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[ season two, episode nine ]
They say that when one bad thing happens, another is bound to occur.
Marley Whitman didn't want to believe that sobering statement — or even come to acknowledge its existence — but she knew it was right. Ignoring it was not going to improve the harrowing circumstances the entire population had become subject to over a matter of days. She was kidding herself if she believed that. Pretending that the chilling air encapsulating them, twisting around their destroyed front-room, was a figment of her imagination was not going to make things any different — was not going to bring back what she wished would always stay.
Two hours ago, Marley's mother was bitten by one of the crazed people.
It didn't seem real. Almost. But it was, and the Whitman family were absolutely clueless about what was to come next. How they were going to resolve this. A way for Monica Whitman to heal — despite facing the fatal repercussions of a situation they had continuously been warned to avoid. Monica's fate was sealed. She had only wanted to help someone who looked as though they needed it — lumbering down the street with blood gushing from a wound splattered across their neck — and this was the result.
A punishment like no other. Death.
Marley watched her mother's chest rise and fall, clutching the woman's cold hand so tightly that her knuckles blanched.
She didn't want Mom to die, but she was beginning to realise it was going to happen regardless of what they did. What they do. Who they pleaded to for help. Nothing was going to work — despite Dad's incessant pacing and silent, hissing begs. He just needed to be there for Mom, now. To hold her hand as the life slowly dimmed from her eyes. To grieve someone they had already lost.
But Marley knew her father and she knew he was not going to give up so easily.
"We need to make a move," he said, voice wavering through a mixture of fear and irresolute grief. "The CDC might be able to help. They were working on a cure, last I heard."
Marley watched him continue to pace. He was talking to himself. She only acknowledged her father's dilemma because he didn't try to sign his words as he spoke them. They always made sure to sign; Sage wouldn't understand their conversations if not.
Her sister was lying on the edge of the sofa next to Mom. With a weak hand and little strength, Monica Whitman brushed Sage's springy curls back away from her face, silently willing herself to stay awake.
