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KATE
“I think you fell on glass,” I pronounce a short time later. I hold up the muddy, bloody lump of his fatigue shirt, displaying the large jagged hole in the back for him to see. “Maybe a broken bottle.”
Ben straddles a wooden chair. He twists around as I hold up the shirt, grimacing as he takes in the gash in the fabric.
“Does my back look as bad as the shirt?”
There’s no way to sugar coat it. “Yeah.” I drop the shirt onto the floor in a wad before reaching for my running pack. I always carry a small first aid kit with essentials. I make everyone carry it when we venture outside the safety of campus.
“Infection is our biggest worry.” I dump out the contents of my small Ziploc with sterile wipes, bandages, and sewing kit. “There’s no telling what was in that water.”
“Better than a zom bite.” Ben peers down at the assortment of supplies on the table. “Is that a sewing kit from the Marriott?”
“Yeah. We found a lot of hotel sewing kits when we cleared and inventoried Creekside.”
Ben grunts and turns away. “Just get it done.”
The sterile wipes come first. I clean the wound, taking in the hard muscles of his back. For an older guy, he’s fit. Not I-bench-press-three-hundred-pounds fit, but fit from a lifetime of using his body.
Movement flashes in the corner of my eye. I look out the window and spot the zombie herd that followed us here from the freeway. The squat alpha in the visor stands in the middle of the road, nose lifted to the air. The car alarms have stopped, once again drenching the world in silence.
“The pack followed us here,” I whisper. There’s no way I can sew up Ben while looking over my shoulder at the zombies. I point to the far side of the dining room to a wooden staircase set against the back wall. “Over there. Come on.”
I gather up my pack and the first aid supplies. Ben and I tiptoe up the stairs. He drips blood the whole way. I step around it as I follow him.
Upstairs, we are greeted by four closed doors.
“Dammit,” I mutter. “I hate closed doors.”
His face crinkles in amusement. “That makes two of us.”
We stand still, listening. All is silent. That doesn’t mean these doors don’t have an undead surprise behind them.
The idea of checking each door and possibly battling multiple zombies while my companion bleeds out leaves me feeling tired. The puddle on the floor beneath his feet has grown six inches wide in the short time we’ve stood here. We need to take care of it, fast.
I cross to the first door and tap. No sound. I try a second time. Again, silence.
“Here goes nothing,” I murmur, drawing my zom bat.
Ben takes the doorknob. He yanks it open and I leap inside.
A cluttered office greets us. A cluttered, blissfully empty office. Other than a bit of smeared blood across the far wall, it’s practically pristine.
“Thank God,” Ben mutters, grabbing the ladder back desk chair and slumping down. “I wasn’t in the mood to deal with more of those fuckers.”
“Me, either.” I cross to the window that overlooks the cluster on the street below. “They’re still out there.”
“They’ll clear out soon,” Ben replies.
I raise my gaze, looking to the expanse of 101 in the distance. Other than swarms of movement, I can’t make out details. There’s no way to know if Carter and the others made it to safety. Even if I used Ben’s binoculars, there would be nothing to see.
“No sign of them, is there?” Ben asks.
I shake my head. “They made it. They must have. They’re strong.”
To my surprise, Ben says, “They are.”
“You really think so?” I swallow against the anxiety forcing its way up my throat, turning my attention back to Ben.
“Most of the time I want to staple their mouths shut. But they’re good kids. They function well as a unit.”
I spread out the first aid supplies on the messy desk, shoving aside a computer and a large stack of papers to make room.
“You know, even when you say something nice, you always manage to say something rude at the same time.” I pick up a restaurant towel from the desk and press against his back to staunch the bleeding.
“Ash did warn you that I was a grumpy fucker.”
“Yeah, she did. Hold still, I have to improvise for a second.” I press my knee against the towel, holding it in place against his back while I fumble with the Marriott first aid kit.
“This is the first time I’ve ever stitched anyone up,” I warn as I thread the needle. “It probably won’t be pretty.”
“Good thing I’m not pretty.”
For some reason, this statement makes me again take in the broad muscles of his back. My eyes trace the lines of tension that travel down his shoulders to arms covered in the sleeve tattoos. Some are faded and bleed along the edges, clearly older pieces of art. Others are new and vibrant.
Everything about him looks good. If I look like G.I. Jane—a statement that still stings, if I let it—he looks like G.I. Joe. Albeit a weathered, seasoned G.I. Joe.
The only thing that doesn’t look good is the chafing around his waist. The pants have slipped down an inch, revealing a ring of red scabs marring his skin. Some are bright red, fresh and still raw. Others are covered with darker scabs, attempting to heal despite his insistence on wearing the fatigue pants.
I check a sigh, refraining from pointing out the chafe marks. There’s no point in beating that dead horse.
I pull the towel away from the wound in his back. Though some of the bleeding has slowed, blood bubbles instantly to the surface as soon as I take the pressure away. This is going to be messy.
I use another wipe to sterilize my hands before getting to work. His chest heaves with an inhalation when my needle makes the first stab.
“I don’t suppose you took Home Ec in school?” he asks.
“They didn’t have Home Ec when I went to school. It wasn’t cool for girls to learn how to sew and cook when I was a kid. Feminism and all that.”
“You must be younger than you look.”
His words are like a slap. “If you don’t want this patchwork on your back to look like a Jack-O-Lantern, you’d better stop talking.”
Tense silence follows this. I stab through his skin, not caring if the drag of the needle hurts.
I know there’s a mere two millimeters between Ben’s brain and his mouth. He doesn’t have a filter. Most of the time I ignore his comments. But this is the second time he’s made a negative remark about my looks. First about my haircut, now about my age.
Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because I don’t know if Carter and the rest of my kids are safe. Hell, maybe it’s because I’m trapped in a brewery surrounded by zombies and I’m scared. Whatever the case, his words upset me.
Why do I even care what he thinks? It’s not like he said anything I don’t already know. I look like a washed-up room mom.
I stab harder than necessary through his skin, rewarded with a grunt of discomfort.
Attempting to mop up the blood as I work makes the entire procedure even more awkward. In retrospect, I should have made him lie down on the desk. There’s a reason surgeons have tables. Not that I’m a surgeon.
Thirty minutes later, Ben indeed has something resembling a crooked Jack-O-Lantern smile on the lower right side of his back. Serves him right. Not that I could have done a much better job even if I wasn’t angry.
I tape a clean bandage over the whole thing, grab my pack, and leave the room. I head to the next door over and knock.
No answer from this one, either. I fling it open, letting out a long breath as my gaze sweeps across shelving full of supplies. One entire wall is lined with clean-pressed aprons, napkins, and dishtowels. The other side has a myriad of dining room supplies: salt and pepper refills, bottles and bottles of ketchup, mustard, and relish. Sugar packets for days.
I step into the room, turning in a slow circle. Not a bad haul. I’ll have to bring my people back here on a supply run.
Thinking of my kids draws me to the window. It’s dusk outside. If we were complete idiots, we could strike out and try to make our way back to campus. But with the flurry on 101 and the swarm we encountered in town, I know the safest thing to do is wait out the night. And Ben needs rest.
A soft step creaks a floorboard behind me. The exhaustion of the day hits me like a derailed train.
“Kate.”
“What?” I don’t turn around, staring out at Highway 101.
“That was a shitty thing I said back there.”
I let out a long sigh. “Look, I know you don’t mean half the shit you say. You’re not a bad guy even though you seem hell bent on making everyone else believe that.” I turn, closing the distance between us. “It’s been a long day. It’s too late for us to go back to Creekside now. I’m going to sleep.”
Without waiting for a reply, I close the supply closet door in his face.