A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1) (21 page)

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

Stella

Joey is picking at a scab on his arm. His attention has
not moved from it since. I watch him, his nail digging into the crust and
peeling it back to free a bubble of bright red. He wipes it away, smearing it
across his skin, and moves on to find another.

He has not said anything since the reanimation. Not even cursed or sighed at
the pain he must be inflicting on himself. He sits in the chair beside mine,
his head bowed so he does not have to see the body.

Logan has found a sheet to cover it, and has draped it over. Still, the
outline is visible, with maroon flowering from its head, soaking through the
white fabric. Inch by inch, the red creeps against the white, devouring it the
way spilled ink taints a page.

Logan stands silently by the couch, his eyes, like mine, are trained on
Joey. I think we're waiting for something. Waiting for him to move, or speak.
But he gives no sign of doing either.

He just sits, picking at the scabs spread out along his arms.

"Joey?" I ask, twisting my body so that I am facing him. He makes
no indication that he has heard me, he just keeps picking.

Pick, pick, pick.

Bloody dots cover his arms now. Soon he will have nothing left to pick at,
and I worry then that he will begin digging into his skin.

"Joey say something," I demand. "Please?"

His finger stops its burrow, his head swaying the slightest bit that I'm not
sure if it was an intentional movement or not.

"It's my fault," he says, the words spoken softly, as if he's
afraid of waking the dead.

"What?" I ask.

"It's my fault," he repeats. "All of it. We wouldn't even be
here right now if it weren't for me!"

"Joey that's—"

"No!" he cuts me off, his head snapping in my direction.
"Don't even try to justify it, Stella!"

His eyes scare me, no longer reflecting the distant memory of an ocean long
forgotten. Their blue have dissolved to a darker tone, taking the color of the
sky when night attacks. He tears them away, looking back down at his arms.

"How many people are dead because of me?" He falls silent and I
know that he is counting. "Y'know that's why I didn't want to kill those
people at the supermarket?" He turns back to me, "because even though
that was you, I still blame myself. Like I should have stopped you or something."

"But those people were planning to kill us!"

"I know that!" he shouts, "but I. . ." His voice drops
off with a shake of his head and he sighs. "I just don't want any more
blood on my hands."

He rubs at his eyes with clenched fists, as if trying to wipe away the
guilt. I share a glance with Logan, unsure of what to say. He looks as helpless
as I do. There's nothing either of us can say. We can lie, but what good will
that do? He won't believe us anyway. As the silence begins to descend upon us,
Joey reaches forward and grabs the red bag at his feet, the one that he has
been cradling as if his life depended on it.

"Here," he says, handing it to me. "Get rid of it, destroy
it, do whatever the hell you want with it. I don't care."

His eyes linger on it as I take it from him, his hand resting on its red
fabric longer than necessary. I pull it to my side, out of his reach, and his
hand retracts.

He returns to his scabs.

Logan clears his throat. "We should probably get going soon. Not much
sense hanging around here."

I don't agree with him. The idea of resting for a while is a tempting one,
but I can understand why neither of them want to remain here. The house is a
gravestone to them, a place of visit, but not one to stay. So I push myself
into the soft cushion of the seat, relishing the comfort while I still can.

"Yeah that's a good idea," Joey nods. "Aaron wants us,"
he pauses, his eyes drifting to the body. "
Wanted
us to head to
Canada. So I suppose we'll just take the bus and go straight up."

No
, I think. We can't head straight up, because that isn't where I
need to go.

"Sounds like a plan," Logan says.

No
, I think again, beginning to panic now.

"Well actually," I say and both pairs of eyes land on me, "I
think we should stick to the coast and move up from there."

Joey's brow furrows. "Why?"

"Because . . ." I begin, but my train of thought tilts from its
tracks and topples away. How can I convince them when I can't tell them the
real reason? They'll never understand. Or worse, they'll try to convince me to
give up.

And that's something I will never do.

My eyes catch Logan's and I remember our talk at the gas station. I can use
him as leverage. "Logan agrees with me," I say. This time it's his
brow that furrows.

"I do?" he asks.

"Yes, remember at the gas station when we were talking about how long
you would be staying in Las Vegas? You agreed to go to the coast with me."

His expression pinches as he struggles to retain the memory. "Because
the infected can't swim?" he asks, uncertain. I nod at the weak excuse I
had conjured. Even back then I had struggled to make up a reason. How do I make
up a reason where there is none? It makes no logical sense to go to the coast,
not for them anyway.

"I thought you were joking about that."

My lips tug into a frown. "No, I. . ."

"Stella, going to the coast will only add days to our travel time.
There's no point," he says.

