“You’re wasting daylight, Cash. C’mon, rise and shine!” Jase yelled before jogging out of the cabin the three of us shared, the creaky screen door slamming behind him. Our cabin was the most hidden of all cabins at Fox National Park, which was why Clutch had chosen it when we’d first arrived here. We’d been alone at that time. Now, it was nearly impossible to find a place where we could be alone since the park had become the temporary Camp Fox until the zeds evacuated the real Camp Fox National Guard Base nearly thirty miles southeast of here.
“Off duty,” I muttered as I stretched with a groan and rubbed my eyes. I sat up and swung my legs off the bed, and my still-healing calf protested by shooting a burning spike of pain up through my leg. Wincing, I reached for the bottle of water on the floor and took a long swig. God, I loved water. Couldn’t get enough of it ever since Tyler rescued me from Doyle’s militia camp. I’d been up on that roof for two days, and I wouldn’t have made it a third day.
With a sigh, I strapped on my gun belt, and came to my feet. Pink scar tissue tightened over my calf, and it took a moment for the tension to release. The bullet wound always hurt most in the mornings, but I finally felt like I’d climbed out of hell. All the while, Clutch was stuck in hell’s deepest tar pits. I glanced at his cot pushed up next to mine. Unmade and empty. The blankets were tangled and draping off the bed after another night of nightmares.
Each night, when I’d move onto his bed to console him, he’d turn the other way. For the past twenty-two days, he’d tell me to leave. The first night I gave him his space, and his nightmares returned worse than ever. The second night I stayed despite his words. He turned away from me, and I draped my arm over him, spooning him. Even though he grumbled, he fell back to sleep and the nightmares stayed away. Every night he tried to push me away, to emotionally isolate himself, but I made sure he knew he wasn’t going through this alone. It wasn’t easy, and I doubted myself sometimes, but I kept doing it anyway.
I had convinced myself that what Clutch asked for wasn’t what he needed. He’d drawn so far into himself that he pushed others away. Jase and I watched as melancholy dulled his gaze. I loved Clutch’s intensity, and it broke my heart every time I saw that strength missing from his spirit.
The third morning he’d left before we woke, Jase and I made a vow to see him through his recovery together, no matter how much of an ass he could be. Clutch had saved both of our lives. It was our turn to bring him back from the hell he was stuck in. We were his family now. Of course, cheering someone up in the middle of the zombie apocalypse was easier said than done.
Just like every morning since he’d returned to our cabin, he’d left before sunrise for physical therapy. He was relentless with his exercises; as if the harder he worked, the faster he would heal.
And, just like every morning, I loosely made all three beds, grabbed my rifle and the long spear that sometimes doubled as a walking stick, and headed out the cabin door.
Several minutes later, I found Clutch at our usual spot by the stream. After every morning PT session, I’d find him sitting there, watching the sun rise and scanning the trees, always ready to kill any zed or bandit who made the mistake of stumbling into our small part of Fox National Park.
I rubbed his shoulder as I walked by him. “Morning, sunshine. How’d PT go?”
He took in a long breath, and his grip on his rifle loosened, but he still stared ahead. “It went.”
His short light hair with slivers of gray was still damp with sweat, and his scruffy face was pale. The veins on his arms stood out like they did every time after weightlifting.
I frowned. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. It’s only been a couple months. Doc says it’s a miracle you’re even alive.”
Clutch chortled. “Doc was a family doctor before the outbreak. He had no idea how badly I was injured. Hell, he got half of his diagnoses wrong.”
“Thank God he did,” I said all too quickly and then forced a weak smile. “Doc’s doing the best he can. He seemed to do a good job on your broken wrist and fractured leg. Yesterday, you even said yourself that your ribs weren’t bothering you as much.”
He shook his head. “The only thing Doc did was keep me on my back and drugged up so my body could heal itself with time. Just about any injury will heal in three months.”