5

Zoey moves with frantic purpose, tearing down the tent in sharp, jerky motions. She shoves what was once methodically packed and neatly folded haphazardly into bags or hooks it onto the outside with carabiners. The ripping of fabric tearing free from stakes and the frantic zipping and unzipping of zippers fill the once peaceful campsite.

“Is your stuff together, Em?” She buries her head in a large backpack, her hands rummaging through it like she’s searching for a lifeline, muffling her voice.

“Yeah,” I say, adjusting the strap of my pack. “All I’ve got is this one bag, and it’s packed with cans. At least we have some food now. Zoey, stop for a second. Breathe.”

She lifts her head, and her haunted eyes meet mine. My chest tightens at the weight behind her gaze. “You’ve never dealt with dregs before, have you?” she asks, her tone low, almost distant.

“Wait, those guys back there—those were dregs?” My stomach churns, thinking about them again. “Shit, Zo, they were awful.”

She shakes her head and yanks another strap tight on her bag. “No. They weren’t. I think they were a couple of broken survivors, the kind whose morals died long before the outbreak, if they ever had any. Dregs are worse. Much Worse.”

“Then what’s got you so worked up? We took care of them. We got away.”

“One of them is still alive.” She shoves the last piece of the tent into a bag and straightens, finally looking me in the eye. “He could track us down, and a man like that, deranged and bent on revenge, is dangerous enough alone. But he’s the kind of person who will become a dreg. They band together in groups, feed off each other’s cruelty. If they catch you, Emily…” Her voice falters, and she presses her lips into a hard line before continuing. “If they catch you, you don’t come back.”

An icy dread settles over me. “What do they do?”

Zoey doesn’t answer right away. She looks at me, her mouth tight, her blue eyes heavy with a pain I can’t even begin to understand. “Just don’t get caught. Ever.”

The air feels thicker now with her eerie warning. “Alright, fine,” I breathe. “What can I do to help?”

She tosses me a bag. “Take down the wire and the cans and put them in here. We’ll hang them when we get to our next spot.”

“Got it.” I set to work, unhooking the makeshift alarm system from the tree trunks, the cans clinking while I bundle them together.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Zoey’s bag spill open when she moves too fast. A cluster of small vials rolls onto the ground, one stopping near my foot. I pick it up, the glass cool against my fingers.

“What’s this?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend. “Are you on drugs?” I look at the smaller bag they spilled from to see it’s a cooler bag with an ice pack inside. It’s not frozen, but still. “And you said there wasn’t any ice for my ankle.”

Her head snaps up, and she snatches the vial from my hand. “No, I’m not on drugs. Well, sorta,” she snaps, stuffing it back into the small cooler bag. “And no, there isn’t any ice for your ankle, and that’s the truth. This is for me.”

“Zoey, what the hell is going on? I think I deserve an explanation.”

“You don’t deserve shit from me. I’ve already given you more than I’ve ever given any other random stranger.”

“This is why you’re acting crazy, isn’t it? You’re on drugs.”

“Damn it, Emily.” She shoves the cooling bag into her larger backpack, and I now realize that’s what she’s been checking on while I’ve been here.

I wrack my brain, trying to figure out what all I know about drugs, but I can’t think of anything that needs to stay cold like this. Something isn’t adding up.

Her shoulders tense, and she pauses before zipping the cooler shut. “I’m diabetic,” she says finally, her tone clipped. “This is my insulin.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I feel like shit about my accusation. “Oh. Zoey, I’m?—”

“Don’t,” she cuts me off, shoving the cooler into her larger pack. “Don’t apologize. It’s already bad enough living with it in a normal world. But here? In this apocalypse? It’s hell. Every day is a balancing act of finding food I can eat, avoiding stress that could kill me, and rationing this insulin that I’ll eventually run out of.” She exhales, her voice softening. “It’s why I was so particular about food back at the store. I can’t just eat whatever and hope for the best. It’s not like I can swap out a can of vegetables to snack on a candy bar instead, without risking needing to use up one of these vials. This stuff keeps me alive.”

“I didn’t know,” I say, my voice quiet. “I’m sorry I accused you.”

Zoey lets out a long breath and some of the tension eases from her shoulders. “Yeah. Me too. It’s…this is everything to me. There are things I can do to prolong needing the next dose, but it only helps so much. Without it, I won’t survive. So yeah, I’m protective.” She glances up, her gaze meeting mine again. Her now-short hair clings to her damp face even when a breeze stirs through the empty campsite. “Every single day out here on my own has been a struggle. I haven’t had a single person to share this burden with.”

“You have me now, I start, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand.”

“Grab the rest of the cans. We need to move.”

I don’t argue. When I go to pack up the rest of the wire, one can rattles, making Zoey whip around with her knife drawn. I raise my crutch, ready to swing, but it’s only a rabbit darting through the underbrush.

“Shit,” I say, returning to the task. Zoey finishes shoving the last of the tent and items into a bag.

