Thicker Than Blood (Thicker Than Blood #1)(121)

So I kept going, kept surviving, and soon the days began to blur together, each one the same as the last. Peaceful and quiet, with the exception of the occasional infected that I always quickly disposed of.

I developed a routine, one I stuck to and could count on. After my walk through town each morning, I’d make myself breakfast, and after breakfast I would read a book from the large collection I’d been slowly amassing. Lunch, I usually spent outside, my legs hanging over the edge of the steep ravine, humming to myself, and every evening, just as the sun was setting, I had my dinner with Evelyn.

With the aid of an actual shovel, I’d buried her close to the bed and breakfast, wrapped in the same comforter she’d died in, near a small grove of trees where the grass and wildflowers grew thick and tall. Her grave sat directly beneath one very large tree, its heavy branches comfortably shading the area, and its thick trunk perfect for leaning against.

“I need to learn how to hunt,” I said, wrinkling my nose at the newly opened can of creamed corn. “I swear this stuff has gone bad.”

Many times I’d planned on setting up a target practice area, but I was loath to waste my bullets, and even more afraid that the gunshots would alert either any nearby infected or living that happened to be passing by. So I stayed quiet.

Scooping the first spoonful into my mouth, I swallowed it quickly, hurrying to lift my bottle of water to wash down the foul taste.

“God, I miss you, Eve,” I said as I set down the can of food and placed my hand upon the small rock. “Everything seems so meaningless without you here.”

And it did. All of it, even eating seemed pointless without someone to share the food with. With each passing day I was growing number, but at the same time I was feeling more and more empty. The idea of living became infinitely harder than that of not.

“I just wish—”

An unfamiliar sound silenced me—the crunch of a footfall, the sound of a rock skittering across pavement—and I reached for the gun at my hip. Standing, I ran quickly behind the tree, waiting for what I was sure was an infected to reveal itself. If it was only one or two, I wasn’t worried; I could take them out without breaking a sweat. But any more than that…

I’d been purposely starting the Jeep once a day for this very reason, keeping it loaded with supplies, just in case I needed to get out in a hurry. Patting my weapons belt, I breathed a sigh of relief when I found the key hanging beside my knife holster, home to a heavy-duty serrated blade.

“Hello?” a deep voice called out. “Anybody here?”

Surprise welled in my gut, freezing me in place. It wasn’t an infected, but a living, breathing person. How many were there? Where they from Purgatory? Had they found me?

As my panic grew, more and more questions arising with each desperate breath I took, the voice called out again.

“I’m not going to hurt you, miss. I’m alone, just passing through, looking for food.”

He knew I was here and had seen me, he’d made that clear, so hiding would be futile.

“I’m setting down my gun,” he called out. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”

Peeking out from behind the tree trunk, my gun hand steady and sure, I could make out the blurry sight of a man standing some ways down the road. True to his word, he bent down, allowed his rifle to fall lightly to the ground, before standing tall and raising his hands in the air.

Slowly, holding my gun out in front of me, my other hand wrapped around the hilt of my blade, I came out from behind the tree and made my way toward the road. Scanning the surrounding areas, I searched for any other signs of life and found nothing.

Coming to a stop at the edge of the grass, leaving a good ten feet or so between us, I assessed him cautiously. He was filthy, covered in dirt and grime, as if he hadn’t seen a bath or clean clothes in weeks, maybe months. His long brown hair, graying around his temples, was pulled back, becoming dreadlocked, as was his long beard. A large hiker’s backpack was seated high on his back, the straps covering his shoulders worn and thin, and a variety of weapons affixed to the pack dangled behind him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated, his shadowed eyes meeting mine.

I didn’t trust him, not for one second. I would never be so stupid to just blindly trust anyone ever again, but there was something about him, something familiar that niggled at my memories. The long ratty brown hair, the scruffy beard, the way his shoulders sagged sadly. Though he was thinner now, not as bulky as I remembered him, and his facial features were somewhat gaunt, darkened, and drawn.

And that was when it hit me, who he was.

“You,” I whispered, letting my hand holding the gun fall to my side. I said nothing else, unsure of what to say. How did you a greet a man you hardly knew, a man whose first and only meeting with you had resulted in the death of his daughter?

Cocking his head to one side, he dropped one arm but raised the other to shield the dwindling sun from his eyes. Squinting, he scanned me from head to toe, his eyes widening with surprise when he once again reached my face.

“You,” was all he said.

For a moment we just stood there, a mere ten feet from each other, simply staring, until the prolonged silence began to feel somewhat awkward. Clearing my throat, I shifted on my feet and gestured toward my makeshift picnic.

“Hungry?” I asked tentatively. “I have food and water and…” I ran my gaze down his tattered and dirty clothing a second time. “And clean clothes.”