The Survivors (Book 1): Summer (15 page)

Michael thought I was pretty?
 I felt my cheeks burn, and leaned in closer to listen.

"
What if she's dangerous, or crazed?  You don't know anything about her.  She's clearly a loner, and that says things about her mental state.  What if
she’s
a thief?  What if she’s a serial killer and playing on our pity?"

Michael’s deep voice was firm and commanding, and rose to my defence.
 "The only thing it says about her mental state is that she’s been through a lot of pain, doc.  You saw her face when we were talking.  Even Maddy could see it.  She honestly thought we were going to rob her or kill her – or worse.  Just think about what it must have been like to live like that for so long."

I heard footsteps, but they weren't coming closer; it sounded like he was pacing.
 

"
We can't just abandon her."  It was Michael’s voice again, low and solemn.  "If she wants to go, that's one thing.  But forcing her out would be wrong – it’s both immoral and unethical.  Frankly, doc, I’m a little disappointed that you would even suggest it.  She’s a human being, just like all the rest of us, and she’s traumatised.  She needs us."

My heart leapt into my throat, and the flush faded almost as soon as it began.
 Dr Cross wanted to throw me out? It felt like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.  I wasn't surprised though, really.  I probably wouldn't want me around either.

There was silence in the room, apparently as the men were thinking over their decisions, while out in the hall I slumped against the wall.
 Tears ran down my cheeks, and I wiped them away with a corner of my towel.

"
Ah, what is it with you and picking up strays?"  There was a heavy sigh.  "I suppose you’re right.  She does deserve a chance.  But I must insist that if she becomes any kind of threat to Madeline, you evict her immediately or we will leave.  You understand, of course."    

The sound of footsteps came again as the men parted ways, heading in opposite directions.
 I didn’t know where the doctor went, but it was Michael who emerged from the doorway where I was eavesdropping.  He turned to head in the direction of the bathroom, then froze when he saw me right there, in tears.

"
If your friend doesn’t want me here, then I’ll go," I said softly and sniffled, not wanting to blow my nose on their nice towel.  With as much dignity as I could muster, I shoved myself away from the wall and drew myself up to my full height.  Then I gave the handsome young man a long, hard look, trying my best to pretend I hadn’t been crying like a baby a second before. "It’s okay, I understand.  This is your home, not mine.  I wouldn’t feel right staying here if it made you and your friends fight."

I gave him the faintest of smiles, then turned and limped my blubbery mess off in the direction I was at least slightly certain my room was.
 The truth of the matter is that I wasn’t comfortable with the situation at all and I wasn’t sure how to react.  The whole thing was overwhelming, and my automatic response to the unknown was to retreat.     

Behind me, Michael swore under his breath.
 The sound of his footfalls behind me sped up, so I picked up the pace to try and outdistance him.  Injured and vulnerable as I was, he caught up with me easily; his big hands captured my shoulders from behind.

I tensed, automatically expecting to be beaten or violated.
 Even though I had already come to understand that Michael was a gentle man by nature, my instincts were so warped that I was ready to defend myself in a heartbeat.  But one thing held me back: No matter how hard I fought, violence wouldn’t fix the terrible emptiness that I felt at the thought of being alone all over again.  I had tasted the simple joy of human acceptance, and I longed for it – but the last thing I wanted was to tear apart other people’s relationships in the process.

Michael didn’t hurt me, of course.
 He just held me gently, close enough to him that I could feel his body warmth on my back, but not quite close enough to touch.

"
The doc’s just a cranky old man, and he’s always picking a fight over something."  Michael’s voice was hard at first, but it softened as he spoke.  The last words were almost a whisper, and I sensed something in them that I didn’t quite understand.  "Don’t pay any attention to him.  
I
want you to stay."

I couldn’t think of an answer.

He turned me around to face him, as gently as if I were a porcelain doll.  I stared up at him silently, and saw the look of concern on his face.  

"
Nobody should have to be alone unless they want to be," he said, his voice calm and reassuring.  "You don't want to be alone, do you?"

The tears sprang back unbidden.
 Although I tried to blink them away, the lump in my throat made it impossible.  The pressure of spending all those years alone was just too much for me to bear.  My head ached and I felt like I might burst at any second.  I looked away and tried to think of an appropriately sassy response, but all I could think of was little Tigger, the kitten who had been my only companion in many years.

Did I really want to be that alone again?
 It hurt just to think about it.  These people were so nice that it brought me back to another place and time.  A time when I was young, before I needed to be afraid of everyone.  Back to being with my family, safe and loved.

Did I really want to go back to the endless silence, where the only kind of conversation I could have was with myself?

No, I really, really didn’t.

I shook my head and closed my eyes against the onslaught of pain.
 Michael seemed to understand my turmoil.  He put his arms around me and drew me up against his broad chest, holding me so tenderly it was like he was afraid he might break me if he squeezed too hard.  I tensed right up, before I realised that he was just hugging me in an attempt to comfort me.  I hadn’t been hugged since Grandma died.  I barely even recognised what it was.

It felt… nice.

Lacking the experience to know what to do, I just stood there pathetically, my face pressed up against his chest.  The tears flowed freely, and he held me as I cried.  The longer he held me, the weaker my defences grew and the more the wordless emotion poured out of me.  But even when my shoulders shook and I struggled to muffle the convulsive sobs that fought their way out, he was there for me, like a pillar of strength to hold me up while I was weak.

Something in me had burst.
 Over the years, I’d built up an emotional dam to survive. That dam had been full to bursting for a very long time, and every day it was a battle to keep it under control.  Something about the warmth of human contact made it impossible to keep forgetting and keep suppressing, and so I wept.

