Lich -- A Novel

.Two.

.two.

“You have an infection setting in,” Tom said.

I laid on the old cot he’d set up in his shack. Little strength traveled through my limbs and even in the brisk air of the cabin, a cold sweat had broken out across my skin.

When I’d woken up, Tom had still been there. He’d been asleep at the table, laid over it and it wouldn’t be good for his back. Not that Tom had problems with his back in the first place, he was more physically fit than most people his age. He was a fighter. He was a survivor. We all were.

“I don’t care,” I told him.

“You should,” he shot back, digging through the first aid kit with a puckered look on his face. Apparently, he didn’t like what he found, or didn’t find, within the kit. I wondered if he felt bad for shooting me with his shotgun and I thought the answer was probably no. He was probably right to think that if he hadn’t shot me, I’d have shot him and I wouldn’t be nursing him back to health. I would have nursed him by giving him another bullet in the head.

Tom glanced up, throwing the first aid kit aside. “Even though there are worse things out there than infections, they can still kill you.”

I growled at him because I didn’t like that it was the truth. I didn’t like that with everything out there that could hurt us or kill us, there were still the small things that could do the same. I wondered when we'd catch a break. I wondered if we deserved one. It didn't help that I thought the answer was no.

"Get some rest," Tom said as he stood, stoking the fire in the wood burning stove. I shivered involuntarily and watched him as he moved about the shack. He seemed care free and trusting to have me at his back. I would say he was foolish for it, but I didn't think I'd be able to lift a gun, let along pull the trigger. It had nothing to do with care for Tom. It had everything to do with the infection coursing through my veins.

I closed my eyes, resting my head back against the flimsy pillow. The world was quiet outside the shack, snow still falling and it would have covered my tracks by this morning. It had been three days since I'd made my way into Tom's shack and after a few more, people would start to wonder where I was. They would wonder if I'd found Tom and he'd kill me, or if I'd found him and we ran away together, or the more likely scenario, if I'd just taken off myself. It's what they would think. It's what they always thought when people didn't come back. They'd run.

I slept for a little bit that third day and when I woke again, it was dark out and Tom sat by the window, shotgun in his lap. Even with the fire, Tom never took off his fur coat. He was a man who was always prepared and if they came for him in this shack, he wouldn't have time to put on a coat if he had to make a run for it. That's how it worked. There wasn't time to prepare. By the time they came, it was already too late.

"Why'd you run?" I asked, my tongue thick and the words tripping over themselves on their way out of my mouth.

Tom turned to look at me, the faint glow of the fire in the wood stove lighting his face in shadows. He scrubbed a hand through his short beard and then looked back out the window. "It wasn't because of you," he said.

The answer hurt, even if I'd already known it. "I never said it was," I told him.

"I needed to get away," Tom answered. "I couldn't keep living like that. I couldn't keep... humanity is better than what we were. It's better than what we are."

I licked my dry lips. "Humanity?" I scoffed. "Who gives a fuck about humanity. We needed you."

"I know," he said quietly, dipping his head. "And I'm sorry." He looked my way again and I believed him. That was real pain on his face I was seeing. "When you're able, I'm going back with you."

I snorted. "They might kill you on sight."

"They might," Tom admitted. "But they won't stop sending people after me and the next person might not be so lucky." I thought Tom had a ridiculous idea of what luck was. A shoulder and side full of buckshot wasn't my idea of luck.

Glancing out the window again, anything else we were about to say was suddenly muted when Tom stiffened, snapping his shotgun up to hold in both hands. He slunk out of the chair, crouching low on the ground so only the tip of his head was above the windowsill.

"What is it?" I asked.

Tom shook his head. "I can't tell," he whispered and the fact that he was being so quiet and serious was enough to wake me up fully. I tried to sit up, because my gun was on the table across the room, but Tom held up a hand, motioning me to lay still. I wanted to tell him bullshit, because if there was something out there, I wasn't going to sit on my ass and wait for it to come.

"My gun," I said, but Tom ignored that as well. Instead, he crept towards the door, inching it open with his boot. Instantly, cold air filtered into the shack, negating the warming effect of the wood burning stove. I couldn't help but shiver, pulling the blankets closer. I wanted my gun, but I thought at this rate, it was a lost cause.

Tom's attention remained focused on whatever he'd seen outside. The shotgun came up to rest into his shoulder and he sighted down the barrels, eyes squinted as he tried to see into the darkness of the forest on the other side of the lake. I wondered if anyone else would be able to get across, of it I had ruined it with my flight across the ice.

Letting out a quiet breath, the gun left Tom's shoulder and he nudged the door shut again. He chuckled, shaking his head. "A deer," he said. "A fucking deer."

I closed my eyes, smiling as my head fell back against the pillow. "Paranoid."

"Cautious," he corrected me. He threw another log onto the stove to try and warm the shack back up. "It's the key to survival."

I snorted. "That and a nice gun."

Tom nodded his head and I watched him with lidded eyes as he walked around the shack, gathering a bowl and filling it with warm water that had been in a kettle resting over the stove. He sat down next to the cot and started to wipe away the sweat lingering on my skin. It helped to both warm me and cool down my fever at the same time. I closed my eyes against the gentle touch and after he'd soaked my skin, he checked the wound he'd made with his shotgun.

