Page 81 of Death Valley

“I’ve seen worse,” I eventually say to Red, lying through my teeth as I carefully peel back the soaked bandage to reveal the full extent of the damage.

“Bullshit.” His laugh turns into a cough. “Is it…am I gonna turn into whatever Hank is now?”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Cole says from where he’s against the wall, seemingly frozen in place. “Hank just lost his mind and bit you. He’s not a zombie.”

But Red’s question still hangs in the air, unanswerable. I don’t know what’s happening to him, don’t know ifthe hungeris spreading through Red’s veins right now, transforming him from the inside out, or if that’s even how it works. All I know is the medical facts: his pulse is rapid, skin hot with fever one moment and clammy the next, pupils dilated despite the lantern light.

Tap, tap, tap.

Someone at the window again.

Each tap feels like it’s about to shatter my nerves and when I look at the others, I can see they feel the same way.

Tap, tap, tap.

“We’re going to do everything we can,” I say, telling Red the truth and doing my best to ignore the danger lurking just outside.

From the corner of my eye, I see Jensen pacing near the door, my gun in the back of his pants. I need him now more than ever and yet I lost his trust, probably for good. I mean, we’re both liars. Both keeping secrets for what we thought were good reasons. It should create a kind of equality between us, but instead it’s only driven the wedge deeper.

Outside, the wind has died down, making the tapping at the window more distinct, more deliberate. Hank—or whatever Hank has become—is still out there, still trying to get in. Still hungry.

And he might not be alone.

With a gasp, Red shivers violently, a full-body tremor that nearly knocks my hands away from his wound. “Cold,” he mutters through chattering teeth. “Why’s it so damn cold in here?”

The room is toasty enough, which means he’s worsening, and quickly.

“Get him a blanket,” I say, keeping my voice even. “And any alcohol, if we have it. For drinking. It will warm him from the inside.”

I’m not even sure if that’s true, but it sounds right.

Cole moves reluctantly, retrieving a battered flask from his pack and tossing it to Eli rather than handing it to me directly. Small, petty resistance.

Eli gives the whiskey to me, and I tell him to hold up Red’s head while I pour the whiskey between his dried and cracked lips.

“Bottom’s up,” I tell him.

Red swallows, grimacing as it goes down. “Tastes wrong,” he mutters.

“No complaining,” Jensen chides him with a small smile. “We’re giving you our rations.”

Then he looks at me expectantly and gestures with his head toward the bunks.

I nod and tell Eli to clean the dressings with the freshly boiled water, then I step away from Red and follow Jensen to the bunks, out of earshot of the rest of them.

“How long does he have?” Jensen asks, voice soft and gruff.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“You sure? I don’t know what you’ve seen at this point.”

“I’m not a doctor. I don’t have all the solutions.”

“You want solutions,AgentWells?” he counters, emphasis bitter on my title. “There isn’t one. Not once the hunger starts spreading. You’ve seen what Hank’s become. Red will be the same by morning.”

Red makes a sound, half-laugh, half-sob. I guess we aren’t out of earshot after all.

“Well, ain’t that just perfect,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Survived fifteen years of ranch work, barfights, and Marcus’s bullshit only to end up zombie chow in the mountains.”

---