing between my fingers.
I see her head turn to me through the corner of my eye, then upwards. “No,” She gives a prolonged blink to the sky, “But… it’s warm.”
My eyes draw back to her. I smile, even though she can’t see it. I wish she could. “The sky is orange, and yellow,” I follow her stare upwards, “And pink, too, further away from the sun.”
Her head falls slowly, “The trees?”
The pines wave in an idle breeze. “They look almost black. They’re swaying a little because of the wind.”
There’s a short silence as she pauses.
I pull the fabric of my sleeves closer to myself, hiding from the coldness of the biting air.
“Me?”
I turn at her small voice.
She’s turned to me, and there’s this expression of longing on her face. Some kind of childish wonder. I guess she hasn’t seen herself for… three months? More? And I can’t fathom not seeing myself for even a week.
Now I’m glad she can’t see me— I feel my eyes well up as I give her a weak chuckle. “Beautiful,” I sniff, “Beautiful.” I wish I wasn’t such an emotional person. God, how much easier this all would be if I was indifferent.
Fawn’s brows furrow. “Eli’s sad? Why?”
“I’m not—“ Before I can wipe my eyes, her thumb presses to the corner of it, collecting a tear under her long nail. She wipes it on the fabric on her shoulder.
She smiles. It’s fragile and crooked, but so pure all the same.
*She* pities *me*.
I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. How someone subjected to over a year of torment could pity me for a small moment of sadness. She doesn’t even know why I’m crying, just that I am.
“Eli *is* sad.” She states firmly.
I shake my head to myself. “…Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
Her hands clasp loosely in her lap as her body shifts to face me. “So, *why*?”
If I look at her, I’ll sob. So instead I study the knots in the light brown porch wood. “Because… because I’m scared.” My voice wavers.
She twiddles her thumbs, knowing I know she wants me to elaborate.
“You’re sick, Fawn,” I clench my eyes shut, struggling to not bite my tongue. “And I can’t do anything about it.”
Fawn pauses. I hear her take a long breath, then sigh it out. “I know,” I see her knuckles whiten. “It’s okay.”
I gaze at her through my wet lashes. She’s still smiling, looking so unnervingly content.
“Why are you smiling?” I try not to sound frustrated, but the tone peeks through anyway.
I see the outlines of her irises shift down to the porch. They stay there for a moment before flicking back up to me. “Because Eli cares,” She blinks slowly, “Eli cares about me.”
I finally turn upwards. A warm tear slips from the duct, trailing down my cheek. “Yeah. I do.” I find myself beginning to smile with her, despite this bubbling feeling of dread growing in my stomach. “You’re my friend.”
Fawn nods. “Friend,” She tests the word, studying the noun on her tongue. “Friend.” It sounds heavy in her mouth, like the meaning itself is pronounced in the vowels.
Orange light bounces off her straight nose, then seeps into the whites of her eyes. For a moment, I see her as she’d be cured. I see the amber of her eyes, the light blonde of her hair. I see the blush on her cheeks, the meat on her bones.
I decide then,
In two days, I will take her to the new outpost. There, there will be soldiers, safety. There, there will be doctors. People who know what they’re doing. Maybe, some like her.
Fawn is important, that I know now. They won’t hurt her.
What about me?
I’ve got nothing outside of this. Truth be told, I was a loser before the outbreak: No one knew me, teachers forgot my name and face, I kept to myself, stayed inside and studied all day. I always told myself that once I graduated and got a job, then I’d worry about meeting people and enjoying life. We see now where *that* got me.
In a way, this apocalypse was the best thing to happen to me. After all, it gave me Fawn. Or rather, it gave me to *her*.
*My friend—*
Her hair lifts in the wind, ends flicking like a flame.
*I’ll be brave for you.*
I thought about keeping my plan a secret— waiting until the last second to tell Fawn. I couldn’t, it would’ve been too cruel— besides, she isn’t stupid. She would have caught on to me.
Her reaction was as expected; a lot of “no”s were said, along with some frenzied yelling about how it’s too dangerous and that they could hurt me.
