This Isn't the Zombie Apocalypse

17. Ooo-Shiny Object

Dr. Calvin held a bag of ice to his bruising cheek; a green Band-Aid that read 'Dragon Fight' was stuck to the cut running down his temple, and directly under it, to cover the rest of the injury, was a pale blue Band-Aid that read, 'Shark Bite.'

Squirming in my plush seat, I twisted the metal baseball bat nervously—around and around and around, each turn ending in a high pitched yet soft clank. There was another smear of blood over it—not as much as Sarah had painted it with—though I had no idea whose it was. Maybe the stranger's. Maybe mine. Maybe Ana's.

Who was I to know?

I was not some scientist, or lawyer, or whatever. I was a teenage kid who never even began his junior year at high school. Who was hyperactive and jittery and impulsive. Who, at the moment, needed to do something. Not just sit.

Not wait as Ana got farther away.

Honestly, I didn't even know why I cared. From the way we acted around each other, anyone could tell we hated the person next to us. We were constantly giving the cold shoulder or imagining the other one being murdered mercilessly—or, at least, I was. Anger hung around us, refusing to leave, boiling in our blood.

But a strange loyalty lay there as well. Over the past few days—or was it a week? Longer?—I needed a calendar—we had grown accustomed to the other's presence, if not necessarily liking it being there.

Our relationship was twisted, to say the least: somewhat dependent of the other although normally independent. Like an extreme sibling rivalry suddenly broken; the loathing still there, lingering, but, because you are family, you have to stick together and watch each other's backs.

It's weird, I know, but it's also the only way I know how to explain it.

Shifting awkwardly, I felt the gauze around my shoulder wrinkle, folding over at the edges. I pushed my sleeve up to check on them, eyeing the red splotches lining the material. Poking my shoulder, I checked to make sure it actually hurt. It did, by the way. A lot. Pretty painful, those bullet wounds were.

I couldn't even begin to imagine how Ana felt, with a gaping hole in her leg.

"Don't touch it," Dr. Calvin snapped, the ice bag crinkling in his grip. "You'll mess up all the hard work it took to put it there."

I sneered. "It wasn't that hard."

"It was, because you don't know what it means to stay still." The last words were ground out between gritted teeth. He eyed my right tennis shoe, where I had jammed my bandaged, swollen foot against all warnings.

Yeah, I'm rebellious that way. Next I'll be eating cookies with sprinkles underneath the icing. Oh, the horror.

I glared right back, wishing for a diamond-hard Look, as I slumped down in my seat, arms crossed. "At least I want to do something, unlike you," I spat. "You don't even care that Ana was abducted."

Dr. Calvin jerked forward, cuffing my ear. Hard. Ouch. The old man had a strong hit. "I care," he hissed. "I care so, so much more than you can even begin to comprehend. I have known Ana her entire life. She is like my own child." Leaning forward, dark eyes boring into mine, he whispered harshly, "Do not tell me that I do not care." Then he leaned back in his chair, one leg propped up on the other. It was as if I didn't exist to him. I was nothing. A nobody.

"Well," I shot back—and yes, it was stupid and mean of me—standing up, "if you care so much, then why don't you go get her? Save her? Something!"