The Dead Among Us

2. