Page 74

“Lucky me,” John says.

“Stop talking.”

Gavin vaults over the counter and rummages through shelves. Glass shatters as he knocks something over.

I dig through the remaining supplies in my pack. Bandages, antiseptic wipes, medical tape. Basic shit, but better than nothing.

“Here.” Gavin sets down a bottle of cheap whiskey.

“Perfect.” I unscrew the whiskey cap, the sharp smell burning my nostrils. “This is going to hurt.”

John attempts a smile that is more like a grimace. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Drink some first.”

His hand trembles as he takes the bottle, amber liquid sloshing against the sides. He takes a long pull, before handing it back to me.

“Don’t waste good whiskey on a wound,” he mutters.

“I believe your taste buds got hit, too.” I pour it over his shoulder. “It’s not good.”

His entire body goes rigid, a strangled sound escapingthrough clenched teeth. Bloody foam bubbles from the wound, washing away dirt and fabric fibers.

“Fuck.” His head falls back against the counter.

“Almost done.” I apply fresh gauze over the wound. “Just hold still.”

Gavin positions himself by the window, rifle ready.

“You know what I miss?” John asks. “Internet. Used to waste hours watching those funny dog videos.”

I tape the bandage in place, careful not to put too much pressure on it. “What’s your favorite dog?”

“Staffies. They look like seals when they smile.”

I snort. “Sounds cute.”

“Your hands are steady,” he says. “That’s good.”

They’re not. They’re shaking so badly, I’m surprised I can hold the tape. But I force them to cooperate, because the alternative is watching another person die. And I’m so fucking tired of death.

“You’ll need medication.” I pack up the remaining supplies. “And real medical attention.”

John’s laugh is a dry, brittle sound. “Sure. I’ll just pop over to the emergency room.”

“We could try finding a pharmacy,” Gavin suggests. “Might be picked clean, but worth checking.”

“At least I won’t turn from a bullet wound,” John says.

The memory of Marcus rising from death, despite a bullet through his heart, flashes through my mind with horrific clarity.

“Actually…” My voice sticks in my throat. I clear it. “That’s not true.”

John’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”

Gavin turns from the window, catching the gravity in my tone.

“Everyone turns,” I say. “It doesn’t matter if you got bitten or not, or how you die. The virus is in all of us.”