𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐤 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐔𝐬

28. Creepy Cult Shit.

T W E N T Y - E I G H T
Creepy Cult Shit.

I can't feel the cold over the unbearable clamour in my head.

The blood covering my face has long since dried, courtesy of the icy wind searing the exposed skin. The blow to the back of my head I suffered yesterday—mere moments before everything fell apart further than it ever has—is still apparent, but whether it's from being smacked or the hopelessness of the situation is yet to be seen.

As my feet crunch in the cold snow, I clutch the rifle to my chest and try not to relive the past forty-eight hours. I knew something would happen, then it did, and it was so much worse than I feared.

Ellie's in a state of panic I've never seen, so panicked that she's shaking. So panicked that she couldn't find words, so panicked that I—having never driven a horse—had led the way. We went until I found a suburban area, while the adrenaline was still pumping through me I did everything I had to. Hide the horses. Help Ellie get Joel in the basement. Make sure to check the immediate area. Get him situated. Then, and only then, do I walk to a different part of the house and panic.

Panicking so much I can't breathe, I'm on my knees face pressed into my hands, feeling the crusty blood against my palms, only just holding back the urge to scream.

I don't cry, I can't afford to yet. We're not out of the woods, the length of the bat that Joel managed to get himself stabbed by was long which means we'll need to wait it out.

Creaking wood makes me grab the nearest weapon to me, a heavy statue of a giraffe.

"It's me, Bobbie," Ellie squeaks, voice lacking the bubbly quality I've grown to adore. "You– you need to stitch it shut, it just keeps bleeding, and bleeding." She finally walks through the door with sickly, pale skin. "He's passed out. He can't die, Bobbie."

"You don't think I fucking know that? I know he can't die. I know I can't get you where you need to go. I know!" I take a second to calm myself down, so easily getting myself worked up over the palpable stress. "I don't have a fucking medical degree, Ellie, I can't stitch a stab wound shut. I don't know what the fuck to do."

Ellie wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist, tear after tear tumbles silently. "When you got shot, what did they do to save you?" Her sniffs are like a punch to the gut.

The answer is bitter in my mouth. "Nothing. There was no one, just me, and what I did was nothing. Ellie, I just laid down. I don't know how to fix this." My words are shaky, and my breathing is even worse. Her eyes skim over the sheer amount of blood on my face, neck and chest. It's just everywhere. "I've never done this before."

She adjusts her beanie, tucking her hair behind her ears, taking a steady breath. "You can sew, you told me you taught yourself. I know it's not the same, but it's more experience than I've got. So grow a pair of tits, get the fuck up and do it." Her voice is as stern as she can make it, it's still weak and shaky, but she's drawn a line in the sand.

The stitches are messy and the signs of infection are setting in. I can't be in there, watching everything happen, staring from the corner, biting my fingers until they're raw and bloody staring at the man who kept me alive slowly slipping between my fingers. Ellie busies herself doing everything she can to take care of him, constantly trying to get him to eat or drink, talking to him about whatever comes to her mind, and convincing him to stay in the land of the living.

The need to do something useful was finally put to good use when we ran out of food, before Ellie could finish the sentence 'we're out of food' I had a gun in hand and was telling her I'd be back. She weakly tried to protest, but I shut it down saying someone needed to stay with Joel. She didn't push further.