I thought about that. People, infected people, would run and try to hide, but it wasn’t possible. The only way out of this was surviving or a cure.
“What brought you back to civilization?”
“I had some stuff to check on.” He shrugs. “People. And the mountains were getting a little crowded. I can go back if I need to.”
“Where did you live before you left?” I ask breaking my boundary rules right off. Truth: I’m nosy as hell.
“Durham.”
“You’re a student?”
“Am. Was. Whatever.”
We shift to different parts of the store. Wyatt keeps a vigilant eye on the door and windows.
“I was going to Duke—this fall. Pre-med.”
“Ah, a smarty-pants, eh?”
I shrug.
“School sucks. You’re not missing anything. Life experience is way better. I mean, after all this who needs an education?”
Neither of us reacts to his lame attempt at a joke.
Wyatt takes his turn in the women’s room and I hear the water running through the hollow door. I wait near the counter with my hatchet ready, thinking we’ve spent long enough here. We should probably move on. He comes out, face damp but clean. He inhaled and said, “I’m thinking once we get to the reservoir we may want to split up.”
“Split up?”
“The gas is going to run out in a few hours and I’m not sure I want to try to scrounge up some more. I’m an experienced hiker. I can do ten miles easily in one day. I don’t want to get held up.”
I narrow my eyes. What brought this on?
“No offense. You seem like an okay girl but I’ve done pretty well the whole time on my own. I don’t want to jinx that.”
He gives me a once over—eyes lingering on my thin arms and the hatchet. He thinks I’m weak—a liability.
“You’d rather be on your own?”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. His eyes are blank. Emotionless. Didn’t I think the same thing earlier? How I shouldn’t get attached to anyone. He’s right, I know this, but it’s also nice to have someone watch your back while you wash your face and cry in the bathroom.
Shit. He heard me cry.
We stare at one another and I’m trying to decide if I’m pissed or relieved. Neither matter as a noise sounds from behind Wyatt, a familiar low moan, followed by a howl of rage.
Wyatt’s composed stance comes alive, turning just in time to see an Eater crashing from behind the “Out of Order” sign, smashing the door to splinters.
Besides his drooling mouth, I see the black-spidery veins in his eye.
Wyatt pumps his gun, loading the cartridge.
“Duck!” I scream, tossing the hatchet, full force. It spins past Wyatt’s ear, forcing him to drop fast to his knees. The Eater face splits in two, blood oozing from the wound. He starts to fall forward, arms stretched toward Wyatt. Before the Eater lands, Wyatt kicks him hard, pushing him back into the bathroom. He’s dead—for real this time, blood oozing from the wound.
“Holy shit, Alex.” His voice trembles, out of fear or awe I’m not sure.
I walk over and retrieve the hatchet, pulling it out of the Eater’s decimated face with a loud, nauseating suctioning sound.
Gross.