Writing on the Wall

His eyes land on me then and I’m a

And now I have to deal with him, probably all night. He can’t leave now and I can’t hide where I live, not unless I want to stay in one of the empty, blown out rooms somewhere else in the building. Pretty much every room but mine is missing windows or a door. Not ideal living quarters, even for one night. Not in the cold of winter. Not with blood outside.

“Come on.” I tell him grudgingly.

I lead him up the stairs as the wolves snarl and yap angrily behind us. I flip them off over my shoulder. He falls in step behind me without a word and part of my animosity toward him slips. We walk up ten flights of stairs before I take us out of the stairwell into a hall. This is where I live, or lived before he came around and ruined everything. My animosity is instantly back. I lead him halfway down the hall where I open the door to the warehouse apartment I’ve called home for almost a year now. It’s one of the first times I’ve actually gotten settled. I have more things in here than I can carry out on my back, a huge deal for me. Now I’ll have to leave almost all of it behind.

As I hurry to light a couple of small candles for his sake (and the sake of my possessions I’d rather he didn’t trample over) I glance over my shoulder to make sure he closes the door. He looks around, sees the board I use to barricade it and quickly slips it into the braces that cradle it horizontally. We are now as safe as two teenagers in a world full of zombies can be. I fuss over the ripped sleeve of my jacket but I’m watching him out of the corner of my eye as he takes in my place. He seems surprised by it. He should be. It took a lot of time and a lot of effort to get it this way.

“You live here alone.” he says, not even trying to make it a question.

I snort. “I’m not exactly social.”

“Shocking.”

“Don’t take it as an invitation. I can defend myself.”

He looks over at me, his eyes surprised. “Never crossed my mind.”

“Sure.”

He shakes his head in disgust, looking away. “What’s with the exercise bike? Don’t get enough cardio ru

“I don’t ride it for exercise. I ride it for fun.”

“Yeah, you seem fun.” he mutters, kneeling beside the bike to examine the wires trailing from it. They lead a short distance across the distressed floors over to a small generator. From there they lead up to— “Is that a laptop?” he asks incredulously.

I have to suppress a smile as I work to keep the pride out of my voice. “It’s a portable TV/DVD player. Riding the bike powers it.”

“Nice.” he says admiringly. His large fingers gently run along the wires, tracing them. “Do you use it to power anything else?”

“Yeah, of course.” I say, suddenly bristling at his proximity to my world. His hands are all over it and I’m finding that I kinda like it but then again I really don’t. “My iPod, my hair dryer, the fridge, the oven, my cell phone…”

“I get it.” he says darkly, straightening and glaring at me. “Take it easy, would you?”

I shake my head. “Whatever. Do you want to clean your arm before it falls off?”

“Are you doing it or am I?”

“You are. I’m not touching it.”

I’m not touching you. I think, and the problem is that I actually kind of want to.

He’s good looking. Now that I see him in better light, I’m much more aware of that fact. He looks strong, solid. Warm. I haven’t been touched by another person in six months and that was old Crazy Crenshaw who lives out in the “woods” like a wild man by himself. He’s helped me a time or two, though both of us made it clear we didn’t want each other’s company permanently. I went to him when I started ru

So, yeah, standing in the same room with a grown man my age for the first time in my life is throwing me more than a little off balance. As I said, I like it but I don’t.

“What’s your name?” he asks suddenly.

I blink as I realize we’ve fallen silent studying each other.

“Jocelyn. Well, Joss.” I stammer, my heart racing. I haven’t said or heard my own name in a long time. It feels strange on my lips. “What’s yours?”

“Ryan.”

I immediately think of Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles, my favorite movie. He looks nothing like him but the association is made. This, I understand immediately, will make things so much more complicated.

I turn sharply toward the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Who knows what germs were in that wolf’s mouth? He could have had infected blood in there.”

Ryan follows me quickly, understanding the risk he’s at. Animals don’t contract the virus but they do carry it. If that wolf took down an infected recently, which he very well might have, he could still have active blood in his mouth. The infected don’t die, not unless you force them to. The virus doesn’t either, making a truly dead zombie almost as dangerous as a mobile one.

I set him up with a couple clean strips of cloth and some alcohol, a tall bottle of Gray Goose vodka I found in a desk in a dentist’s office. That and the handful of toothbrushes I scored were the highlight of my week. I hand the bottle to him then quickly leave the room. He can take care of himself, or so I assume since he’s still alive. Anyone who couldn’t fend for themselves or dress a wound died of starvation or infection years ago.

“So you live here alone?” he calls from my small bathroom. It’s a legit bathroom with a toilet and everything that I use leftover washing water to flush once a day. More than that if things are… well you know.

“Yeah.” I call back, noticing how my voice echoes over the destroyed hardwood floors and up into the vaulted ceilings. I don’t usually speak in here. This is already weird. “You in a gang?”

“Yeah. My brother and—hell!” He gags out a curse. I know he just doused his open wound in the alcohol. When he speaks again his voice is a little breathier than before, more strained. “He, uh, he and I joined them when our parents died.”

I nod to myself, not surprised. All of us out in the wild are orphans.

“What about you?” he asks, stepping out of the bathroom and wrapping the cloth around his forearm. He’s fumbling with it, trying to manage it with one hand. He’s failing.

“Here.” I hear myself say, and I’m across the huge room and in front of him before I realize what I’m doing. I wrap the cloth quickly around the wound, being sure to cover it entirely. Nervous, I tie the ends off a little too tightly, pinching him. He doesn’t make a sound. “There, that should hold.”

“Thanks.” he mutters, taking a step back.

I do the same. “Um, yeah, my parents died when I was eight. On Christmas Day.”

He winces. “Ouch. Mine went just after Easter.”

“When they were talking about a cure?”

“Yeah. They thought it was go

I nod, not sure what to say. Sorry is a worthless word.

“The holidays suck.” I finally tell him.