“I"m sorry, Sommer,” Harlow said, waiting behind me a moment longer. “I"ll never forget you.”
Sommer didn"t say anything, but I don"t know how anybody could respond to that. We"d just left her in the desert to die.
I"d just created another vessel to spread the damn virus. I made the zombie problem worse, but I couldn"t bring myself to kill her. Not when she was still a person, with rational thought and emotions. I wouldn"t hesitate once she was a zombie, though, and I hoped I didn"t run into her then.
Harlow hurried to meet my pace, and neither of us said anything for a while. I glanced over at her, and I could see the moon glinting off her silent tears. I tried to think of something comforting to say, but I had nothing.
I hadn"t even shed a tear over Beck, and as soon as I realized that, I pushed it from my mind. I didn"t want to cry for him or anyone else.
“Maybe I should"ve left her my gun,” Harlow said at length. She still held it, so I took it from her and clicked on the safety. The last thing I needed was for her to shoot off her foot or something.
“You need it more,” I reminded her. I handed the gun back to her. Harlow shoved it in the waist of her skirt, and it looked weird and bulky in her outfit.
Harlow wore a lace trimmed skirt and a matching camisole, with a loose cardigan hanging over it. She had a messenger bag covered in glitter, overflowing with her belongings.
Her long blond curls framed her face, speckled with blood, and a gold cross hung around her neck on a chain. To top off the ensemble, she had on black combat boots that were at least a size too big. With th gun shoved in her skirt, she was the poster child for post-apocalyptic fashion.
I clicked the safety on my own gun and wedged it between the strap of my messenger bag and my back, so I wouldn"t have to carry it. The farther we walked, the quieter it got, and I would be able to hear a zombie coming from a mile away.
“What if she doesn"t turn into one of those zombies?” Harlow asked.
“They all do.”
“Why didn"t you say anything to her?” she asked.
“Like what? That I"d never forget her?” I shook my head. “I hope I do forget her. I don"t want to remember every person who died. That"s far too many people.”
“What about that soldier? Beck?” Harlow asked. I swallowed hard and quickened my pace. “Was he your boyfriend?”
“Don"t be ridiculous,” I said. “He taught me how to shoot.” When Beck had found my brother and me, it was a miracle we were still alive. I didn"t know anything about survival or fighting off zombies, and Beck taught me everything I know.
Without him, I"d never have been able to make it through the last few months.
“Were you in love with him?” Harlow asked, matching my pace.
“I don"t wanna talk about it.”
“Sorry,” she said, but she wasn"t easily deterred. Within a minute of falling silent, she started asking me questions again. “Where are we going?”
“North. Another quarantine.”
“Why?” Harlow asked.
“To find my brother.” I glanced down at her. “Weren"t you listening when I was talking to Beck?”
“Yeah, but I didn"t really understand. He said something about them evacuating your brother. Why would they do that?”
“Because the quarantine was compromised.”
“Why didn"t they evacuate all of us?” Harlow asked.
“I don"t know. I"m not in charge of the army.”
“But he was sick, right? That"s why he didn"t live with us?” She had asked me about him before when we were living in the quarantine. I hadn"t said much then, and I didn"t want to say much now.
“Right,” I sighed.
“With what?”
“I don"t know,” I said.
“But that"s weird that they would evacuate a sick kid, but not a bunch of healthy people.” She talked more to herself than to me, so I didn"t feel the need to respond. “When you think about how low the population is, it"s even weirder that they"d prioritize one sick kid over all of the healthy people they left on the second floor.”
I ignored her and walked even faster. By now, I was almost jogging, but she somehow kept with me, even though she was shorter than I was.
“How old is he?” Harlow asked.
“He"s eight.”
“How old are you?” Harlow cocked her head at me, speculating.
“Nineteen.”
“What"s his name?”
“Max,” I sighed and slowed down. I couldn"t waste all my energy trying to hurry her into dropping the subject. “His sign is Pisces, his favorite color is green, his eyes are blue, and he loves spaghetti but hates meatballs. Is there anything else you"d like to know about him?”