Chapter 7
She’s in a car with Wyatt passed out beside her, and all she can do is stare at the bear in the road. Emma asked for one after seeing them in the attic, which makes this the biggest windfall they’ve had so far.
Wyatt refuses to wake even after she jostles him on the shoulder, so she rushes out to pick up that mud-covered animal.
Very pointedly does not think about what it could mean if he doesn’t wake up.
If she stops to consider the worst outcome, it’ll overwhelm her, so she focuses on something tangible.
They have a car now. She can rush back in if more rotters show up, so she bellows Emma’s name at the top of her lungs, turning in hopeful circles to scan the tree line, certain this nightmare will end any second.
Newfound hope dwindles again when the bear doesn’t produce the girl who held it.
Addison doesn’t crumble yet. A snowball of anxiety, ready to flourish, builds in her chest, but she ignores it and returns to the car.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers on a hitching breath.
Should she drive further out? Hike into the woods? Go back home?
Leaving now with the possibility of Emma being so close feels foolish, but Wyatt is hurt. She holds a hand under his nose, waiting for the soft flutter of his breath on her skin.
“Please wake up. Please. I need you to tell me what to do.”
The sob caught in her throat threatens to escape if she’s not careful. That won’t help anyone. At the moment, she’s steering this ship alone.
The stab wound in his side has clotted, though his leg still bleeds when she pulls the cloth away to check.
She can’t make it out here without help.
Beyond that…she’s grown fond of Wyatt. The concept of him not being around anymore is difficult to grasp, and she finds herself mourning him before he’s even gone.
It’s the least productive thing she’s done all day. He’s still alive, but she’s already distraught for numerous reasons. Adding another to the list is a comforting choice.
“Please wake up,” she says again, cupping his stubbled cheek with a desperate touch, knowing he’d hate that if he were awake.
He’d tell her to stop fussing while claiming that he doesn’t need help. She’d give anything to hear him complain again. That would mean he’s okay, and she has serious doubts that he will be.
If he’s complaining, then he can help her figure out what the fuck to do.
She’s frozen in indecision. His wounds need cleaning to prevent infection, that much she’s certain of.
She isn’t a doctor. Her TV viewing history didn’t feature many of those either.
She can’t rely on second-hand knowledge for this like she did with the Molotovs.
Searching the treeline one last time, her hands squeeze the steering wheel tight.
With no further hints of Emma, the only logical choice is to focus on the person bleeding, so she aims them in the direction of the house.
That doesn’t stop her from feeling like she’s abandoning her child.
Can’t shake the sense of dread that giving up could cost her any hope of success.
Addison has never been in a position to make all the decisions.
Now that power is thrust upon her, she’s crumbling under the weight of it.
One thing at a time. Tend to Wyatt’s injuries first, then take the car back out to search for Emma. It’s already been a week. If her daughter is out there starving, she could be wasting away.
If she’s hurt and scared, then she’ll be hurt and scared another night.
If she’s crying for her mother, she’ll be forced to wait again.
Addison doesn’t focus on any of that. If she does, she’ll sit here paralyzed.
She grabs the bear off the dashboard when they park in the driveway and tries to rouse Wyatt at the passenger side. He’s difficult to wake, and that only scares her more. If he has any intention of dying today, then he had better abandon that idea altogether because she won’t stand for it.
She’s gentle at first, patting his cheek with a soft hand and shaking his shoulder. When that doesn’t work, the frustration edging her toward an emotional spiral gets the better of her. “Wyatt! Wake up, dammit!”
She’s not angry, only worried. He flinches back, his hands coming up to protect his face on reflex.
“I’m up. I’m awake,” he mumbles.
“We’re home. Lemme help you inside.”
“Emma?”
“We’ll go back later, come on.”
He tries to walk on his own before leaning his weight against her. That’s how she knows he must feel like shit. Under other circumstances, she’d expect a cursing protest. They shuffle inside, where she deposits him on the bed and attempts to peel blood-coated clothing from his wounds.
He scrambles back from her touch, almost climbing the headboard, wild-eyed and confused, like he can’t figure out why she’s trying to undress him. Her frantic movements aren’t helping, so she forces herself to slow down.
