Walking With the Dead

Half an hour later, Emma and Daryl had collected enough gasoline to coat the base of the tree. It had only take ten minutes for Daryl to locate a tree that was far enough away from any other structure, reducing the chance of the fire spreading. The next twenty minutes they spent siphoning gasoline from cars, collecting it in an empty bucket and dumping it on the tree.

“Lighter,” Daryl said, holding his hand out.

Emma dropped the little plastic lighter in his hand, their hands meeting briefly. Emma looked up at Daryl, hesitating, and Daryl looked down at her, and simply nodded. Emma scurried back and hid inside a woodshed that was about twenty yards away from the tree. She peered through a broken window and watched as Daryl ignited the lighter, and then dropped it against the base of the tree.

For a moment Emma was afraid the flame wouldn’t catch. She was afraid that the tree was too damp and the gasoline had been diluted by the snow. Emma watched on, breathless and praying for the flame to catch.

It did. At first it was slow: a small trickle of flame dancing along the surface. But then the fire tapped into a hidden reserve of fuel, and it flamed into life, quickly engulfing the base of the tree and stretching up towards the branches. Daryl stepped away from the flaming tree and backed into the woodshed. He then knelt beside Emma and propped his crossbow up on the open windowsill.

They just sat there for several minutes, watching the tree burn. As the damp wood burned, great plumes of thick black smoke rose into the air. Even in the darkness of the night that smoke would be difficult to miss. The fire sent out massive waves of heat. Emma was numb from the cold, and the warmth on her cheeks felt like paradise. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to succumb to the pleasure of the heat, if even for a moment.

“Do you think this is going to work?” Emma asked. A good ten minutes had passed since the tree first caught fire. She was beginning to worry that no one was going to see their beacon.

“It better,” Daryl said. “We don’t have a Plan B.”

Then, as if answering her fears, a low rumble of an engine was added to the loud crackle of the fire. Emma saw a pair of headlights roll down the street, and the white truck emerged from around the corner.

“Emma, get down,” Daryl instructed.

Emma, knowing now was not the time to start an argument with Daryl, curled up in a dark corner of the woodshed. She heard the roar of the engine die down, and then the crunch of snow as it was crushed beneath several pairs of boots.

“How the hell did this happen?” a disembodied voice demanded. Emma could envision the strangers, warmly bundled up in winter gear, standing around the burning tree.

“Not by itself. Someone did this,” a second, wary, voice answered.

THZZZZ-NK.

On cue, Daryl loosed the bolt from his crossbow. Daryl had told Emma he planned to aim the bolt at the strangers’ feet, so he could get their attention without anyone getting hurt. Judging from the noises she heard – gasps of surprise, but no cries of pain – Emma assumed Daryl had made his mark.

An instant later, Emma heard a stern voice yell out, “Who’s there?”

Daryl stood up, but kept to the side of the window so most of his body was protected. “Over here.”

Emma heard movement of bodies. She then heard the familiar sound of a shotgun being pumped and loaded, and her heart skipped a beat. Her mouth went dry. “How many are there?” she hissed.

Daryl said nothing, but he held up four fingers with his free hand. Emma’s heart sank. Even if Emma had been in prime physical condition, they would still be outnumbered.

“Who are you?” that stern voice demanded.

“The guy who owns the bike you looted today.”

“Which bike?”

“The one in front of the daycare. With all the antibiotics under the seat.”

There was a twitter of overlapping voices. They seemed to be debating the authenticity of what Daryl had to say. Emma heard a voice say, “I knew that bike felt warm. I was right. There was someone nearby.” Emma felt like a fist slammed into her chest; she couldn’t breathe. She thought she recognized the voice, but it was difficult to tell. Everything sounded so distant and muffled…

“Tough luck, buddy. Finders’ keepers.” It was the same, stern voice. Judging from the way he spoke up for everyone, Emma was beginning to suspect he was the leader of that group.

Emma saw Daryl’s jaw tighten. He was beginning to get annoyed. “Just give me the antibiotics back. You can keep the gun and the bullets, but I need those meds.”

“Sorry man, but I don’t got ‘em with me.”

“They back at your camp?”