I… had to lie. I told her I got in contact with the outpost, that we spoke and reached an agreement for our stay. It was the only way she’d relax and even think about letting it happen. Now I’m not proud about lying, but it was a good lie. One that would keep her safe. I can live with that, even if she’d be mad at me later for it.
So, we waited on bated breath. Those two days passed slowly, but we shared them together. I told her about my past— my schooling, my family, my future career. When it was her turn to share, she told me that she didn't know who her family was outside of Dr. Dumont— in fact, she doesn’t know a whole lot about anything outside of things that have to do with him. It’s nearly been her whole life up until this point, after all. I told her that once we got help from the doctors at the outpost, she could do anything she wanted.
She said she wants a job in the sun, one where she can interact with animals.
I told her she should work at a zoo (if there were any still standing… I left that part out, though)
She then asked what a zoo was, so I had to explain it to her.
Anyways, it felt kind of normal, those two days. Domestic. Calm. Just spent teaching Fawn more about the world she’d be reintroduced to.
There were breaks, of course. With her symptoms getting worse, she’s been a bit feverish. Manic. Sometimes in another world altogether. Not very hungry, ‘nor thirsty. It made me start to count down the hours.
Now, I’m worried about what it’ll look like in the city.
At night, I’ve been listening to the radio, preparing for what we’ll be trudging into. From the chatter, it sounds like they haven’t been doing too well at containing the outbreaks; while the area around the outpost is safe, everything else seems to be desolate, if not overrun. Resources are depleted from being ransacked by everyone and anyone, infrastructure has been struggling due to excessive force from manic infected, the military has been shooting groups of uninfected people who loiter around the gate... They make it sound like a civil war. Maybe it is. A war against our own ambition. We’re just fighting against monsters of our own making.
And then, the worst part about the infection is that they aren’t just brain dead zombies; no, they’ve just lost their inhibitions, gained a little mania with a side of physical maladies. They’re just sick people, confused and angry because of it. Rotten skeletal architecture, wasting away in dark buildings. And we call ourselves— the uninfected— the cleansing fire to burn away that rot.
They’re the reset the world needs. Try as we might to fight back, it won’t matter in the end.
But we will try, because we are human, and humans simply don’t learn.
I need a new perspective.
I sling my backpack off of my shoulder, stuffing it in the backseat of my car. I wonder if my car is one of the only ones left with fuel— does that make me a target? It doesn’t matter. I won’t be using it after we get to the outpost anyway.
Fawn stands in the frame of the front door, fingers loosely interlaced at her sternum. She’s nervous, it’s not hard to tell; she hasn’t left the grounds of this property in God knows how long, and I doubt she remembers what it’s like.
“We’re all packed,” I announce. I feel like I’m talking to the empty space around me rather than her.
Fawn didn't really have a lot of stuff to her name, much like me, so it was easy to pack. Doubt they’d let us take a lot of our personal belongings with us either way— most people went with just the clothes on their backs. It’s not like I had much stuff to *my* name anyway.
Fawn shifts her weight between her feet, eyeing the ground like it's riddled in used needles.
My back straightens, hand raising to rub my tense shoulder. “Well, come on,” I say.
She looks in my direction, squinting a little as she tries to make out my shape.
Just as I think she’s ready to take a step out, she stills, fingers moving to clutch the fabric of her white knit sweater.
A sigh claws itself out of my throat. “Do you need help?”
She shakes her head, afterwards letting it fall to stare at the concrete below her.
My arms cross over my chest as I lean my shoulder against the side of the car. “You know, I’m scared too.”
Fawn’s lips part as she peers upwards at my form. Her brows are lightly furrowed, twitching slightly at the ends like it takes effort to hold them in place.
“I’ve been scared a long time,” I let my head hang to mirror her, “Now more than ever.” A snort escapes my nose as my gaze falls. “But I always thought, if I can make it through this moment, then the next, then the next, that I’d be okay. That it’ll just get easier, and I’ll be less afraid.”
Fawn stands hunched, but at attention nonetheless.
“And you’ve made it through many moments, most more difficult than I could ever fathom.” My throat tightens despite my attempts at deep breathing. I feel the taught cord with gentle fingertips. “This one will pass just like those, but only if you let it. So please, Fawn—“ I lift off of the car, then open the passenger-side door. “Make things easier on yourself.”
