LEFT ALIVE (Zombie series Box Set): Books 1-6 of the Post-apocalyptic zombie action and adventure series (99 page)

“I’m fine,” I say to him, reaching out and feeling the table.

My fingers probe the area and as I search the contents of the table, my fingertips run across something that is distinctly familiar and I smile at the feel of it. I know this because my father used to take us camping all the time after our mother died. It was his way of escaping the world and I don’t think he could have coped without finding that escape, that place to heal. I feel for the button and when I find it, I’m pleased to see that the batteries are still alive, for a while at least. Gripping my Sig, I press the button and watch as the world flickers to life around me, cast in a pale blue light that illuminates the darkness, casting shadows away. Half expecting something to come charging at me, I’m pleased to see that I’m alone down here.

The area is cluttered and strangely organized, and I realize that this place is designed to look like it’s nothing but junk, but that’s just a lie, a façade to keep people away. Instead, I see beyond the base designs of the deception and see that this is actually a living space. It makes sense to me. It’s what I would have done if I’d had a place to hunker down after knowing the things I know now about the world. Whoever owned this house, they seemed to have been living down here, or at least, this was the fallback point for them in case anything happened to the house.

I hear Greg and Lexi coming down the stairs and as I grip my stomach, I know that our next priority needs to be taking care of the injuries that we’ve sustained. They can’t be held off any longer. If Greg is going to survive, I need to work on his leg. If I’m going to survive for a while longer, I need to stop the bleeding, at least on the outside. I’m pretty much stuck with the internal bleeding. I’ve come to terms with that. Greg and Lexi look around and I can’t help but feel like we’re just scratching the surface on something. This isn’t just a house. This is a sanctuary. It might not be Jason’s place or the sort of safe haven that we’d been looking for, but it definitely has a clear purpose.

“You think there’s anyone upstairs?” Greg asks, not hiding his voice with a whisper. He’s bold and he’s fearless right now. I don’t blame him. If there are people home, I don’t want them to think that we’re sneaking through this place, looking to catch them off guard. I want them to know exactly who we are, exactly what we’re looking for, shelter.

“I don’t know,” I groan, trying to keep the pain from coming out vocally. I need to hide it. I need to repress it from the others. They have to know that I’m all right. If they start worrying about me, then it’s all over for me. They won’t let me help with anything. I take another step into the light of the basement, my shadow casting a long column of darkness over the cellar. “We should wait until morning to check it out.”

Chapter Ten

Thunder ripples across the sky and Lexi sits down in a beach chair that she finds with Charlie, rocking him even though he’s not awake. She has a mother’s instinct finally and is caring more and more about him with every passing hour. She takes care of him like a mother ought to, like she should have been for days now. I look at her, wondering how much longer until she’s back to full health. I’ve never been around a woman who has just given birth and I’ve never delivered a human baby before. Maybe she’ll be better in a few days or a few weeks. I know that maternity leave can last like six weeks, but that doesn’t mean that she’s still recovering, does it? This is the kind of stuff that I’m kicking myself now for not learning, not that I ever saw a need for learning it.

Grabbing the lantern, Greg and I scour the basement until we find two more; one of them is a Coleman lantern and works with an actual flame. It’s old school, but I’m grateful for it. I give one of the lanterns to Greg and Lexi so they can have some light while I make my way back to the table I found the first lantern on, and clear it off meticulously. Greg hobbles out to the truck and starts bringing our supplies in a little at a time. While I’m still cleaning off the binders and notebooks from the table, Greg sets my pack down next to me.

“Going to work?” he asks me sweetly and I smile at him through the pain, nodding to him. I have to start putting a dent in what needs to be done before I can even hope to stand tomorrow. They’re going to need me at my full strength before all of this is over. They’re going to need my help in the coming days and I better be able to endure it if I’m going to join them. “Be careful, Val,” Greg says to me, reaching for my hand. I feel his hand on mine and it gives me a small measure of comfort. Honestly, I wish that I could stay with him. We had so much promise and such a bright future at one point. I’m sad for all the things that we’ll never have, that we’ll never experience because of all of this awfulness. It’s a shame and it’s a pity. In the end, though, we don’t get to pick our paths. We endure what we’re given and make the best of it as we go.

“I will,” I lie to him. It’s a necessary lie. I’m going to do what needs to be done and if that means putting me in more pain so that I can endure a few more days, then so be it. I’ll do whatever I can to ensure that I help them to carry on. I’m not going out in comfort. I’m going out kicking and screaming. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. So until that moment, I’ll tell Greg whatever he needs to hear to keep him from freaking out and panicking about my survival. “I’m going to be fine,” I lie again. “I’ve seen worse injuries and the victims pull through.”

“Good.” He wraps his arm around me and pulls me close, kissing me on the forehead. His lips feel cold, and fire rips through my abdomen.