The leader was silent. Emma was seriously beginning to doubt he was going to give them what they needed. A dull panic started to rise within her. She felt a tickle in her throat and her head felt heavy.

Daryl continued prying. “Shouldn’t be too hard to go get ‘em, then. Judgin’ from how long it took for ya’ll to come here after I started the fire, your camp shouldn’t be more than ten minutes away.”

Judging from the silence coming from the other party, Emma could imagine there was a displeased frown on the leader’s face. Emma started to panic. This interaction did not seem to be leaning in their favor. What if Daryl didn’t get the antibiotics? What would happen then? Well, Emma knew exactly what would happen if they didn’t get the antibiotics. Icy tendrils of fear began to constrict around her heart, making it hard to breathe and the world start to spin. She didn’t want to die. Not here. Not now.

“Daryl,” Emma said, her voice hardly above a low whisper.

“What?” Daryl didn’t move his head to speak. He hardly even moved his lips.

“I’m scared.”

Those two words made Daryl turn his head. He looked down at Emma, and in the flickering light from the fire Emma could see the sympathy and understanding in his eyes. “I know.”

“Who you got there?” The accusing shout came from outside; it was the leader’s voice. Panic shot through Emma. Daryl had said it would be best if the others didn’t know about Emma. She was weak, a liability. But now there was no way Daryl could pretend that Emma wasn’t there.

Emma could see a frown cross Daryl’s face as the gears in his mind started whirling. “A friend. She’s sick and needs those antibiotics.”

There was a short, heartless laugh from outside. Again, Emma identified it as coming from the leader. “Give up, buddy. Antibiotics won’t save her.”

Daryl clenched his jaw, a vein bulging in his forehead. “She wasn’t bit. She’s got blood poisoning.”

“David, we need to go get those meds. She’ll die if we don’t get them,” a calm, almost pleading voice reasoned.

That voice… A mixture of fear and hope rose within Emma, but she shook her head, telling herself to ignore those emotions. I’m just hearing things. I’m delirious. It’s the fever. It’s just the fever. Emma didn’t want to acknowledge how poorly she was feeling. Her arm throbbed, she was so cold she couldn’t feel her fingers and toes, and it was getting harder and harder to keep her eyes open. Emma needed those antibiotics, and soon.

“And how is that our problem?” the leader, David, spat.

“C’mon, we can spare a couple pills. It will save a life,” the same voice pleaded. Emma closed her eyes, and tried to turn off her hearing so she could ignore that voice and the hope that came with it.

“I’ve had enough of your Hippocratic Oath bullshit, Reynolds. Are you with us, or against us?”

An argument sprouted between the two men, but Emma didn’t hear any of it. She couldn’t. All of her focus circled around one word. Reynolds… Reynolds… Reynolds…

Emma couldn’t breathe. Her mind a whirl, cluttered with images of white trucks, Washington license plates and Seattle Mariners decal in the rear windows. All the puzzle pieces were falling into place, but Emma couldn’t, she wouldn’t, believe what the final product showed.

Before even knowing what she was doing, Emma stood up. She started to walk towards the door to the woodshed, supporting her weight against the wall because she felt weak. When she reached the door, Emma reached out and jiggled the doorknob.

“Emma, what are you doing?” Daryl hissed, but she ignored him.

Emma turned the doorknob and, throwing her weight against the door, it burst open and she fell into several inches of snow. But that didn’t stop her. She stood up and, after wiping the snow on the pants of her coveralls, stumbled through the snow. There were four figures standing beside the burning tree, all dressed with heavy winter coats, their faces obscured by scarves and hats, but Emma didn’t need to see a face. It only took Emma an instant to find the person she was looking for, just by the way he stood.

“Emma, stop!” Daryl yelled from behind, but again she ignored him.

“Emma? Emma!” At first, the voice was asking a question, but immediately after it was confirming a fact. Emma was vaguely aware of a flurry of footsteps crunching through the snow as one of the figures came running toward her.

“Mitch!”

Tears blinded Emma’s eyes, and she stumbled over her own feet and fell to the ground. Not even a moment later, a pair of warm arms was wrapped around her, pulling her into a tight hug. Emma broke down into tears, her body shaking with sobs.

“It’s okay, Em,” a low voice whispered in her ear. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re brother’s here.”