I back up. She comes on. My heel knocks against a stack of paper and I drop to the floor with a bone-jarring thump. Her ragged claws scratch at my boot. I hold the gun with hands that are bloody at last.
Her back bows like a cat stretching on a windowsill. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out, a lot of blood, but no sound. She makes one last lunge. Her forehead knocks against the muzzle just as I squeeze the trigger.
20
I SCOOP UP my rifle—screw the pistol—and bolt from the room. Hall, stairs, bank lobby, street. Finally back at the coffee shop, I crawl behind the counter. You better be alive, you big-eared son of a bitch.
He is. Fluttery pulse, shallow breath, ashy skin, but he’s alive.
So now what?
Go back to the safe house? The safest option, the option of minimal risk. The one Ringer would recommend, and she’s the expert on risk. Don’t know what I’ll find at the caverns, even if we manage to reach them: There’s another Silencer out there. The odds are that Ringer and Cup are already dead, which means that I’m not only marching to my own execution, but bringing Dumbo to his.
Unless I leave him here and pick him up on my way back, assuming I make it back. Better for him, better for me. He’s a burden now, a liability.
So I’ll leave him behind after all. Hey, Dumbo, I know you
took a bullet for me and everything, but you’re on your own, pal. I’m outta here. Isn’t that how Ben Parish rolls?
Damn it, Zombie, decide already. Dumbo knew the risk and he came anyway. Taking that bullet for you was his call. Going back means he took the bullet for nothing. If he’s gonna die, at least give his death meaning.
I check the dressing for fresh bleeding. I gently lift his head and slide his rucksack beneath it for a pillow. I take the last syrette of morphine from the med kit and jab it into his forearm.
I lean down and whisper, “See, Bo, I came back.” Smoothing his hair with my hand. “I got her. The infested bitch who shot you. Popped her right between the eyes.” His forehead is blazing hot beneath my hand. “I can’t stay here right now, Bo. But I’m coming back for you. I’m coming back or I’ll die trying. Probably die, so don’t get your hopes up.”
I look away from him. But there’s nothing else to look at. I’m all jacked up, about to lose it. I’m bouncing from one brutal death to another. Eventually, something very important inside is going to crack.
I pull his hand into mine. “Now, listen to me, you elephant-eared motherfucker. I’m gonna find Teacup and Ringer, and then we’re picking you up on our way back and we’re all going home together, and everything’s gonna be fine. Because I’m the sarge and that’s how I say it’s gonna be. You got that? Are you listening to me, soldier? You are not allowed to die. Understand? That’s a direct order. You are not allowed to die.”
His eyes jitter behind the lids; maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s sitting in his room, playing Call of Duty; I hope so.
Then I leave him lying in coffee grounds and wads of paper napkins and scattered coins.
Dumbo’s alone now and so am I, plunging into the black, dead heart of Urbana. Squad 53 is gone, broken apart, dead or missing or dying or running.
RIP, Squad 53.
21
CASSIE
I HAVE TO get this straight. Now. Like, right now.
This being my head.
Four A.M. Jazzed up on too much chocolate (thanks, Grace) and too much Evan Walker. Or not enough Evan Walker. That’s an inside joke, if you can make inside jokes in a private journal. I’ll get to the private parts later. Ha! Another joke. You know you’ve reached a very sad place when the only person who can make you laugh is yourself.
The house is quiet, not even a whisper of wind against the boarded-up window, the silence of the void, as if the world stopped breathing and I’m the last person on Earth. Again.
Damn, I wish there was someone I could talk to.
Ben and Dumbo are gone. All I have left are Sam, Megan, and Evan. Two are asleep in their room. The other (Other, ha! it’s really pitiful) is awake and on watch and is someone with whom the more I talk, the more crooked my head gets. For over a month now he’s been fading away. Here and then not here. Talking, then saying nothing. Mr. Spaceman staring off into space. Damn it, Evan, where have you gone? I think I know, but knowing why doesn’t help my feelings of Evanlessness.
And somehow neither does the smell of his aftershave lingering in the room. After Ben left, Evan shaved. He washed his hair and scrubbed a week’s worth of grime from his body. He even trimmed his nails and addressed his neglected cuticles. When he came into this room, he looked like the old Evan, the first Evan, the Evan I believed to be a fully human Evan.
I miss that Evan, the one who pulled me frozen from the ice pack and thawed me out and made me hamburgers and pretended to be something he wasn’t and hid the thing he was.
The calm, quiet, steady, reliable, strong Evan. Not this Other-Evan, the tortured, haunted, conflicted Evan who clips off his sentences as if he’s afraid he’ll say too much, the Evan who’s already gone, already up there, two hundred miles up with no way back down. Not their Evan. My Evan. The imperfectly perfect guy.