THREE #3
It doesn’t escape my notice how that word isn’t just said with fear, but with a strong dose of warning. There’s history there. A history hidden by countless locked doors, and this stranger doesn’t look too willing to hand over the key to a single one of them.
Swallowing, I lift my gaze back to theirs. “You’re hurt.”
“Captain Obvious is alive and well, I see,” they snark lowly, before jerking the gun at my side. “So are you.”
I glance down at my bleeding side and wince, the pain only growing the more I leave it to bleed. “I need somewhere to patch it up.”
The stranger shrugs, never once faltering. “Sounds very much like a you problem.”
“It was a me problem,” I agree, right before I glance toward the street where several Biters are groaning and dragging their corpses closer. “Now it looks like it might become an us problem.”
Their eyes narrow, but I don’t move closer to the window.
I don’t touch the frame, I don’t give them a single reason to believe I’m about to climb into the room and steal the choice from them.
I can already tell they’re on edge and afraid.
And something tells me that if I even try my luck, I’ll receive a bullet to my forehead faster than I can sneeze.
I’m fairly confident that gun isn’t empty, and I don’t believe for one second they won’t make me regret any further poor decisions.
“Why did you follow me?” they demand, something still off about their voice.
“I was trapped in an alley,” I answer, my own voice strained with pain.
“You followed me from the alley,” they point out, as though I need reminding of the bullshit we just went through.
Licking my dry lips, I glance over at the Biters that have drawn that little bit closer before reminding them, “I’m bleeding real bad over here, and there are Biters in the street.”
“Yep. Very tragic for you,” they quip.
And this time, a smile breaks free over my face. It’s small, very brief, and probably incredibly stupid, but it happens before I can think to stop it.
The gun pointed at me lifts half an inch, and my smile disappears as quickly as it came.
I hold my free hand up in surrender before I tell them, “Look, I can stay outside. But if I pass out, the Biters will inevitably come to the window, and then you’ll have to either leave this hideout or deal with them. ”
The stranger pauses, eyeing me like I’ve just become the bane of their existence. “You know, you’re very good at making your survival sound like my inconvenience.”
I fight the sudden swell of amusement that bubbles in my chest as I say, “I have many talents.”
“Sure. And bleeding seems to be one of them,” they say.
Glancing down at my wound again, I cringe, because the blood has soaked through my shirt and jacket, spreading darkness beneath my hand.
I’m hating real hard on that piece of metal I didn’t see before I climbed through the apartment building earlier.
I can only be grateful it’s not a bite, but the stranger doesn’t know that.
“I haven’t been bitten,” I promise.
Something behind their eyes flickers. Mistrust, I have no doubt.
“Prove it,” they call back, proving my intuition correct. I can’t even be mad, because I would do the same thing. It’s only fair.
So, I do exactly as demanded. Slowly, I lift my bloodied hand from my side and open my jacket enough to lift my shirt and reveal the slice across my waist. I keep my other hand visible, making sure I don’t move too suddenly.
I don’t want to find out if this person is trigger-happy, especially after just escaping a small horde of Biters.
The stranger studies the cut from across the classroom, intense gaze sharp and assessing as they eye the torn fabric, the angle of the gash, all the blood.
Eventually, something in the room changes.
They don’t relax, exactly, but it’s almost like the confirmation that I haven’t been bitten has eased the tension around us.
“Well, congratulations. You’re not currently turning into a walking corpse. Gold star for you,” they snark, and my lips twitch.
“Can I come in?” I ask, trying my luck.
“No.”
Blinking, I stare at them. They stare right back, gun steady, knife still clutched tightly in their other hand, hazel eyes hard beneath the shadow of their cap.
A Biter groans from somewhere near the school wall, the sound low and wet enough to remind us both that this funny little standoff currently has a very hungry audience gathering outside. One I don’t wish to feed with my own body.
I glance toward the street, then back at the stranger tucked away safely in the classroom, trying really fucking hard not to look as desperate as I feel.
I must fail miserably, because the stranger’s jaw tightens beneath the bandana.
Mine does the same when another groan joins the first and, for a weighted second, neither of us moves.
The Biters keep coming, my side continues to bleed, and the stranger keeps the gun trained on me like I’m the biggest threat they’ve ever had a standoff with.
Like I’m the worst idea they’ve ever been forced to consider.
Which, honestly, I think is pretty damned fair.