𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐤 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐔𝐬

38. There Is No Fear in Love.

T H I R T Y - E I G H T
There Is No Fear in Love

I wish I was smart. Someone capable of calming themselves under duress, who doesn't make rash choices that can't be walked back. Able to think things through logically, coming to a sane conclusion.

But I'm not. I guess my brain isn't wired that way, perhaps it's to do with being born addicted to drugs—meth is no joke. Or, maybe I'm just not smart. My brain is too clouded in fog to make clear choices, the types of fog I'm unable to clear. Joel is smart, as is Ellie.

But, being smart has little impact on certain things. My ability to crack someone over the head with a broken lamp is one thing that is probably boosted by my lack of intelligence.

The man hits the ground, out cold.

"Fucking dick," I mutter, squatting down, cringing at the strain on my stitches; some of them almost certainly splitting. I snatch his rifle, checking the ammo, pleased to see there is definitely enough to get me out of some shit. But, before I go I take a generous amount of scalpels and stuff them in my pockets—actually, not my pockets. "Thanks for the rifle."

I poke my head out the door, listening to the carnage. Shouting, gunshots, thudding of feet.

If I was smarter, I'd run away, but I'm not.

I run toward the noise, only actually managing a pained jog. One kick to the back of the knee and I am not getting back up.

My heart is in my throat as I scan each person and look at discarded bodies on the floor, terrified to see Joel or Ellie's face devoid of life.

Peering around the corner, my gun at the ready, I see a familiar face. Not realising he's going to be more than on edge, I step out from the corner with the smallest of smiles. An expression of relief, not happiness. Instead of a joyous reunion, a bullet is buried an inch from my head.

Good thing he's a lousy shot.

"The fuck?!" I rub my ear to try and relieve the ringing. "I'm here to help, dipshit. You don't kill help."

The gun that, a second ago, was poised to kill me drops by his side as he rushes over to me, gripping my shoulders and looking me over. He seems not to believe I'm actually here. "You fell, I– they took us. They said you died," his voice cracks.

I scoff, "Takes more than falling through a story or two to kill me. Fucked me up a little, but not enough I can't go save Ellie's scrawny ass." I downplay how fucked up my body is right now, the second the adrenaline fades I'm down and out. It's slightly unnerving, there are a few outcomes of this: all three of us get out, steal a car and drive off into the sunset—this clearly is the ideal outcome; next in line for ideal outcomes is me getting Joel and Ellie out and just dying from something, but knowing they're okay; next, if we can't get out, they just put a bullet in my brain for being as useful as a lame horse; the worst outcome is knowing Joel and Ellie, the people I live for, are dead and I'm not. That itself will kill me, if not my body then certainly my soul.

I won't fight if that happens, I will revert back to what happened in that cupboard, lying down to die, but this time I won't get back up. I'll curl up nice and comfortable and just wait.

"Are you hurt?" He looks me over, his jaw tense as he asks. "I almost shot you in the head."

I decide against telling him I yanked rebar out my leg a few hours ago, and have, what I think, are staples in the back of my head. Not to mention the fact my vision is a little blurry and my hearing isn't great. Or that I'm about to try and kill everyone, that's the type of hurt I am. Instead of blurting all that, I roll my eyes. "You're a lousy shot, let me do all the shooting from now. You just lead the way," I tip my chin, signalling we should keep going.