Shrugging off my jacket, I look at my shirt and how tainted it is now with blood and all of the gore of the world spattered all over it. No one wants to see that when looking down at themselves. I look at it and I feel disgusted by it. Unbuttoning my shirt, I take it off and toss it onto a plastic chair with my pack and jacket. Standing in just my bra, I look down at the bloody wrappings and wonder if the bleeding has stopped. If I’m lucky, I’ll be working with a dried wound. That might buy me a little more time, not much, but at least I won’t worry about bleeding out for a while. I take a deep breath and open my first aid kit.

I don’t have a whole lot of supplies left, but what I do have will suffice for a short term fix such as this. Reaching down, I find the tiny little packet that’s a cotton swab drenched in alcohol. I put the packet out on the top of the table and look at it before glancing at my bandages. There’s not much left that I can use, so I gently remove the Ace bandage and roll it up on the top of the table to use later. Peeling off the gauze, I feel the scabbed-over blood pulling away from my skin, tugging at me as I take it off. I shudder at the feeling and place it on top of the table, looking at the dirty, bloody wound in my stomach. How could something like a piece of a window frame do this to me? I’m dying because of a window frame. It seems so silly and I shake my head at the thought of it. I should have been more careful. I should have been smarter about all of this. I shake my head. Oh well, what’s done is done.

Tearing open the packet, I pull out the moist cloth and unfold it, holding it in my already wet hands and looking at the inch of injury on my stomach. It’s enough to leave me a walking corpse, but it doesn’t look like much. I stare at it for a moment before I start cleaning around it, making sure that the wound is ready for me to seal it up the best I can. All of it is going to come to an end one way or another, but my sister and boyfriend are watching me. I can feel their eyes on me, digging at me. They’re studying every movement I make. I know that they’re worried about me, so the illusion is essential. They’re waiting for a sign that I’m not well, that I’m, in fact, dying.

The cold cloth quickly scrubs away the bloody scabs on me. I make my way toward the edge of my wound, feeling the tug of the cloth as I scrub and try to bite back the pain by clenching my teeth shut, grinding my teeth in agony. As I keep cleaning, I look down at the wound, I see the peculiar pale flesh beneath the scabs, the wound is bleeding slightly, awakened by my actions. It doesn’t matter. I knew that it would start to hurt again. I’m doing the most I can with what little I have. A dozen more alcohol swabs would be nice, but I don’t have them. Dropping the swab on the table, I look at it, completely red and brown from the blood. It’s useless now. My wound stings from being jostled back to life and the alcohol bites at it cruelly, but I’m not worried about it. The pain from the external wound is so small right now that I can hardly notice it.

Grabbing the bottle of iodine, I douse the wound in it, watching the flesh turn orange underneath the film of the liquid. I always thought iodine looked so weird when I would go get a shot or work with it in the clinic. It has a peculiar way of captivating the attention. I look down at it, still feeling bewildered by how it changes the skin’s color. It’s obvious why it does it, but it’s still a sense of childish fun that makes it curious to me. I look at it and I feel delighted by it. I can’t help the feeling. I smile at my injury, deriving what joy I can from it. Maybe I’m delusional. Who cares?

We have a few packages of needles and sutures still available and I’m grateful. I don’t know how I would be able to thread a needle in my current tremoring state. I’m not even sure how I’m going to get my hands to stop trembling to sew myself up. Pulling open the package, I look at the hooked needle, taking it and unrolling the thread behind it. It looks like a tiny metal claw. I’m going to stick this in my stomach and I’m going to sew up a wound that is never going to fully heal and will eventually kill me. It seems pointless. I wonder if there’s any way of getting some privacy so that I can sew up myself without them watching me, that way I could just wrap my wound and leave it like this. There’s something completely vain about all of this, we’re all just sort of accepting this lie and just making things feel like they’re all fine. I look at the needle in my quivering hands and I feel like I’m going to regret this. I don’t have enough time to fill my life with any more regrets.

Sticking the needle in my stomach is about as pleasant as I thought it would be. I feel the pain of the poke, and the unbearable sensation of having thread slipping through the hole I’ve just made. Piercing into the other side of the wound, I slip the needle through and bind the wound together. I pull the thread tightly. I’ve had more than my fair share of experience with suturing wounds, just never on myself. Why would I ever do this, especially without any kind of painkiller? I keep working, sewing what would be considered crude work, even in school, drawing the wound together until it’s completely bound. I look at the thread and the needle before grabbing the knife on my hip and severing the thread.

I give them an awkward smile, a sign that I’m done so that they can stop staring at me like I’m made out of glass and ready to shatter in an instant. They don’t know that at any second I might drop dead from one of a myriad of possible internal injuries. I probably have stopped my external bleeding, but honestly, in the end, that’s not going to matter. I’m no doubt still bleeding internally and without help, I’m not going to be able to stop the bleeding inside of me. But maybe it will stop. Maybe I’m experiencing a miracle right now as my body stitches and heals itself. I’m not a fool though and I know that I’m going to die from sepsis. I could go all Roman, and heat a piece of iron and plunge it deep into the wound and hope it will cauterize any damage, but the shock alone could kill me. Instead, I’m going to get an infection and I’m not going to last much longer. My death is in sight and with sepsis on the horizon, I know that my time is extremely limited. I have days, perhaps weeks if I languish slowly and only drink water. After that, I’ll be unable to do anything. I’ll be exhausted, worthless to them.

