Chapter 17 Daylan
seventeen
Daylan
Sunlight streams through the trees, and I tilt my face upwards, letting it spill over my skin. My heart sings with joy as I inhale the fresh, crisp air deep into my lungs. Lazarus chuckles softly, holding tight to the rope that still holds me captive while I pretend I am a bird without a cage.
“There’s a spot over here,” he says, tugging on my rope.
“Okay,” I agree, taking another deep breath of the surrounding air.
I have been given pants today, and there are socks upon my feet, so I can sit out here in the company of the trees while he works around the outside of the cabin.
I follow him to a flattened stump that rests at the front of the cabin and sit down on it.
Lazarus ties the end of my rope around a tree trunk that juts tall out of the ground beside the stump, then takes a step back, frowning at the way my arms dangle in the air.
“It’s too short.”
“It’s fine.” I can deal with my arms hanging in the air if it means I get to sit here for a few moments and breathe fresh air. I’ve been tied to the bed for too many days and I’m starting to get achy and sore.
Lazarus keeps frowning, his golden brown eyes scanning around the trees carefully before turning to me. “This is fucked. If a zombie comes, you’re gonna get eaten.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, unable to wipe the smile off my lips. “Just a few minutes. Please.”
“Whatever. I guess if you get chomped on, that’s your problem. At least you’re immune, so you won’t turn into one of them.”
That is odd. I’ve never heard of someone being bitten and turning into a damned soul before. In Bright Haven, we are told that God’s rains are the catalyst, and that is all I know. “Explain. No question.”
“It’s a virus,” Lazarus says with a grimace. “A toxin released into the air by a bunch of people before we were even born. It’s not God, Lambchop. Never has been. Just people being shitty and ruining the world for the rest of us.”
I hesitate for a moment before taking a chance and asking a question. “If it is not God sending rains to cleanse our sins, then how is it that some receive mercy?”
“It’s not mercy. Look, there’s three outcomes from being touched by rain or being bitten by someone infected.
People can become carriers of the virus, but it doesn’t take away their humanity .
Mostly, anyway. The rains make all sorts of things rise to the surface, but they can remain human and do human things.
Those are the ones who you believe get mercy from the Lord.
The damned are totally infected with the virus that lives in the red rain.
They aren’t human anymore; the virus makes them into mindless, flesh-craving zombies.
Then there’s you. You are rare in your immunity to everything.
You’ll never be a carrier or infected. It’s like the virus cannot stick to whatever you are made of. ”
“And you?” I ask.
“Carrier,” Lazarus says. “My blood is darker than yours. It carries the taint of infection, but I remain human. I’ve heard stories of other carriers turning into zombies over time, but I don’t know how that works or if it’s true.”
“You have mercy.”
“I carry an infection, Lambchop. There’s no mercy in that.
” He smiles, but it looks sad, and while I have many more questions, I know I’m pushing the edges of his patience.
Instead, I nod, and he stands tall, peering through the trees and scanning the area once more.
“You’ll be okay here for a few minutes. I’m going to be right over there cutting wood. ”
He points to an area a few steps away where a pile of felled timber sits.
I nod again, and he scans the distance once more before heading over to get to work.
Now that I am no longer tied up beneath the hole in the roof, Lazarus has decided to build a fire pit on the floor there so that he can boil water in the winter without having to sit outside in the cold.
It’s a smart idea, but also leaves me with a hollow pit in my stomach as I consider I may still be here when the snow falls.
Though Lazarus has shown me glimpses of kindness and shared pieces of his story with me in the last few weeks, I am nowhere near being released to go back to my home.
He still levels threats against my life when I push at him too hard with questions or when he considers the future, but I don’t think he will actually kill me.
Not anymore. I think instead I will live with him here until the day God calls me home, bound to the walls of the cabin for the rest of my life.
Now that Lazarus has had me in all ways, I don’t think I will ever be without him.
I have given up hope of Bright Haven finding me.
Though Lazarus says we are well hidden, I know we aren’t too far away from the compound.
I’m certain they’d have stumbled upon me by now, and a silent piece of me whispers they aren’t searching for me.
That they have left me to fend for myself against the wickedness of the devil and that Father guides them to do so.
Lazarus still heads there occasionally to steal supplies and wreak havoc on the poor people living there, so perhaps that is why they haven’t come looking for me.
Maybe they are too fearful of the Devil and all else that lives in the woods to venture out of the safety of the compound.
The rhythmic chopping of logs draws my attention, and I turn to watch Lazarus swinging his axe.
His face is stoic, yet as sunlight casts upon it, I can see his lips curl into a small smile.
He tilts his cheeks to the warmth and basks in it like a cat before turning away to grab another log from the pile at his feet.
Lazarus is still confusing to me, and I don’t know if I will ever truly figure him out, even if I spend the rest of my life with him.
I sit beneath the trees on my stump, eyes closed and sun shining down on my cheeks for what feels like only a few moments before the sound of Lazarus chopping wood stops.
