9. Emily

9

EMILY

M y legs burn, each stride heavy and aching, but still I press on. Every step feels like my muscles are fraying. Blisters throb at the soles of my feet. Slowing down is not an option; when I do, the rotters catch up. We have to stay ahead.

It’s only when the rain finally eases that I feel the parched dryness of my throat, as if I haven’t had water in days, despite running much of the night in the pouring rain. I reach for my bottle and place it to my parched lips, but nothing comes out. I turn it upside down, hoping for a stray drop, but it’s bone dry. My stomach twists when I realize it must have knocked over and spilled in the rotter’s attack. Now we’re out of water, it’s stopped raining, and unless we find a stream or some other course soon, we’re going to be in real trouble.

My mouth is so dry that it hurts to run my tongue over my lips, and my movements are sluggish. This isn’t good.

We’re also out of food, which I only realize when my stomach grumbles. I cursed the rain while running through it, but now I wish for nothing else.

Stopping to catch my breath, lean forward with my hands on my knees and scan the darkness for any sign of a road, a cabin, even an abandoned vehicle. Anything that could give us some shelter. Maybe even a drop of water.

I would even kill to sit down for a moment. It’s tempting right here and now, despite the mud beneath me. But if I let myself sit on the ground, then I’m not sure I would have the strength to get back up again. So, with all the will I can muster, I continue on, with Buddy running by my side with ease. I’ve never wanted to be a dog so badly before in my life. He makes it look so appealing right now.

So, pushing temptation aside, we continue running. The moon is still high, casting enough light for me to make out our path, though time feels blurred. The stars above flicker like little sparks of hope, but maybe I’m growing delirious. Sparks of hope. I laugh out loud at my hilarity.

I’m looking up at the little sparks of hope when my foot hooks an exposed root, and I crash to the ground hard.

Pain shoots through my palms when I land, scraping over rocks and sticks. Wincing, I push back on my knees and lift my hands to inspect them. The minor cuts from before have reopened, smeared with dirt and blood. I think there might even be some glass in the skin from the crash. I never had time to patch them up.

Buddy moves to my side, pressing his warm, solid body against me as if he knows I’m struggling to hang on. Such a good boy. This makes me wish I could bring back the dreg who hurt him and then kill him all over again. I press my palm against his fur, leaving behind a red streak that reminds me I’m still injured.

“Damn it.” I dig through my pack, fumbling through it for anything that might help. My fingers brush against a few Band-Aids. “Perfect. I can work with this.”

Tearing one open with my teeth, I press it over the worst cut. My small victory sours when the sweat on my palm loosens the adhesive almost immediately, and it falls to the ground.

“Nope, I can’t work with this at all,” I grumble and then sigh. This is a lost cause. Frustration bites at me while I sift through the bag again, tossing aside wrappers and random odds and ends until I find two bandanas buried at the bottom. I use one to wipe the dirt from my hands, and the other to wrap around my palm, pulling the knot tight with my teeth, securing it as best as I can. Perfect. Well, not really.

I curl my fingers into a fist and sigh. It’s not much, but it’ll do. I’ll have to deal with it when I get the chance. For now, I need to keep moving.

The telltale hissing of a rotter reaches my ears. It’s close.

My pulse spikes, and I freeze, listening. Buddy’s growl rumbles beside me, his body tense as he faces the shadows to our right, his body in front of mine, guarding me. “Sounds like we’re out of time, Buddy.”

I place a steadying hand on his back, my gaze locked in the same direction. I don’t see anything yet, but I don’t doubt something is there. “Let’s go. They can’t catch us if we keep moving. We should save our energy.”

The contents are almost all thrown back into the bag when a rotter stumbles out from around a tree, shuffling toward us, its sunken eyes fixed in our direction. Whelp, guess I was wrong. We have much less time than I thought.

So much for hoping. I shove the remaining supplies into my pack, snapping it shut before I push to my feet, forcing myself into motion.

My lungs are on fire. My heart feels like it’s going to rip from my chest. The pain and fatigue are intense, with my calves burning and my feet feeling like they’re going to fall off, but I push through.

The more we keep moving, the closer we get to the colony, and the farther I get from the men who shattered my soul.