Heat rushes to my face and I have to work not to bite back at him.
There
is a point
, you just don't know what it is. It feels as if a cage is slowly
shrinking around me, ensnaring me in a trap of my own design. I can't tell him
the truth, but I can't convince him without it.

The only solution I can think of is to tell him half of the truth. So I
stand up from the chair and move towards him, gently grabbing him by the arm
and pulling him back into the dining room where we had our little
heart-to-heart. The memory might help to convince him. He folds his arms across
his chest and looks down at me expectantly.

"I'm looking for someone," I tell him. This isn't what he wanted
to hear. Deep lines run through his face as he frowns.

"Who?"

I shake my head. "It doesn't matter who."

"Well how do you know they're up the coast?"

Ah
, the question I hoped he wouldn't ask. This is the point where
telling half the truth is forced to cross over into the territory of lying.

"Because that's where he told me he would be," I say.

"And how long ago was this?"

"The last time I spoke to him."

"And when was that?"

"Jesus, what's with the inquisition?" I snap, "I came here
with you, no questions asked!"

"Stella you know what it's like out there! It's impossible to stay in
one place for too long, odds of them still being there are . . ." he pauses.
"Slim."

"But there's still a chance."

He sighs. "We have a bus, Stella. If we go to the coast, we'll be on
foot."

"Not if we can convince them to come with us."

"You would ask them to risk their lives because you
think
your
friend is still waiting for you?" he asks. The answer does not come to me
as quickly as it should. I should be able to say yes, without a doubt. But the
way he has phrased his question has thrown me off. Not only am I asking them to
risk their lives, I'm asking him.

A realization dawns on me, one that I try to push away. It's dangerous to
form attachments in this world, something that more often than not will only
end up getting you killed. But I can't deny that that's exactly what I've done
here.

I've formed a connection with these people. I risked my life to get food for
everyone, and I risked it again to get antibiotics for Logan. I went back to
the school, when I could have left and driven up the coast while I had the
chance.

As I look at Logan, it becomes more and more obvious to me that I can no
longer use him the way that I had planned. I can't hold him as my shield, a
vessel I can take advantage of to get me where I want. He isn't my bodyguard
anymore.

He's someone that I care about.

And that will never work.

I won't ask him to come to the coast with me, because he's right. There's no
point for him. Canada is his safest bet. Even if I don't believe that the
rumors are true, that the infection can't survive up there. It's what’s in his
best interests. It's what's in all their best interests. A chance to be safe. I
won't take that away from them.

But I won't go with them.

He sighs and I realize I've kept him waiting. "If you really want to go
up the coast, I'll come with you," he says.

"No," I mumble, wondering if I'm going to regret this decision.
"No you're right. They're probably not there. We should just go to
Canada."

He gives me a look. "You're sure?"

I nod. "I'm sure."

We walk back into the living room where Joey sits up in his seat, an
argument already prepared in his eyes. "Aaron wanted us to go straight up
to Canada," he says, getting straight to the point, "I have to do
what he wanted, Stella."

He’s so convicted in the way that he has said it. I don’t think I’d be able
to convince him to go to the coast even if I tried.

I fake a smile, and nod. "You're right," I say, "the coast is
pointless." For one weak moment, I actually consider believing that lie
and going with them. But I can't, not when there's still a chance that he's
alive, waiting for me.

"Alright," Logan says, "then we'll start getting ready
now."

I try to convince myself that this is for the best. The sooner I leave, the
better. I will go to the coast alone, and maybe if I find what I am looking
for, I’ll meet them in Canada. But I remember the size of the country on school
maps, how large and unlikely it would be to find them there. And what Logan
said only moments ago; people don't stay in one spot for very long. But I don't
dwell on that fact, because I know that truly, this is for the best.

Everyone gets what they want this way.

Logan moves back into the dining room and Joey steps outside. This is my
chance. It feels like it’s happening too fast, because I didn’t think I’d leave
them like this, caring about them. But if I don’t leave now, I’m afraid I won’t
get another chance. So I sling the bag Joey gave me over my shoulder and make
my way towards the kitchen. I can't take anything else, not without them
knowing. I’ll probably end up regretting this decision, but for now, I don't
care. I just need to leave, before my mind changes or I get cold feet. I reach
the back-door of the kitchen that leads out into a small backyard and reach for
the handle, but stop.

Only now do I notice the weight of the locket. It feels heavy around my neck,
like it's tethering me to them. It doesn't feel right that I take it, not
anymore. So I pull it off and drop it on the counter, its chain splaying out
around the pendant.

It's for the best
, I tell myself.

As I slip out the back-door and into the small garden, I take a breath.

And I do not look back.

CHAPTER
THIRTY

Logan

The sooner we leave, the better.