She hesitates as she stares at the distance between us. I wonder, for a short few seconds, if she’d just turn and walk back inside— abandon a chance at getting better in favor of familiar comfort.
If I were her, I would.
Her foot crosses the threshold. Then the other.
A small smile grows on my face as I watch her approach. When she reaches my side, I guide her into the seat by her hand, then clasp the seatbelt over her body. I shut the door after, rounding the front to the drivers side to climb in.
I settle in my seat, feeling the steering wheel for the first time in two months. It feels like cheap leather and late-night gas station trips.
I push my key into the ignition, and start the engine.
We pass countless coniferous trees on the way, along with fields of dying grass and abandoned vehicles. It’s so barren, all of it. Like humanity died out years ago and we just missed it.
Around the halfway mark, we gained some following from stranded infected. They’ve been jogging behind the car, clawing at nothing relentlessly like it’ll work to stop us if they just keep trying. I didn’t tell Fawn— better that she’s kept as calm as possible, because god forbid she makes me turn the car around.
Maybe the urgency will help us— maybe the soldiers will see the horde and focus on them instead of us. After all, if we’re running away it’s a higher chance that we aren’t infected, right? Why make the effort to go to the very people who’d kill us?
I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m trying to make light of a situation where I’ve only got a lit match in a pitch-black room.
But I need to do this— I need to, for her.
We cross the threshold into the city.
There’s more infected here, scattered around aimlessly like leaves from an autumn tree. Their heads perk up like dogs at the incoming sound of my car.
My foot presses harder on the gas.
“Eli?” Fawn asks. I can hear the alarm in her tone.
My fingers curl tighter around the wheel. “It’s okay,” I murmur. It was meant for her, but I feel like I need it more at the moment.
I glance to see her lifted off her seat, squinting at the window to try and make out the shapes through it. I know she can see the blurs of the infected running towards us— I know because I see the way her face falls.
“Eli, faster—“
“I know!” My engine revs, reverberating off the emptiness around the car. It only riles up the infected more.
Fawn pulls herself away from the window, but does not relax. “I feel,“ she stares into her dry palms, “Something’s wrong, with them—“
I take a sharp left turn, sending Fawn’s head against my shoulder. She yelps as she reels back into place.
“Shit, sorry!” I say with an acknowledging wince to my now-aching shoulder.
Fawn painfully mumbles something under her breath, holding her head in her palm.
I force my focus onto the road ahead.
Only a little more to go, if we just—
Something barrels into the road, directly in front of the car. We collide, and flip.
It’s dark. Blurry. I hear a voice calling my name, quiet and distant.
I’m *so* tired.
“Mmph… give me… a minute.” I turn my face away from the direction of the sound—
But I come to realize there’s sound coming from *everywhere*. On one side, a steam of cries, the other…
*Fawn*.
Oh, shit.
My eyes shoot open as I cough a spittle of blood. My chest heaves and heaves as I frantically look around.
“Eli, Eli!” A hand grips my shoulder, shaking me fully awake.
Fawn has managed to unbuckle her seatbelt. She is on all fours facing me, knees bloody through her pants from digging into the shattered windshield below her.
“We need to go—“ Her fingers make quick work of the seatbelt clasp.
I collapse to the ground, letting out a groan of pain as my body screams wordless agony. Fawn pulls me by my arm, dragging me out of the smoking car with all of the strength she can muster.
The formless cries of the infected are approaching, becoming louder and louder with each second.
When I feel my legs free from the smashed car window, I force myself to sit up, but it’s not fast enough. Fawn lifts me and holds my side to hers. I wrap my arm around her middle for support.
“Where?” I try not to drag my feet as she quickens her pace.
I wheeze pathetically as I search the distance. “Fff— first left, then straight,” I wince, “Should be… right there.” My hand involuntarily clutches Fawn’s side tighter, though she pays it no mind.
She’s fast, running like it’s trained into her blood. I seem to weigh next to nothing to her, as she’s basically hauling me along all by herself. I’d be praising her if it didn’t hurt to speak.