When we’re done, she listens, her head cocked. I strain my ears but hear nothing except the faint rustling of leaves. “We have to hurry,” she says, looking at me when I stay still. “Damn it, Emily, move.”

With our bags secured to our bodies, we set off. I hobble along on my single crutch, the extra weight making my pack dig into my shoulders. “How far are we going?”

“As far as we can.” She glances back at me once, then continues moving forward. “If he gets some friends and then finds us, we won’t have a chance. We need distance.”

Zoey stumbles, but catches herself on a tree. Her hand flies to her forehead, wiping at beads of sweat.

“Are you alright?” I ask, stopping beside her.

“Yeah. Yeah—yes, I’m fine.” She brushes me off.

She continues moving, and I follow close.

After several more minutes, she asks, “What if there’s more of them? What if we run straight into them again?”

“Then we fight them off.” I reach out and grab her arm when her foot slips on a pile of leaves. Her skin is clammy despite the dry air. That’s weird. “We’ll handle it like we did back at the house. I never got my knife back, but this crutch already proved to be effective enough. We’ll manage.”

The first raindrop falls.

Following behind Zoey, I keep a close eye on her. When I see a slight tremor in her hand, I pull her to a stop again.

“Damn it, Emily, now what?”

“Zoey,” I say, keeping my voice firm. “What are the signs you need to use a vial?”

“What?” She blinks at me, her movements sluggish.

“Tell me,” I demand.

The canopy above is so thin it gives zero protection from the light drizzle coming down.

“I don’t have any of the tests with me anymore. But typically, shaking…sweating…hunger…” her voice trails off when her stomach growls. “Well, shit. I don’t have any more of the plain crackers on me, but there might be pouches of applesauce somewhere.” Her tongue darts out to lick her lips. “I don’t know where. It’s all packed away in a disorganized mess.”

Shrugging out of my bag, I dig through until I find the few crackers I’d taken from the pantry at the house. To my extreme disappointment, they’ve turned to crumbs at the bottom of my pack.

Zoey stumbles and I reach out to help her sit down and lean against a tree trunk. “I try to save the vials for an emergency.”

The rain that started as a light drizzle morphs into heavy drops that soak through our clothes.

“I don’t know about you, but I say this is an emergency. But if you’re too stubborn for that, then pretend to not pay attention to me and I’ll dig through your pack and stab you with the needle myself.”

Zoey shakes her head and reaches out a shaky hand for her bag. I dig out her little cooler bag and hold it up. “Take out a vial and do as I say.”

She guides me through the injection. I lift her shirt and find a spot a couple of inches away from her belly button. Her skin is now soaked with a mixture of sweat and rain. I struggle to hold the vials steady with how slick my hands are from the rain, but I put every ounce of my concentration into this. There’s no way I’m going to let her down now.

Once I have the needle lined up, I stab her in the stomach. Her eyes drift closed as the medicine takes effect.

“Zoey…” I whisper, tugging her shirt back down and sliding across the dirt—which is now quickly turning into mud—to sit beside her.

My heart hammers in my chest and I swallow around the growing lump in my throat.

I don’t know when she became so important to me. Someone I’d only met yesterday. But we’ve already been through so much together in the last twenty-four hours, and I realize I’m terrified at the thought of possibly spending the rest of the time I have left without her.

She doesn’t answer. I wrap my arms around her and lower my head to rest on her shoulder, and wait. I feel ridiculous for thinking my sprained ankle was the worst thing to happen to me since the dead rose. But it’s not. Instead, it’s this moment right here. These moments that stretch into minutes of not knowing what else I can do to help this woman who has already done so much for me.

“Zoey,” I start. “You better be okay, because I need you to give me shit again. I need you and your stubborn ass to push me out of complacency, because I realize I’m not okay with being on my own anymore. And I need you to stand up and be okay so I can continue telling you what a stubborn little shit you are.”

One corner of her mouth turns up, she whispers, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll gladly remind you what a little shit you are as often as needed. Sometimes even more so,” I deadpan, but I can’t hide the relief flooding my voice. “You okay?”

With her eyes still closed, she lets out a small laugh. “Thanks to you, yes. It’s funny. I never thought I could rely on another person. Then you blast into my life with music and crutches.”

The rain turns into a torrential downpour. The canopy above struggles to contain it.

I throw myself onto her in a big hug, kicking out mud, leaves, and twigs, and I slip. Her arms wrap around me to return the hug. The rain falls so heavy it huts, but I don’t care. “You have me, Zoey. You have me now.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too,” I laugh.

“It’s raining.”

“Yes, it is.” I pull away from her so I can look her in the face. “Make me promise, Zoey. Promise me that no matter what happens, neither of us will ever give up. I don’t care if we’re hurt, sprained ankle, broken back—whatever it is, we’ll never lie down and give up.”

She rolls her head to the other side with a huff before rolling it back to look at me. Her lips turn up in a slight smile and she clasps her hands with mine. Thunder claps overhead. “I promise, Emily. As long as you do the same.”

“I promise.”