I thought coming here would help, thought seeing her face again would help.
But I was wrong. Standing in the dining room, it feels as if every photo is
pointed towards me. As if every set of eyes is stabbing into me with justified
blame.

I can't rid myself of the guilt, but I can rid myself of this place,
showcasing it like a museum. I pick the rucksack up off the ground and sling it
over my back, looking at the pictures on the mantel and the walls. There's a
photo that I want, but it isn't here.

Ignoring the many eyes, I leave the dining room and walk upstairs. It might
be in Anna's room; I know that she liked that photo. Walking past the many open
doors towards her bedroom, I notice Rocket standing in one of the rooms. She
must have walked in during the make-shift procession. I stop in the doorway to
watch her.

She stands by the side of the queen-sized bed, holding a photo that she
picked up from the side-table. I clear my throat to get her attention. She
lowers the photo and looks over to me casually, not as if she has just been
caught snooping. She glances back down at the picture in her hands.

"This your wife?" she asks, angling the photo so that I can see
it. Sure enough, it's a picture of my ex-wife, Jessica, cradling an infant Anna
while I look down at her, cooing softly. I nod, breaking my eyes away from the
photo to look around my old bedroom. Jessica hadn't changed any of it, the
photos from our wedding day the only things that are missing. Besides that, the
place looks exactly the same from when I had last seen it. This does not make
me feel any better.

"She's pretty," Rocket says, putting the photo back down.

"Yeah," I mutter, "she was."

Only now do I notice that she is avoiding my gaze. Despite putting the photo
down, she keeps her eyes on it, her body turned from me. I can sense a certain
tension emanating from her rigid posture.

"You okay?" I ask.

She's quick to nod her head, moving her eyes from the photo to the floor.

"Is it about Aaron?" I ask. She doesn't nod, doesn't move. I don't
think she is going to respond, when she sighs.

"He was a really good guy," she says, her eyes finally meeting
mine, "I've been with him since the beginning. It's gonna be different
without him."

I nod. He was a good guy, even though I didn't think so when I first met
him, he definitely proved himself in the end. A part of me can't help but see
the injustice of his death. Even though I know it's wrong of me to think so, I
can't help but wish that Joey had died instead of Aaron.

It doesn't matter to me that he's decided to turn a new cheek now. It
shouldn't have taken the death of his brother and countless others to make him
change. He deserves to be the one that died. But instead, it was Aaron that
answered for his mistakes.

I shake the thought away. There's nothing that can be done about it now, no
way to change things. Accepting reality and living with it is our only option,
no matter how shit said reality is.

"I don't even know what we're gonna do now," Rocket says, moving
away from the bed and towards me.

"He wanted Joey to take everyone to Canada," I tell her, as she
stops in front of me.

She snorts. "We'd be better off running down the streets
blindfolded."

I repress a smile, because that isn't something I want to joke about. Not
when I agree with her. It'll only be a matter of time before Joey screws up
again, having him take charge will never work. We'll have to think of a plan
before we leave.

Rocket clears her throat, and I realize that I'm standing in her way. I look
down at her and make no effort to move. Within such a close proximity of her, I
can't help but remember the night we shared at the school. Remember her body,
moving against mine, her skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat that glowed
in the moonlight.

She was adamant that the night meant nothing to her, and maybe it didn't.
Maybe there isn't anything romantic between her and I. But standing so close to
her, I feel compelled to find out.

Leaning down, I press my lips against hers. A tingle of electricity passes
through me, forcing a shiver to run down my spine. For a moment, I think she is
kissing me back, but I must be wrong, because she pulls away, the shiver going
with her.

"I'm sorry," I say, the words desperately rushing out. She shakes
her head, her eyes cast down, hiding the emotion in them.

"I have to get the bus ready," she says, pushing past me. I stand
in the doorway, wondering if I imagined the shake in her voice. She disappears
downstairs and leaves me wondering if what I did was wrong.

It must have been a mistake if she pulled away. Maybe that night at the
school really doesn't mean anything to her, nothing but a casual hook-up. And
if it doesn't mean anything to her, then I'll make sure it doesn't mean
anything to me. I shake my head, feeling stupid for feeling anything in the
first place.

I decide to push her from my mind, and the feelings that accompany her.
Giving the bedroom one last glance, I turn back into the hall and continue on
into Anna's room. I don't pause outside her door, I barge in, not giving the
emotions and memories a chance to manifest.