“Your turn, big boy,” I smile at Greg, turning towards him and looking weakly at the table where he’s going to need to lie down. If I can get him cleaned out, then I’m certain that he’s going to be the one who survives longer. The cold reality of that sinks in and I find it amusing that this morning, I figured that he’d be the one dead and I’d be the one alive right now.

“Are you okay to work?” Greg looks at me nervously. I’m not sure if he’s worried for me or if he’s worried that I’m going to hurt him. Either way, the question infuriates me since I have no time for stupid questions. Clearly he doesn’t know that every second right now is precious, but I can’t tell him either.

“I’m fine,” I tell him sternly, trying to tell myself that as well. I’m not sure either of us buys it, but it’s out there. Wrapping my stomach in the Ace bandage, I watch as he cautiously approaches the table. I shrug my shirt back on, trying to fight the chill that’s bleeding in through the closed doors of the cellar which are now jammed closed by an axe handle. But the cold doesn’t care. It comes through with the dampness of the rain, bleeding through the slits between the planks of the doors, chilling me to the bone. Buttoning up my shirt, I roll up my sleeves as Greg climbs onto the heavy, wooden table, looking at me nervously while I inspect his leg. I don’t like the look of it, but surprisingly it is improved from what I saw earlier. With a lot of luck, I don’t think he’s going to have to lose his leg.

I pull off my belt and hand it to him, feeling a sinking sensation deep in the pit of my stomach, knowing that this morning was just a precursor to this moment. I look at him as he takes the belt and looks at it. He knows what it’s probably meant for, but he needs to hear it from me. I understand that. I’m asking a lot from him in order to save his leg and save his life. I give him a comforting, compassionate look and wish that he didn’t have to endure this, but here we are. “I’m going to need you to bite down on it,” I tell him somberly. He takes the belt and puts it between his teeth after a brief moment of hesitation. I feel for him, but what has to be done, has to be done.

Watching him biting down hard on the leather, I give Greg’s leg one last look as I wrap my fingers around his cold, clammy flesh at the knee. I squeeze his leg tightly and slowly pull down on his leg, sliding my hands toward his foot as I go, squeezing him tightly as I go. I look at the wound as more puss, lurking deep within his leg, gushes out of the wound, followed by a flood of dark, blackened blood. Greg immediately covers his nose, even though I’m the first to feel the impact of the stench. I take it in silently, without complaint or bother. Crinkling my nose isn’t going to save me from this and making disgusted faces won’t help either. It has to be done and done right now. It’s for his benefit, and Lexi’s too. She’ll need the help once I’m gone.

I watch his upper leg drain until I’m at his wound, which is now an off purple and puffy red ring around a disgusting looking black mark that’s weeping puss and blood. I’ve opened the wound and it’s draining completely. Thanks to the belt wrapped around his knee, he won’t risk bleeding out from this little endeavor. I let go of his leg and look at Greg, who is snorting breaths through his nostrils while pinching his eyes shut. It’s a hard thing to accept, that your leg is rotting and dying. But hopefully, we’ll keep him alive and help him keep his leg.

Gripping his ankle, I can feel the swelling in his calf. Without hesitating, I squeeze the flesh again and watch as Greg writhes in agony, but I ignore him, reminding myself that this has to be done. Applying more pressure, I watch as more puss oozes out of the wound, followed by the dark, sickly blood that gushes out onto the table. There’s so much. The infection has completely set in. Not only does he have inflammation and infection, but I’m certain that his calf muscle is rotting. He’s not in a good spot right now and I feel scared for him. I want him to keep his leg, but that might be asking too much at this point.

His eyes are squeezed shut and when they do open, his eyes have rolled back into his sockets. The pain is too much for him. I look at him and wish that there was something I could give him to stop the pain or at least take the edge off. I can’t stop. I can’t comfort him while there’s still work to be done. Reaching over for the bottle of rubbing alcohol, I’m glad to feel that it’s mostly full. We’re going to need every drop. I twist open the top and place the cap safely within reach. I don’t want it getting knocked off and the bottle evaporating.

Tilting the bottle, I watch as the contents pour into his darkened, inflamed wound and he lets out a scream through his gritted teeth that would put a banshee to shame. His scream worries me, because if there’s anyone upstairs, they’re going to think that we’re torturing him or ripping him apart. I listen to him scream but I gently work the sides of the infection, massaging the burning disinfectant into the wound, hoping that it’ll kill the bacteria that’s causing the infection. I watch as it drips, slithers, and winds its way into all the pores and cavities of his gaping wound. Sweat beads on his forehead and arms, as he growls with his head thrown back, the whites of his eyes exposed and glaring towards the rafters above. Raising his leg, I allow the alcohol to run up into the areas I can’t see as his screaming stops. He’s gone into shock, probably, but I still can’t stop. Not yet.