6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Charon
I couldn't do anything.
The table creaks under my weight as I rest my head in my hands, heart still pounding from watching what’s mine nearly die again. Each bullet that came close to embedding in his skull ripped open old wounds, harsh memories, and once again, I was left helpless. Unable to intervene. Trapped.
I shouldn't even care about him. Losing those rations should be more important, not the life of some rotter I met yesterday, and yet those eyes…The thought of witnessing those eyes close forever makes me nauseous. I can’t go through that again. I won't survive it a second time.
The bathroom door groans on its hinges. I glance up to find him peeking out at me, curls damp from the small bucket of water I offered him to clean up with.
He uses the door jamb to hop out, dressed in a fresh pair of my clothes, the trousers rolled up over his mangled ankle.
They're far too big on his thin frame, but at least they aren't covered in dirt and blood. From now on, my clothes are his.
He steadies himself against the table, taking in the bowl of soup I made for him before meeting my gaze, and I'm struck senseless by the sight of his unsoiled skin. It looks so… soft, for how tight it stretches over his cheekbones. Frail. As delicate as bird wings.
“Is this all you have to eat?” he asks, collapsing into a seat across from me, and I nod toward the jars of preservatives in the cupboard. There's enough to last me at least another week, but… not with two mouths to feed.
He stares down at the soup for a long moment before glancing up at me suspiciously. “What's in this? It's not my foot, is it?”
My lips twitch, but I shake my head, pointing once again to the pickled vegetables.
“You eat it.” He shoves the bowl toward me and snarls when I try to push it back. “Eat it. We both know I can survive longer without food than you can.”
I blink, realizing he has a point. Rotters don't need to eat as much as the rest of us do, but he looks so pale and he lost a lot of blood.
So I tighten my jaw and scoot the bowl toward him firmly, giving him my no-nonsense look that I haven't used in years. I’d whisper, but my shout from earlier completely wrecked my throat.
It seems to be effective, anyway .
The man huffs, grabbing the wooden spoon before taking a bite of cabbage.
His eyes close momentarily, a slight noise in the back of his throat telling me that he likes the taste.
I wish I could tell him not to hold back, to let me hear every noise from those full lips.
When he opens them again, they drag over my torso as he takes another spoonful.
“Are those bites?” he asks, gesturing to the scars on my arms.
I nod once, and his brows jump beneath his curls.
“So you're immune to the infection, then?”
Another nod from me as I shift my shoulders uncomfortably, fighting the urge to hide my arms.
He continues to eat, his gaze scanning the galley before landing back on me. “Why did you need those rations so badly? What happens when you run out of food?”
All I can do is stare at him, because the answer should be obvious. What happens to all of us when we starve? We die.
“You can't just get more from Zone T? I thought you were the Judge’s lap dog or something? They call you Charon, the Ferryman.”
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I shake my head, gesturing around the boat.
The man growls in frustration. “I don't understand what you're trying to tell me!” he snaps, throwing his spoon into the half-empty bowl.
Desperation pinches my chest. I could tell him, but I can't. I just point at the grotesque scar across my throat before pointing toward the prison, pleading for him to hear me .
His gaze bounces between my neck and finger, still not understanding. “And you couldn't leave the boat to get those rations because…?”
I jerk my thumb toward Zone T again, to the watchtowers.
They’ll kill me if I step on land.
The man grabs his spoon again, frowning when he takes another slow bite. “So we’re trapped here. Both of us.”
My shoulders sag as I give him a tight nod.
“Whatever you did to piss off the Judge must have been really bad.”
It was so much more than that, but I have no way of communicating, nothing to write with, and I don't feel like reliving those horrors again. So I just watch him eat. Watch the way his lips plump up with each bite, his throat flexing with each swallow. Thin, bony fingers curled around the spoon. It’s fascinating to me how fragile he looks, and yet there’s so much strength in those eyes.
I want them trained on me, and only me, forever.
The silence stretches on, my boat creaking around us until he finishes, and he wipes his mouth on his sleeve before pushing away the bowl. Then he finally gives me what I want, meeting my gaze. “I'll do it. Once I'm healed enough, I'll… get your rations. Somehow.”
My brows slam down as I tilt my head in confusion, but he runs his fingers through his hair with a shrug. “You've saved my life twice now. I owe you.”
I shake my head adamantly because he almost died repaying me, but the man just holds up a hand.
He pushes to a stand with a grunt, swaying slightly before catching himself on the edge of the table.
I rise halfway from my chair, ready to catch him should he fall, but he glares at me until I sit back down.
“This is my choice,” he says firmly. “I don't like having debts. Once it's paid, I’m gone.”
I study him while he breathes through clenched teeth, clearly still in pain.
Gone . I should be glad for it, shouldn’t I? It's hard enough surviving on my own out here, let alone having someone else to look after, but he’s mine. He’s not going anywhere without me, and since I can’t leave, neither can he. My decision is final.
The man rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning the cramped galley like he’s looking for something. “…Where am I supposed to sleep?”
Blinking, I pause for a moment, caught off guard. It would be preferable if he slept in my bed, but the man is stubborn and I know he’d refuse at first. There’s time enough for that, anyway.
I motion with a dip of my chin, then push away from the table and lead him slowly through the narrow hallway.
Past the cot where I sleep, past the storage room, to a small bench tucked away in the far corner of the cabin.
It’s not much, just a thin blanket and a lumpy pillow, but it’s warm. Dry. Safe.
He eyes it cautiously before swinging his gaze over to me. “Your name,” he says slowly. “It is Charon, right?”
I offer him another nod.
“Right. Of course it is. Big, broody, cannibal Charon. The fucking feet eater.”
That one earns the slightest tilt of my mouth.
Looking down, he wiggles his bare toes against the wooden floor, his voice softer when he speaks again. “…I’m Hector. ”
And with that, he hops over to the bench, lowering himself down slowly. He flops onto his side, facing away from me, no more words spoken. Just the quiet creak of the boat and the whistle of wind outside.
Turning around, I walk back down the hall toward my cot and lie down, stretching out my aching legs as I reach into my nightstand and carefully pull out the book I’ve read every night of my life for the past thirty-four years.
His name runs through my head on a loop, the soft way it sounds, syllables I can easily pronounce.
“Hector,” I whisper, running my hand over my book’s ragged cover, the name familiar in my mouth and kind on my damaged vocal cords. Then I say it again, testing the feel on my tongue.
And for the first time in almost a decade, I don’t mind the silence pressing in on me as I drift off to sleep, because someone else is breathing under this roof with me. Not quite next to me, yet, but…
For tonight, that’s all I need.