CHUPACABRA

Chapter Thirteen: The Wanderer

Forty wakes to a sky full of stars. What's alarming is that they aren't half-dulled by the panel of glass covering her domicile, but fully lit and carved in bright relief. The air is hot and humid, but there's a pleasant breeze. The beauty of it all leaves Forty wistful for a half minute, then everything comes rushing back.

"O-ow," she groans, sitting up from where she's been laying down a few inches away from Thirty-Seven, who is currently tucked into a tight side-cuddle with his legs. Forty can feel every bruise on her body, and though the cactus spines are not the worst sensation due to her durable skin and high pain tolerance, they leave her legs itchy and burning. She'd tugged a few of them out in her desperation to get her scrub bottoms off, but a good amount of them still jut out here and there. She sets to work picking them out.

The worst of it all is definitely her back. By now she's used to Thirty-Seven's unwitting piercings in her shoulders, but a full back bruise is an entirely new sensation. Bending over to take the spines out leaves tears beading in her eyes. Her back aching makes it hard to breathe. She has to pause every now and then to sit back and let her lungs take in air. The bleeding from the scratches has long since subsided and even the bite on her shoulder is closed. She runs a hand absentmindedly over the raised punctures, trying to recall what's happened in the last few hours. She finds it hard to regain a sense of urgency despite knowing there is probably an active search for the two of them in the woods right now.

"Thirty-Seven?" she mumbles, looking down at the man. He flinches though doesn't open his eyes, and Forty lays a barely-there hand on him to stir him. He unfolds from his sleep position like a spring, looking around wildly. "I'm sorry to wake you, but we need to move."

He doesn't seem to quite recognize her at first, then his face blooms crimson. "Right," he says, turning away to busily dig in the brush nearby. He finds their shredded clothes, just barely enough cloth to cover their under layers. Forty pulls her's on quickly, glad the water seems to have completely dried out.

It feels strange to lead Thirty-Seven into the thick brush. For one, it goes against Forty's nature to have the man at her back. After all, each meeting they've had ended in some sort of bloodshed, and she's sure the man would be glad to get rid of her. Forty chalks her carelessness up to both of their disheveled states. After all, it isn't worth fighting when they have a common enemy, so an uneasy truce will have to replace their violent dynamic for now. The other odd feeling comes from the fact that Forty has no earthly idea where she should be heading, relying only on her faint sense of smell and the direction of the stars. Thirty-Seven doesn't protest it.

They walk for what seems like two hours. Forty's sure they've made successful headway away from the compound. Thirty-Seven's nose has been twitching nonstop and Forty is sure she doesn't smell any worse than him, so whatever is triggering him has to be human related. A little bloom of pride swells in Forty's chest. Yes, this is why Thirty-Seven needs her. Dr. Zapata was right! The pair come to another clearing, the darkness still the conqueror of the sky despite a thin line of greenish yellow beginning to form at the bottom. It's in this clearing when Thirty-Seven suddenly stops, lets out a frustrated noise, and sinks to the ground.

"There's no animals here," he sighs, thunking his forehead into the sandy dirt. "I haven't smelled anything but birds and humans for miles."

"Maybe they are underground," Forty suggests, trying to keep herself busy by walking around the clearing. She doesn't look over at him to see what he thinks of that idea.

"I know you're a bit of a freak, but aren't you at least hungry?" Thirty-Seven mutters, fully ignoring Forty's suggestion. She's undeterred, sinking to the ground to press her ear to the dirt. All she can pick up is the faint vibration of insects, most likely ants, milling around about a foot deep. To be honest, Forty isn't hungry, but she refrains from saying that. For all of this to work, she thinks, I need to keep him docile.