The Blood That Binds by Madeline Sheehan

 

Logan

This would not be how it ended for me—trapped in a gorge with a bunch of motherfucking Creepers. It was too goddamn easy a death—like shooting fish in a barrel. I hadn’t fought this hard for this long only to end up as a chew toy.

So I ran.

I ran until the trampled ground beneath my heavy footfalls turned green, lush with tall grass and colorfully dotted with wildflowers. I ran until the spring ran clear—the water on this side of the ravine not tainted with human remains. I ran until my muscles were taut and burning, feeling as if they were tearing in two and the strain on my back became so great that I thought it might be breaking.

I jumped at the first climbable stretch of rock I came across, where the ravine wall had given way. Gripping a thick portion of overhang, I hoisted us up onto the ledge. It was only about four feet off the ground and just wide enough to stand on. Feeling the strain of Willow’s unsecure weight on my back, I pressed tightly to the wall, trying to catch my breath. Each intake of air felt as if I were sucking down fire.

As I was struggling to climb onto another rocky outcropping, the first few Creepers tumbled into view. Digging my fingertips behind the jagged edges of a car-sized boulder, I dragged myself slowly up and over, a groan ripping free from my swollen throat. Dragging myself to standing, I looked below, finding three Creepers snarling underfoot—Runners by the looks of them. Beyond them, the front end of the horde had surged into view. They’d reach us in no time, trampling one another, climbing over each other until one of them reached us.

Grimacing, I shifted Willow into a slightly more comfortable position on my back and resumed climbing. I managed the next ten feet without incident, helped along by a ten-foot stretch of cracked bedrock that had broken in such a way that offered the ease of steps. Eventually my good luck ran out along with the steps. Gauging the considerable distance between us and the top of the wall, it was mostly a straight shot of smooth rock, with only the tiniest of footholds scattered throughout.

Here goes nothing, I thought, and started climbing. Willow’s weight on my back was brutal in this position—each time she shifted even the slightest, I would nearly lose my balance, forcing me to use up precious seconds steadying myself.

Arms quaking with fatigue, eyes blurry and burning, sweat drenching every inch of me, I reached for the next rocky grip and missed it. I was teetering on my barely there foothold, fighting to keep my balance, when Willow’s head flopped suddenly to one side, shifting her weight in the other direction.

We fell instantly, scuttling down the wall, crashing hard onto a boulder below. Groaning in pain, I dragged myself upright and peered over the edge, wishing I hadn’t. The dirt and debris I’d kicked up during our free fall had sent the horde into an all-out frenzy; I had only minutes before they reached us.

Gritting my teeth against the strain burning fiery pathways across my back, I resumed climbing. My grunts turned to groans, my groans soon becoming breathless heaves as I fought to remain upright despite the weight on my back, and to keep climbing despite the pain.

Eventually my fingertips skimmed the edge. Only a handful of feet away, it taunted me. There was nothing left to grip but the edge itself and I wasn’t Superman—I couldn’t do a pull-up with a whole other person tied to my back, let alone an unconscious person. Especially not after the grueling workout I’d already endured.

I stood there, balanced precariously on two separate rocks, wondering if this was how it would end—picked off only a few dozen inches from safety. Hell, maybe I deserved such a stupid death; I’d basically offered myself up on a silver fucking platter by coming down here in the first place.

I flinched, shuddering, as the first Creeper to reach the death summit wrapped its hand around my ankle. A surge of adrenaline shot through me, and I gripped the edge of the cliff, digging my fingertips into rock and dirt. Shoving off the footholds, a groan built low in my chest as I struggled to pull our combined weight up the wall; the groan echoing louder as I continued to lift us until it exploded past my gritted teeth in a roar.

Dragging us those final inches to safety, I collapsed onto my side, my chest heaving from exertion, content to never move again. Even as the first set of spindly hands appeared over the edge, I merely blinked at them.

Get up! I ordered myself. Get the fuck up! You didn’t just scale that cliff to die at the top of it!

I fought to stand; my body shrieking and screaming in protest. Looping my arms beneath Willow’s legs, I took off running once again, much slower this time. Staying close to the edge of the ravine, I let it lead me back the way we’d come, only breaking away once I found the gap in the forest that would lead me back to the farmhouse.

Running on empty, forced to push past pain in ways I’d never had to before, I lost myself out there. It wasn’t just the physical demands, it was the emotional ones as well; the combination of both requiring me to exist outside my body, outside my pain.

Knowing I didn’t have enough strength to get Willow through our window, I entered the farmhouse through the front door, jogging sluggishly through the halls. Our room remained as we’d left it, messy and with Lucas’s things still lying around—our things now. The only things we had left.

Collapsing on the floor, my hands were shaking as I fought to loosen the knots at my neck and waist. Bloodied and burning, my fingers couldn’t manage it, forcing me to slice the rope with one of my blades. Willow’s body thumped to the floor behind me and for several minutes, I just lay there.

Eventually I forced myself to move, staggering as I tried to stand. My head pounding, my vision doubling, I stumbled in a drunken circle, finding Willow still in the tangled heap she’d fallen in. Dropping back down, I checked her pulse—finding it steady, I rolled her onto Lucas’s bedroll. Glancing around, I found Lucas’s canteen nearby; taking a deep drink, I tried encouraging Willow to do the same, only managing to get a few sips in her while she coughed and sputtered the rest onto the floor. Recalling the expired aspirin in the first aid kit I’d left for Willow, I started rummaging through the messy room, carelessly tossing things aside until I’d found it. After taking a handful of pills for myself, I crushed another handful, sprinkling the broken bits onto Willow’s tongue, and then forcing her to drink until she’d swallowed them all. She continued to cough and gag, fighting me despite her semiconscious state.

