I waited. After a moment, he wiped his eyes and then opened the door and stepped out. He was a tall kid for his age, about the same height as Clutch. But, where Clutch was filled out with muscle, Frank’s lanky son was still very much a boy.
“You’re Jase, right?” I asked. “Call me….” I’d first thought to give him my real name but realized that Mia Ryan no longer existed. Who I’d been died four days ago during the outbreak. “Call me Cash.”
He held out his bloodied hand, noticed it, and pulled it back. He simply nodded instead. “Where’s Clutch?” he asked.
“He’ll be back later.” I took in a deep breath before speaking my next words. “I hate to ask this, but I have to.” I paused. “Are you bit?”
He looked down and shook his head. “No,” he croaked, and he cleared his throat. “I’m not bit.”
“That’s a lot of blood for not being bit,” I countered.
He shook his head harder this time. “It’s Betsy’s.” His voice cracked again, and he glanced back in the truck, running a filthy hand through already mussed sandy blond hair.
The poor kid looked like he was about to break. I wanted to make Jase take off his shirt to prove he hadn’t been bitten, but instead I kept one hand near my pistol and put the other hand on his shoulder. “Well, let’s get you cleaned up then.”
He wiped his nose and then nodded, taking a few steps with me toward the house. Then he stopped and pulled away. “Wait. I can’t leave Betsy…”
Frowning, I watched as he went around to the other side of the SUV. He returned, carrying what looked to be a small collie. Much of the fur on her back was matted with blood, and her eyes were glazed over. Whenever Jase moved, she whimpered.
I grimaced. Betsy looked in bad shape. With the amount of blood on her fur and covering Jase’s shirt, I doubted even a vet could help.
When we reached the house, I didn’t open the door. “Listen, Jase. You know how contagious zed blood is. You and Betsy can come into the mudroom, but you can’t come inside, not until you’re both cleaned up and in the clear. Got it?”
Jase nodded and sniffled again.
“All right.” I opened the door and he stepped inside, cradling the dog to his chest.
Inside the mudroom, I rummaged through the cabinets until I found where Clutch kept his rags and cleaning towels. I grabbed the thickest one in the pile and made a nest on the floor. Jase carefully set Betsy down on the towel, but she still yelped at the movement, her back legs kicking out. He collapsed next to her, keeping a hand on her, and making small cooing sounds.
I left them, locking the door behind me. It took some time, but I found a disposable plastic bowl that would work. I returned to Jase a few minutes later to find him petting Betsy. The motions seemed as soothing to him as it was for the dog. I set down the plastic bowl full of water near Betsy, but I doubted she’d drink. Her eyes had closed, her breathing labored.
I put a glass of water on a shelf near Jase before taking a seat across from them. The news had said that dogs didn’t turn, that bites were simply fatal, but I kept a close watch on both the collie and the teen, anyway. I’d left the .22 in its holster but had it ready.
“Mom turned first,” Jase said softly. “Dad told me to leave the room, but I stayed and watched. He shot her. Right in the head. He had to shoot her twice before she quit moving. God, the blood…” He sucked in a breath. “Then Dad, he turned the rifle on himself, but he just couldn’t do it.” He rested his head on the wall behind him. “We’re Catholic, ya know. He couldn’t do it. He shot Mom because it wasn’t murder since zeds don’t have souls. But he had to be able to get back to Mom.”
I stayed silent. I didn’t voice my thought that Frank had been selfish. No boy should be asked to kill his own father.