Twenty-four hours, and Brenna still hasn’t changed.
Still, she’s in bad shape. Her clothes are soaked through with sweat, and she shivers uncontrollably. I found an old, musty blanket to cover her with, but she kicked it off, burning up, then begged for it back, telling me she was freezing, only to throw it off again twenty minutes later. She’s been in and out of consciousness. She needs medical attention. She survived a Florae bite.
I’ve been thinking about it, while I’ve watched her fitful sleep, waiting for the cover of night. There’s only one option. I have to get her back to Fort Black. I don’t know the area, and I don’t know if I can find a pharmacy or grocery store to get her meds. Even if I did, they might all be scavenged this close to Fort Black.
Going back there is a deathtrap for me. Pete and Tank are gone, but Doc and the Warden are still out to get me. If I show up again, they’ll try to find some other way to kill me. But I owe Brenna my life. If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t have been out here; if it wasn’t for her, I’d be dead.
And if we go back, I can get back on track with Ken. Maybe he can help protect me. Plus, Ken will want to study Brenna. It’s possible his vaccine was effective or she’s naturally immune, but I don’t think so. I think she’s immune because she was experimented on as a child, given the same injection that Baby received.
My mother told me the scientists tried to perfect a vaccine, but were now having trouble because the bacteria has mutated so many times since then. Baby might not even be the key to a cure, since she was bitten so long ago. But Brenna was just bitten, and her body still managed to fight off the new Florae infection. The researchers would die to have her.
Her dressing has turned the rust color of old blood, and there are no more bandages. I’m not sure if I should move her like this.
But I don’t have a choice. I kneel down next to her. “I’m going to take you back to Fort Black, to get you some help, but you have to be quiet,” I whisper. “Do you hear any Floraes out there now?”
She opens her eyes, barely able to focus on my face. She’s too sick to talk. I pull on my synth-suit hood and walk to the office door. It creaks as it opens, and I freeze, my reloaded Guardian gun drawn. I still have nearly all the ammo Kay left me with—the clips are slim and light, and each carries an impressive number of charges—but still, I have to conserve.
After waiting a long, silent moment with no Floraes in sight, I take a step out of the office, then another, into the comforting darkness of night.
It’s been a while since I was out in the After, unprotected. I have to be the Amy I was before New Hope and Fort Black: silent, wary, stealthy. There’s no other way if I want to live.
With some difficulty, I transfer Brenna from the couch into the bike trailer. She moans and mutters, and her wound reopens, staining her already bloodied bandage a deeper shade of red, but she finally settles in.
I take off on the bike, pulling her behind me. She’s heavy, so the pace is slow. I do what I can to keep my pedaling even so that the noise is a constant hum, but I still have to shoot a Florae before we’ve gone a mile. I wonder how many more we’ll see along the way, drawn to the area by yesterday’s rampant gunfire.
We pass a gas station, and I stop for a moment, silently entering and surveying the store. My Guardian glasses act as night-vision goggles, and I’m thankful again to Kay, for what she’s given me to ensure my survival. All the good supplies have been scavenged, of course, but there’s a first aid kit hidden behind the counter that’s better stocked than the one I have from the auto lot office.
I rebandage Brenna’s wound, cleaning it with hydrogen peroxide first. The skin on her hand looks papery and is streaked with red marks. I make her swallow eight pain pills, though they expired years ago.
Before we get back on the road, I use a pair of scissors I snagged from the office to cut my hair short, leaving it a little longer on top, just like Baby cut it for me. Then, turning my head over, I dump the rest of the peroxide on what’s left of my hair. I hope the color will change—if not to blonde, to orange. After all, Tank and Pete likely aren’t the only thugs Doc sent after me, and I don’t want to be immediately recognizable.
I debate whether to try to change Brenna’s appearance, but her short hair makes it harder. Pete and Tank aren’t going to tell anyone that I was with Brenna. I think back to our leaving Fort Black. . . . Only a few people saw us together. Even if they tell the Warden that Brenna is with me . . . I’ll have to take that chance.