She bounds to the right, and there it is, the outpost. Tall and overbearing like the city buildings around us. Two large watch towers are placed on either side of the entrance, with a wall connecting the two of them. I see the guards stationed along it.
They see us too.
“There—“ I mumble.
Fawn doesn’t offer more than a grunt of acknowledgement, focused on keeping us standing.
Only a little longer. We can make it.
A gunshot rings out. Then another. Then more, like a cacophony. They aren’t directed at us.
Fawn cries out at the sounds, but does not let herself stop.
I see a green light flick on below the wall, and the gates begin to open. A small squad of soldiers pour out, kneeling behind makeshift covers of roadblocks and sandbags.
My feet begin to push harder as Fawn’s weaken. Her adrenaline is running out.
“I got you, I got you,” Now, I hold her to me.
There’s a hundred feet between us and the outpost, and only a little more between us and the infected. We get closer and closer, until Fawn’s legs finally give out. She tumbles head-on into the asphalt with a loud thud that I can hear even over the shots.
I drop to kneel next to her, trying to haul her frail body back up. But she’s heavy, and my arms can’t handle it.
I look up with panic riddled in my veins.
I see another squad barrel out from the gate, wearing different clothes from the others. They have a stretcher with them, fit with an oxygen tank and whatever the hell else an injured person could need. The others stay behind for cover while five rush to us.
“She needs help, please—“
I am shoved away.
Two soldiers lift Fawn, tossing her to the stretcher while the other two buckle her in. I lift my leg to stand—
A boot flies to my cheek. I fall backwards to the ground, wincing at the force against my ribs.
“Don’t move.” A gruff voice commands.
I try to speak, but no words come out. My eyes open to look at Fawn.
A soldier raises some kind of device to her neck. The screen on it turns green, and he nods to the others. They begin to push her away.
“Wait—“ I scramble to sit up.
The muzzle of a gun is placed against my forehead. It’s cold.
“Command, this is Theta-231. Subject D-08 has been secured.” He pauses, “Affirmative, witness is present.” His head turns to me. I can’t see past his glasses.
“H-Hey, what’s going on—“ He pushes the muzzle against my skull to silence me.
He listens for a moment longer, “Copy that, over and out.” I watch him readjust his grip before he speaks again. This time, it’s to me. “This ain’t personal, kid.” In an instant, he turns the gun and slams the stock into my head.
The world spins around me. I don’t even feel myself hit the ground, I just feel the cold asphalt against my skin after a second of air time. I try to move, but I can’t feel anything— not my fingers, my toes, my legs, arms… nothing.
So instead, I watch.
I watch the soldier rush back with a hand signal to the sky. The light above the gate turns red with a loud alarm blare, alerting the other soldiers to get back behind the walls. One moment, they’re all there, and so is Fawn. She looks at me over her shoulder, the lower portion of her face obscured by a large oxygen mask. I see the way her eyes shoot wide, and I see how she begins to struggle against the restraints.
*Oh, my dear friend. If only I could have told you how much you’ve done for me— if only I could have told you how much you deserve a happy ending after everything you’ve been through.*
*I promise everything will be okay.*
I give her what little of a smile I can muster.
*What a privilege it was to matter to you.*
The gates close, and the gunshots cease.
For a long second, everything is silent. There is no wind, no cooing birds, no roaring engines. I feel distant from my body, an observer in the midst of it all.
You’d think that a death like this would be something theatrical, but it isn’t. There will be no credits at the end of this scene, no epilogue to cushion the blow.
Instead, it’s simple. One moment I will be, the next I won’t.
I think I’m okay with that.
Then the screams start up again, shooting towards my paralyzed body like I’m bait in a pool of sharks.
Hands pull at my back, rough and painful—
Then teeth are sunk into my neck.
“And God,
Please let the deer on the highway
Get some kind of heaven.
Something with tall soft grass and sweet reunion.
Let the moths in porch lights go some place with a thousand suns, that taste like sugar and get swallowed whole.
May the mice in oil and glue have forever dry, warm fur and full bellies.
If I am killed
For simply living,
Let death be kinder than man.”
—Althea Davis