"I don't have antibiotics here," Tom said quietly.

Shaking my head, my eyes stayed closed, but I turned my face towards him. "You're usually not unprepared."

"I had a wood chopping incident," Tom said and I cracked one eye to look at him to see if he was joking. It didn't look like it. His face was serious and cold and I already knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth to say it. "I need to go find some."

A bitter laugh escaped my dry throat. "How do I know you're not just running again while I can't follow."

"Because I wouldn't leave you here to die," Tom said. "And you know that."

I did know that. Tom and I had an unusual type of relationship. Completely platonic and he wouldn't leave me defenseless if he thought he wasn't coming back. Not in this world. Leaving someone defenseless was the same as leaving someone to die in the cruelest of ways. At least give them a gun with a single bullet to make it easier.

"Where will you go?" I asked.

Tom stood, pulling a machete down off the wall and starting to throw some equipment into a light backpack. He wouldn't need much and he'd have to travel light if he were to make it across the ice both ways. "There's a lake organization building about three miles south of here. They had a pretty extensive first aid supply. If they haven't been picked clean by scavengers by now, they should still have some antibiotics." His face hardened as he spoke the next words. "I used to take Violet swimming there."

A hush fell over the shack and I didn't know what to say. Tom didn't talk about Violet much. He didn't talk about his life hardly at all. His theory had always been to focus on the current, the present and the future. The past was nothing to worry about because there was no changing it. I let him think what he want, because I was selfish and I liked it when Tom and I had sex. Ignoring the past was the only way a guy like Tom would be able to do a girl like me. We both knew it.

"How long will you be gone?" I asked.

"I'll be back in the morning," Tom said.

"You shouldn't travel in the dark," I tried to tell him.

Tom ignored me, pulling my gun off the table and loading it, handing it to me by the butt. I reached up to take the gun, trying to ignore the severe shaking of my hand. I was in a bad way and we could both see it. It's why Tom was risking traveling at night. It was why he was risking leaving me alone, if even for a little bit.

I let the gun rest on my chest as Tom finished packing and I had to be honest with myself, I thought about finishing what I'd come here to do. I almost wrapped my finger around the trigger, but the hard look of determination on Tom's face erased that possibility from my mind. I wondered how I'd ever been convinced I'd be able to kill him in the first place. Tom wasn't the type of guy someone just went out and killed. Tom was what was good with the world.

"Okay," Tom said, pulling his backpack on and walking over to the cot where I lay. His hand rested on the side of my face and I tried to offer him a smile of encouragement. "I'll be back as soon as possible, Irene," he said. "I'll knock three times before I enter. If someone comes in without knocking, shoot them. Understand?"

I nodded my head. "I know the drill," I told him sarcastically.

"I know you do," he chuckled and leaned down to press his lips against my forehead. I closed my eyes against the affection.

When he started to pull away, a question I'd been wanting to ask him from the day I met him came from between my lips. "Why me?" He paused, a curious look on his face and I didn't know what to tell him about why I was asking the question, and why now specifically. I could only elaborate. "Why fuck me?"

Tom's eyes went distant for a moment, like he was really giving the question some thought. Then he just shook his head, his shoulders jumping in a small shrug. "Because you're not my wife. And it was never about love."

I nodded my head, though the words left a stinging blow in my chest. He was right. I wasn't his wife and it wasn't about love, at least not for him. I'd told myself the first time I'd let him fuck me that it wasn't anything. It was just two people fulfilling primal urges. The second, third, and fourth times that was all it was about. I'm not sure when it became something different. I'm not sure when it because something I needed.

All I knew was that it hurt like hell when he'd up and left. That's what made it so easy when they'd told me I needed to go after him.

"See you soon, Irene," he said and he stood, walking for the door.

I watched him go. Watched his retreating back as the door closed. I thought about getting up to lock it, but knew I wouldn't be able to. I thought about going after him because a part of me was worried he wouldn't come back. Not out of his own choice, but because there were nasty, awful things in the world that wanted all of us dead.

I wondered what I'd do then. What would I do if dawn came and the day went by and there was no Tom? What would I do if two days went by? Three? Would I just lay here and die? I'd like to think no, that I would get up and make my way back the way I came. I could survive an infection. I would just have to sweat it out as I walked, is all. It seemed impractical.

I tried not to fall asleep after Tom left. I didn't like that the door was open or that I was alone with just a hand gun, injured. There were machetes on the wall and a small arsenal in the corner still, but I didn't think I'd be able to get up and get to them if something came. So I tried to stay awake. It didn't quite work.

It was getting light out when I woke up from a fitful sleep. It took a while for my eyes to focus on the cabin around me. Still empty. No Tom. I rolled my head to the side to look at the bandages covering my shoulder and side. They were soaked with dry, brownish blood. I tried to peel a bit of it back to see the wound, but the gauze stuck to the wound. Taking a deep breath and biting my lip, I pulled the gauze. It started to trickle blood immediately, but I could also see a foul smelling yellow substance oozing from some of the wound. The infection was still spreading.