Just like my bedroom, Anna's bedroom is exactly like I remember it. Overly
pink with a stuffed animal staring at you no matter where you look. Posters of
her favorite cartoons cover the walls, and I remember the days we spent putting
them up. A million memories fester in this room. Like the day she pretended to
be sick, and forced herself to eat seven cans of chicken soup to try and
convince me. Or the night we stayed up late, watching scary movies that were
far too inappropriate for her age, but I let her watch anyway because she
pleaded with those big green eyes of hers. I don't want to spend long in here.

Already I can feel the bitter emotions creeping up on me, tainting every
memory I have of her in this room. Tucking her in at night and reading her
favorite stories to her over and over until she would finally fall asleep. A
good memory, but one that brings nothing but pain.

I look around her room and find the photo I am looking for on her bedside
table. A picture from her eighth birthday, where she thought it would be fun to
throw her cake rather than eat it. The two of us are looking at the camera,
covered in icing and laughing. Picking it up, I stare down at it for a moment.

Her eyes were so brilliant, so full of life. The kind of green that made you
think of a mossy forest, teeming with wildlife. They were beautiful.

I can't believe I ran away from them when I met Stella. Their eyes aren't
the exact same. Stella's are harder, more piercing, but they're alike enough
that I can see the memories in both of them.

I miss Anna’s eyes.

But I was afraid of them when I saw them in Stella. Even though they were in
a different person, I felt like they would still accuse me. Blame me for
everything that I've done. Even though the fear is still there, I find myself
wanting to look into her eyes again. I don't want to run away from them
anymore, I want to face them head on.

Looking down at the picture in my hands, it doesn't feel the same. The still
image has failed to capture the life in them, the exuberance.

I need Stella.

I need to look into her eyes. I want to, because that's the only way I can
fill this hole in my chest and chip away the guilt. All this time that I've
been avoiding them, I feel so stupid. I've been given the chance to look into
my daughter's eyes again, and I didn't.

I looked away, I even ran away. But not anymore.

Tucking the photo into the rucksack, I give her room one last sweep,
relishing in the pain. Only when it becomes unbearable do I turn away and
leave.

I'm ready now. I almost feel enlightened, running down the stairs two steps
at a time, I almost run head first into Joey.

"You almost ready to leave?" he asks.

"Yeah," I nod, looking around the room for the eyes. "Have
you seen Stella?"

He shrugs. "Uh, last time I saw her, I think she was heading into the
kitchen."

The kitchen
, I think, striding towards it.

I don't know what I expect to happen when I look into Stella’s eyes. Maybe a
massive weight will lift from my shoulders, or maybe the hole in my chest will
shrink a fraction. Maybe nothing will change at all. It doesn't matter. All
that matters is that I'm ready to see them now.

My daughter’s eyes.

For the first time in so long, I
want
to see them.

Turning at the corner, I come face to face with an empty kitchen. I'm about
to leave, to look somewhere else when a glint of gold catches my eye.

It's the locket.

I pause in the doorway, my eyes running along the chain, sprawled out on top
of the counter.  I reach towards it, grasping at the pendant as if it
isn't real. But it is real. I pick it up, the metal cold in my hands.

"Did you find her?" Joey asks from behind me, "everyone's
about ready to go."

I don't reply straight away. It takes me a moment to process what I've
found, to process what it means. Even after the meaning sinks in, it takes me
another moment to accept it as reality.

"No . . ." I manage, "she's," the word refuses to leave
my lips, and I find myself having to force it out.

"Gone."

"Gone?" he asks, "what do you mean gone? Where is she?"

The question unsettles me, because I don't know it's answer. All I can think
about is the hole in my chest, and the feeling of betrayal now sinking into it.
I don't want to deal with Joey right now. I want him to go away, so I can
think. So I can think about what this means.

"Why would she go?" he asks. 

"I don't know!" I snap, a familiar feeling settling over me, one I
haven't felt in so long. One I hoped to never feel again. "She's just. .
." The word slips through my fingers, just like she has. "Gone."

"Well is she coming back?"

A question I do know the answer to, but wish I didn't.

"No," I tell him. "She isn't."

He doesn't ask any more questions after that. I think he has realized what I
had when I saw the locket. She's left. To go to the coast? It doesn't make any
sense. I offered to go with her! And she said that she didn't want to go
anymore!

Only now do I remember what she was like when we first met. Every second
word a lie, every flip of her hair an act of manipulation.

But why?

The question bites at me, causing more pain than it should. I could go after
her. She couldn't have gotten very far. I can convince her to come back, or I
can go with her. But I have no idea which direction she could have gone.

The more I think about it, the more I realize the fact of the situation. The
more that reality crushes down on me.

She's gone, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Looking down at the locket, cradled in my palm, the hole in my chest expands
and I feel the phantom pains of loss. A feeling I'm familiar with.

A feeling I haven't felt since I lost my daughter.