Once she’d quieted, I began removing her clothing as carefully as I could manage, so as not to disturb her injured leg. Pausing to look at her wound; the skin was swollen and fiery red around the puncture mark, spreading outward. It was already much worse than it had been only an hour before.

Cursing, I set to work washing away the sweat and grime caked on her skin, cleaned her wound, first with water and then dabbing with the remaining disinfectant. Then I cleaned the rest of her, hoping it might help to cool her fever as well. She slept through most of it—periodically moaning in pain and sometimes shivering. After cleaning her, I wrapped one of Lucas’s shirts around her injured leg, knotting it loosely in place, then dressed her in a T-shirt and sweatpants. They were both too large for her tiny frame—her hip bones were jutting out, her ribs were clearly visible; Willow looked quite a bit thinner than she’d appeared only days ago. My stomach flipped anxiously; I’d been so consumed with searching for Lucas, I hadn’t realized that she hadn’t been eating; nor had I noticed how sick she was. Another giant lapse in judgment that could be laid at my feet.

Trembling head to toe from exertion, I collapsed on the floor beside Willow. Bone tired, my vision swimming, I blinked once, twice, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

I awoke with a jolt and I flipped over, relieved to find Willow as I’d left her. She hadn’t moved much since I’d cleaned her; her skin was still pale and sickly looking, though her chest continued to rise steadily with each breath. Pressing the back of my hand to her cheek, finding her skin still hot to the touch, I frowned.

Sitting up, groaning as my sore muscles protested, I scrubbed the sleep from my eyes. It was late morning, I assumed, based on the location of the sun. Incredibly, I’d slept straight through the night without waking. Even more incredible was the door I’d forgotten to close and the window I’d never shut.

Idiot, I thought, reaching for the aspirin. I shook a few pills into my mouth, swallowing them dry. Shaking out a few more, I nudged Willow.

“Luke?” she whispered hoarsely, her eyelids fluttering.

Ignoring the pang of pain my brother’s name evoked, I helped her sit up, propping her against the wall. Placing the pills on her tongue, I held my canteen to her lips and she drank eagerly.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

Slumped against the wall, she stared groggily across the room, her lips glistening with spilled water. “Bad,” she eventually replied in a rough, hushed tone. “Really… bad.”

“Yeah…” Sitting back on my heels, I scratched at my beard. “About that… I’m pretty sure your leg is infected—you probably need antibiotics.”

“Great,” she murmured.

“There’s a town nearby,” I said. “There might be something there.”

Her bloodshot gaze met mine, surprisingly discerning, considering how sick she was. “Funny,” she whispered hoarsely.

I dropped my gaze. Her sarcasm was warranted; there was almost zero chance of finding anything resembling medicine. Right after guns and ammunition, medicine had been next on the list of highly coveted items to rapidly disappear from what remained of the world. We still came across the occasional bottle of expired vitamins or over-the-counter pain pills, however, medical-grade pharmaceuticals were long gone.

When I looked up again, Willow’s head had rolled back against the wall, her eyes closed once more. With a frustrated sigh, I rose to my feet and scrubbed my hands over my face. If Lucas were here, he would be beside himself, begging me to do whatever it took to help Willow. And he would hate me for how I’d treated her yesterday—for the horrible things I’d said to her.

I found myself pacing the room, eventually making my way into the hallway. I looked around blankly, my heart stuttering in my chest. I had to do something, but what? Searching for antibiotics would be a fool’s errand, but I at least had to try. How though, I wondered, knowing I couldn’t carry her again; currently my sore muscles could barely carry my own weight. Neither could I leave her here—immobile and unable to defend herself.

I found myself in the middle of the kitchen. Hands on my neck, I stared up at the ceiling, wondering how I was going to get from here to the town; wondering how I was going to fix this mess.

Dropping my hands, I barked out a hollow laugh.

I’d never actually fixed anything, not one single thing—our current circumstances were proof enough of that. I’d simply been slapping band-aids over gaping wounds and ignoring the seepage. I was everything my father had said I was going to be—I was just like him: full of holes and utterly helpless to fill them.

Gunshots echoed in my memories—one, two, three. I recalled the look of madness on my father’s face shifting to one of surprise. I recalled his hand gripping his chest, as if he could somehow stop his blood from leaving his body.

I recalled having to use a sled to haul his body from the room, and the thump-thump as the sled descended the stairs. I remembered Willow was crumpled on the floor, her young face frozen in horror, and Lucas, with tears streaming down his cheeks, had run from the scene as fast as he could.

Not me though; I hadn’t been afraid or in pain.

I’d been angry.

And I’d been angry ever since.

It was the culmination of a life lived under an iron fist, and the by-product of having your world ripped from beneath your feet. And it was the consequences of an eighteen-year-old who’d been forced to take responsibility, not just for himself, for the lives of two other teenagers.

My hand shot out, gripping the countertop.

We’d never had a chance. All these years, traveling across a dozen different states, working us to the bone, I’d only been prolonging the inevitable. This was always how it would end, because none of us had ever truly left that house—Lucas was still gone, Willow was still crumpled on the floor, and I was still angry.

Angry and still dragging my dead father along behind me.

My head jerked, the smothering deluge of emotions instantly clearing. Taking off across the kitchen, I flung the garage door open and ran inside. My boots ground to a halt in front of two flat-bottom kayaks.

I had a sled. Now all I needed was some rope.