*
JUST TO BE CERTAIN, I checked the surrounding area for survivors. I found the spot behind a warehouse where an obvious battle had taken place; skid marks on the pavement, bullet holes in the walls, lining the sides of dead cars. Jeb’s shotgun lay in a puddle next to an overturned truck, and a pair of raider corpses lay sprawled in the weeds close by, indicating the old man had not gone quietly. But others had not escaped the chaos, either. Dorothy sat crumpled against a cement ramp, two small holes seeping crimson below her collarbone, her puzzled eyes staring off into nothing.
I looked at her body, feeling hollow and numb. I hadn’t known her long, and she had been a little on the crazy side, but even with her talk of angels and vampire-devils, Dorothy had been kind to me.
Now she was gone. As were the others.
In a daze, I wandered back to the spot I’d left Zeke, almost fearful of what I would find. When I turned down the correct street, however, I saw a familiar form leaning against a stop sign, one hand clutching a machete while the other clung to the pole, trying to pull himself up. Or keep himself from falling. A speckled trail of blood followed him down the sidewalk.
“Zeke!” Sprinting over, I reached for his arm, but he jerked away with a hiss, raising his weapon. I saw anger and uncertainty flash through his eyes before they glazed over with pain once more, and he slumped forward.
I took his weight again, trying not to breathe in his scent, the blood soaking his clothes. Fear and worry made my voice sharp as we hobbled down the sidewalk. “What are you doing, you idiot? You want to get yourself killed? I thought I told you to stay down.”
“I heard…gunshots.” Zeke panted, his face and hair damp with sweat. I could feel him shaking, his skin cold and clammy. Dammit, he couldn’t keep going like this. I looked around for shelter and decided that house across the street would work just fine.
“I wanted to help,” Zeke continued as we limped across the road. “I couldn’t sit there and do nothing. I had to try. To see…if anyone escaped.” He clamped his lips together as I kicked the fence open and pulled him through the yard up the weed-eaten porch steps. “Did…anyone escape?”
I ignored that question, nudging open the door and peering inside. This, at least, was somewhat familiar. The plaster walls were cracked and peeling, the floor strewn with rubble and trash. There were a couple holes in the roof and broken shingles scattered throughout the living room, but the structure appeared fairly sound. Against the wall was a very moldy but remarkably intact yellow sofa, and I carefully steered Zeke across the uneven floor until we reached it.
He collapsed on the sofa with a barely concealed groan, closing his eyes for just a moment before jerking them open again, as if he feared taking his gaze off me. I felt a prick of hurt as I stared down at him, lying helpless on the couch. He didn’t trust me at all.
“You’re bleeding again,” I said, catching sight of fresh blood seeping through the makeshift bandage. He stiffened, and I had to stifle the urge to point out that if I’d wanted to bite him, I would’ve done it by now. “Wait here. I’ll try to find something we can clean that up with.”
Turning away to hide my anger, I walked out of the room, going farther into the darkened building. Zeke didn’t say anything, so I rummaged through the house in silence, looking for bandages, food or anything that could help us. The rooms, though filthy and covered in dust and mold, were remarkably intact, as though the owners had just left without taking anything. The kitchen held a scattered collection of broken plates and mugs, and inside the refrigerator I found what had to be a hundred-year-old milk carton sitting on the top shelf. The bedrooms were mostly empty, stripped of sheets and clothes, though by the stench of feces and urine, I suspected a fox or maybe a whole family of raccoons had made its home under the bed.
I ducked into the hall and found the bathroom. The mirror over the sink was shattered and broken, but inside the cabinet I found a box of gauze pads and a dusty bandage roll. Beneath them sat a small bottle of pills and a larger brown bottle half full of liquid. I squinted at the faded label, mentally thanking Kanin for insisting that I learn to read better: the brown bottle contained something desperately needed. Hydrogen peroxide—topical disinfectant for surface cuts and minor wounds.
A little wary of the white pills, I left them in the cabinet but took the gauze and the peroxide and grabbed a dusty towel from the rack nearby, bringing it all out to Zeke. He was sitting straighter on the couch, trying to unwrap the tourniquet from his leg. But by his set jaw and sweaty, furrowed forehead, it wasn’t going well.