I wept for all the things I’d lost, for all the things I’d never have, and for all the lives that had been snuffed out in futility all around me.
 For the unbearable pain I’d suffered in silence all these years, with no kind of vent or release to keep me sane.

I had no idea how long it was before I regained control of my emotions, but when I did I felt exhausted, drained and sore all over again.
 I leaned against him for almost a minute longer while I caught my breath, before I finally broke the embrace.  He let me go, but kept his hands resting on my shoulders, his face full of kindly concern.  Not a word of judgement, no questions, he just waited, giving me as much time as I needed until I was ready to talk to him.

"
Bleh."  My first word was not an elegant one. "I think I'm dehydrated now."  I buried my face in the towel and scrubbed away salty tears with the dampest corner I could find.  Michael blinked owlishly at my comment, and then cracked a smile.

"
We better get you something to drink, then."  His voice was soft and husky in a way that sent shivers down my spine.  Without asking permission this time, he slid his arm around my shoulders and led me off toward the kitchen – and I let him.  I was not in the mood to fight.

I let him seat me at the table and watched listlessly as he poured two glasses of cool water from the fridge.
 He set one down in front of me and seated himself across the table, sipping deliberately from his glass.  I mostly just played with mine, more interested in figuring out the weird feelings that careened through my gut than drinking water.

It was a good five minutes before he finally broke the silence.
 When he reached out to me, it was with the dry, sarcastic brand of humour that I always resorted to; apparently he had noticed already, and turned my own verbal weapon back against me.  He was trying to get a rise out of me, any kind of rise, so that he could assess the extent of my psychological damage – and I knew it.  

"
Are you moping?"

"
Yeah," I answered without missing a beat, then heaved a dramatic sigh.  "Apparently my brain is broken.  I feel stupid and rude and– and–"  I looked up at him, finally seeking out his kind eyes.  "And I'm sorry I hit you."

"
You do pack a mean right hook."  He smiled and rubbed his jaw sheepishly.   "Don't even worry about it.  I understand.  Big, scary guy sneaks up behind you in a dark, terrifying hospital, and almost shoots you in the butt?  I'd have punched me, too."

"
I didn't break your jaw, did I?"  I felt a flash of unexpected concern.

"
No, I don't think so.  Doc says it might be a little cracked, but it'll heal just fine."

I stared at the bruise, noticing the fine stubble on his chin for the first time.
 It was nice, just a half day's growth but it made him a little less perfect, a little more human.  Just the right touch of scruffiness.  I wondered if the bruise made it hurt to shave, but I decided not to ask.  Instead, I looked down again with another soft sigh.

"
You've been so patient with me.  I'm really sorry, for everything."  I felt ashamed of myself and didn't quite know how to express it.  "I'm just, you know..."

He reached across the table, and rested his hand over mine.
 "I know.  You're broken."  He smiled softly, and gave my hand a comforting squeeze.  "It's okay.  You've been through a lot.  We'll talk about it, gradually, when you're ready.  I'll help you get better."

"
You mean that?"  I asked softly, feeling hope for the first time in what felt like forever.

"
Damn right, I do.  We're friends now, okay?  You and me.  And Doc and Maddy, too.  And the others once you get a chance to meet them.  We're all friends, and we're here to support one another.  Right?"

"
Yeah," I agreed readily, although I barely remembered what it was like to have a friend.  There had been a lot of friends in my early life, before the outbreak, but now I was in uncertain territory.

"
Besides," he reached over to lightly chuck me under the chin in a friendly fashion, "if we ditched one another just because we were a little broken, this place would be completely empty."

I couldn’t help but laugh.
 It was the first laugh I'd had in a while, too.  The sound of it made him smile.

***

We just talked for a while about nothing in particular, about cartoons we watched as children and the places where we grew up.  The conversation stuck to cheerful things.  Skillful manipulation on his part, but I wasn't complaining.  I needed it, to just talk about good times and forget all the bad ones.

He even broke out the food to keep me distracted, and we ate reheated spaghetti-from-a-can together while we chatted.

"Call me crazy, but I think the little sausages are the best part."  He stabbed one of the tinned sausages with his fork.

"
Yeah, I agree.  I always begged my mum to get the kind with the sausages in it when I was little.  She always said no, no, it's not good for you, they’re more expensive, blah blah; but then she’d end up buying it anyway."  

He was really good.
 Usually, whenever I thought about my mother, I suffered a terrible pang of grief; this time, all I felt was the wistfulness of remembering a happy memory.  With an impish grin, he waved the little sausage at me teasingly, and then popped it in his mouth.  I stuck my tongue out childishly in return, and found my own sausage to eat.

"
Mich-ael?"  A female voice called from some distance away, drawing our attention away from our lunches.  A few seconds later, the voice called again.  "Mi-ike?"

Michael grunted in annoyance.
 "She knows I hate being called that."

"
I understand.  I don't much care for my full name." I nodded understandingly, twirling spaghetti on my fork.

"
What, Sandra?"  He peered at me, curious.

"
That's actually not it."

"
Then what is it?"

"
I'm not telling."  I waved my fork at him in mock threat.  "If I tell you, then you'll be tempted to use it, and if you use it then I'll have to give you a shiner to match your jaw."

"
Oh no, anything but that."  He feigned terror briefly, then stood up and stretched.  "I better go see what they want.  They were out scavenging, so they probably found something big and want me to help them move it.  You want to come meet them?"