Opening my eyes, I turn to him, and he meets my eyes, his expression grave.
He lays a finger along his lips and I nod, heart kicking in my chest harder.
Lazarus turns to the forest in front of him, and I turn my attention there as well, wondering what he’s heard or seen that has him signaling me to stay quiet.
He grips his axe tight in his hands, watching the forest for a few more moments before turning and taking a step towards me.
I rise from the stump as best as I can, but there is not much rope and I cannot get to my feet.
A shriek echoes through the silence, and I watch in horror as a damned soul rushes from the woods, arms outstretched towards Lazarus.
I can see bits of flesh dangling off its arms, exposed bone and sinew along its legs.
It wears a grey dress, like it was at a party when it became as it is now, and I am horrified as it screeches again, shivers rushing down my spine.
Lazarus pivots on his feet, swinging his axe upwards and connecting with the creature’s midsection.
That blow staggers it, but it does not stop it from continuing to move towards Lazarus, and another has emerged from between the trees.
Lazarus yanks the axe from the first one, then swings again, catching its neck as the second grabs for him.
This one is larger, dressed in the remains of a plaid jacket and a pair of jeans.
Its head is a thing of nightmares, nearly cleaved in two already with a huge gash running down its forehead.
Lazarus swings for its head, but misses and catches its shoulder instead.
And then, the third one comes from within the trees.
It is smaller than the first two, shaped much as if it were a young man at one point.
It staggers on its feet, filth and blood clinging to its blue t-shirt, but it does not go for Lazarus.
The third one turns and heads right for me, arms outstretched, claws grasping at the air.
It snarls and snaps its teeth as it comes to me, and I kick my leg out as best as I can, trying to strike its leg.
My blow doesn’t land, so I try again because my feet are all I have, and even those I cannot move well in this position.
“Lazarus!” I shout as I fail again to connect with the zombie’s limbs. I am flailing, useless as I pull on the rope tying my hands, kicking at the damned one’s legs and not landing blows strong enough to delay its path towards me.
It reaches for me, gripping my shirt, and I raise my shoulder to protect my face from its gnarled bony fingers.
I scream as it grabs me, its teeth entering my upper arm and sinking into my flesh as if I am made of butter.
I kick my foot at it again, connecting with its knee and forcing it to stumble where it stands.
Its teeth rip out of my skin as it falters, the sharp sting echoing through me.
I kick at it again as hard as I can, but it’s coming for me again, my precious pure blood dribbling from between its lips.
And then, it stops moving forward. I watch, terrified and shaking, as it falls to the ground.
Lazarus’ axe rests in its back and as the zombie falls, he yanks it free and then strikes another blow to its torso, splitting its stomach open.
He raises the axe again, slamming it down into the damned one’s chest, then goes for another blow.
And another.
And another.
His fury is endless as he hacks away at the damned one, and I am shaking as I watch him mutilate the body on the ground, but I cannot bear to watch any more of it.
“Lazarus!” I cry out. “Stop! It is done. It is over.”
He glances at me, body caked in filth, eyes darkened with anger.
When he turns to the body on the ground, I think he means to keep chopping away at it, but he delivers a single blow to its head.
He reels back, resting the head of the bloodied axe on the ground and turning to me.
Blood seeps out of the bite wound on my shoulder, and his face pales.
“Daylan,” he murmurs, moving towards me, using my real name for the first time. Lazarus gently pulls back the remnants of cloth around the wound on my arm, and I wince at the sting and ache of it. “I am so sorry. This was a bad idea.”
“The sun was nice,” I comment, glancing down at the teeth marks that travel deep into my skin. “At least I won’t turn into one of them.”
Lazarus makes a noise of dismay under his breath, then chops the rope that ties me to the tree trunk with his axe.
Before I can even respond, I am scooped into his arms and held against his chest. He carries me into the cabin as if I am a wounded animal, cradled in his warmth, then places me gently onto the mattress.
“I am sorry, Daylan,” he says again, pulling at the ropes that tie my hands together.
“Lambchop,” I whisper, with a small smile. I don’t like the way my name sounds coming out of his mouth. I have grown fond of the nickname he gave me, even if he intends it to be mean.
He offers me a smile in return, but it looks strained and full of worry.
He finishes untying my wrists, and I let my hands flop to my sides, shoulders aching from being held in the same position for weeks.
My skin stings with the remnants of the teeth that sunk into me, and I gently lift the tattered sleeve away from it, turning my arm to look again at the mark left behind.
Lazarus leaves me, then returns with a strip of cloth soaked in water.
Gently, he presses it against the wound, and I sigh as the cool water wicks away the worst of the sting.
He is careful in how he touches me, far more careful than someone who is known as the devil should be, concern written into every inch of his face as he looks down at me.
In this moment, he is Lazarus, but not Lazarus as he was made to be. He is Lazarus, as he could have been, and my heart aches for whatever Bright Haven brought upon him that caused him to fall into the devil’s ways.