Grabbing for the blankets, I tried to push myself into a sitting position on the couch. After several failed attempts, I managed to use the wall for leverage and got myself wedged into the corner of the room, legs curled beneath me. I shivered and glanced at the wooden stove. The fire was dwindling, just orange embers glowing without their flames. A few spare pieces of wood sat next to the stove and I could stoke the fire if I could just get up.

My gun sat in my lap, the safety on. I licked my lips, my throat parched. I could see my breath in the air and I closed my eyes and hoped Tom came back soon. But I'd learned a long time ago I couldn't count on anyone but myself -- even if it was Tom.

Pushing the gun onto the cot beside me, I unfurled my legs from beneath me. Tom had removed my boots that first day, placing them near the stove. My socked feet hit the floor and the cold seeped through the material into my skin. I let out a breath, a wave of dizziness passing through me that I pushed away and ignored.

Standing up proved to be less difficult than I thought it would be. But once I was up, I had trouble staying up. I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs and I took my steps one at a time as I made my way over to the stove. Crouching next to it, using the table to support me and keep myself from falling face first to the floor, I grabbed a few of the logs and shoved them into the wood burning stove. I grasped the fire poker and started to tend to the fire, already seeing the dry logs start to catch.

I almost missed the noise from outside.

It was only my experiences with recent events that made me hear the small scuffle of a boot outside and recognize it for what it was. My head snapped towards the door, my breath held in my chest, trying not to make a sound. My eyes went to my gun, still on the cot and it would take a lot of effort to make it across the small shack just to grab it. I tightened my grip on the fire poker.

A loud thump crashed against the door, rattling the frame and I almost cried out, a hand coming up to cover my own mouth. It wasn't Tom. It wasn't his three knocks and I wanted to get to my gun badly because if it wasn't Tom, then it wasn't anything good. But fear gripping at my limbs. Fear and fatigue and infection. I could only stay crouched beside the wood burning stove, the fire poker held out in front of me.

Beneath the door, something blocked out the rising sun. A slow moving object in front of the door. The scratching started soon after the first bang. Like something running fingers down the door, fingernails scraping away rotten, old wood. I shakily tried to stand, but froze again when the shadow beneath the doorway started moving towards the window.

My heart pounded away in my chest and I took in shallow breaths, sweat breaking out on my forehead that had nothing to do with the fever I was suffering from. There was something out there. There was something there that wasn't Tom and I felt emotion start to choke me because I wasn't ready to die. For a long time, I'd thought I was. I'd been reckless and careless and I thought that I just wanted to die. But now, faced with it, with only a wooden door separating me from death, I wasn't ready.

A pale gray mass started to appear in the corner of the window. A small noise escaped my throat and I heard an answering hiss on the other side of the cabin.

Before it came into full view, a loud, blasting boom echoed out. Black, ink-like liquid sprayed across the window. I jumped at the sound of something hitting the snow bank. It sounded like a scuffle was starting outside and I heard the splintering crack of ice and then a splash. It went quiet and I stared at the door and for a long, too long, of time, nothing happened. Nothing showed itself.

The door burst open finally, causing me to jump out of my skin and I let out a small, terrified yell. Tom stood in the doorway, looking wild and panicked. His eyes roamed the shack, coming to fall on me and then he was rushing over, dropping his backpack and reaching down to wrap his arms around me, holding me close. I couldn't help but sob in relief that he was back. He was back and he'd taken care of whatever had been trying to get in.

"It's okay," Tom said. "It's okay, I'm here."

I realized I was crying into his shoulder and his gloved hands were running through my wild blue hair. I thought I needed a new color after this. Blue was unlucky. I dropped the fire poker and wrapped my good arm around Tom.

"You killed it," I whispered.

"I did," Tom confirmed. "It's dead. I pushed it into the lake."

I sniffled a little, regaining my calm composure. After a moment, I leaned back from Tom. He let me, but kept his hands on my arms. "The blast might bring more."

Tom nodded. "That's why we need to leave," he said. "I'm sorry. I'll carry you."

I shook my head. "I can walk," I told him. He nodded, like he had a choice in the matter. He reached back to his pack and pulled out a bottle of pills. He popped two out into his hand and held them out for me. I dry swallowed the pills without questioning him.

"Come on," Tom said, helping me to stand up. He started rummaging around the shack, pulling food, weapons and clothing into his pack. I hobbled over to the cot and retrieved my gun. Once Tom had everything he needed, he slid beneath one of my arms, propping me up as he toed the front door open.

In the snow beneath the window, black bile had melted most of it away, sprayed against the wall and the window. I could see a drag mark in the snow that lead to the edge of the island. A hole had been stomped into the ice and more black bile lined the rim of the hole. Tom had dumped it into the water.

"Tom," I insisted as we started to make our way across the ice. I wasn't sure where we were going. Tom had said something earlier about going back, but I didn't know if he'd meant now or when I didn't have a shotgun wound in the shoulder. I didn't want to go back injured and Tom probably knew that.

"Irene?" he answered, trying his best to keep me up and keep hold of his gear at the same time.

"You didn't knock."