“We need to get these pants off and your shirt unbuttoned so I can get a better look. I can cut them off if it’s easier? I saw scissors in the kitchen.”
“You’re not cutting my fucking pants off, they’re my only pair. I don’t need help. Leave the supplies and let me do it alone.”
There is no chance he can do this alone. He’s still on the verge of passing out a second time if his slow reactions are any indication. She’s asking him to trust her enough to be vulnerable while she cleans him up, and she can’t blame him for being hesitant.
“Please, let me help you,” she says softly, knowing it wouldn’t be so simple for her either if things were reversed.
He seems more worried about taking his clothes off in front of her than he is about bleeding to death.
It takes him trying to fetch the supplies himself and falling backward onto the bed again before he admits defeat.
Reluctantly, he shoves his pants down his hips, pausing with a hiss when they catch on split skin.
She takes his boots off and drags the pants off his legs, slow and careful, like she’s working with a skittish deer.
The scars across his thighs explain the sudden shyness.
They are thick and rough, like burns etched into his skin, deep into the muscle.
They stray higher and disappear under his boxers before showing themselves again across his back when he sits to unbutton his shirt and reveal the other stab wound.
She wants to ask what happened. Did he earn these marks during the outbreak, or were they forced on him before the world ended? The words almost tumble unbidden from her lips before she thinks better of it. Drawing attention to something he clearly wishes could remain hidden won’t calm him.
“Not so bad, right?” he slurs, his head lulling to the side. “Just a scratch.”
She nods, though it’s obvious she’s lying. “Not so bad at all.”
If it were her on this bed, she’d want him to be matter-of-fact about it and not linger. Just do the job without making it weird, so that’s what she tries to do for him.
Once she has a clear view of his thigh, she can’t help but hiss through her teeth. Can hardly see the entry point through all the blood and doubts herself all over again. She doesn’t know how to help him. He needs a doctor.
They had to remove the belt cinch to get his pants off. The fact that he isn’t bleeding a river yet has to be a good sign. “It’s not gushing. I need to clean it so you don’t get an infection. Wait here.”
She grabs the first aid kit and peroxide from the bathroom. Splashing this on his leg is all she has right now.
“Hold on to something.” She gives him a moment to brace before dumping at least a cup of peroxide into his open wound.
Wyatt almost levitates off the bed, screaming as if she stabbed him all over again. He isn’t the type to show when he’s hurting, so the fact that he’s so open about it now worries her more than she has been since this began.
She packs it with gauze without warning. Anticipation only makes the pain worse. A new bandage sticks over the top before she moves higher to address the second problem, repeating the steps there.
That one is shallow. At least they got one stroke of luck.
Wyatt tries to stuff his tears back where they came from. Tight fists clench the sheets until his knuckles go white. Guilt creeps up her spine and into her nerves. Hurting him to help him doesn’t make it feel any less awful.
She’s been detached since they got back, but now that she’s finished, it’s easy to soften again at the sight of him.
She takes a chance and lays her hand over his, like she did up in the attic at the gas station.
She’d been desperate for comfort then, hoping he wouldn’t shrug her off.
It was the first time she sought out contact in years. The first time that she wanted to.
Addison tells herself she doesn’t need that sort of thing.
That she’s fine dealing with everything alone.
For the most part, that’s true. Except for today, when she was overcome with fear in the attic and decided to let the cards fall where they may and reach out to him. By some miracle, it worked out.
Now, it’s her turn to offer him the same.
Surprise flutters across his face when she makes contact, conflict coursing through his limbs as he prepares to jerk his hand away. It only jumps a fraction before settling under her touch.
“You need to rest. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” She isn’t sure if she’s saying it more to him or herself.
She stares at the rise and fall of his chest and the pale tone of his skin as he struggles to sleep. She can’t leave him like this, not yet, so she pulls up a chair and plants herself in it for the long haul. If she left and came back to find him dead, she’d never forgive herself.
If she misses a chance at spotting Emma along the road, she’ll never forgive herself either.
There’s no right answer. She drops her head in her hands, elbows braced on her knees, and wishes for something, anything, to point her in the right direction.
“Go. I’ll be alright,” he says.
“But—”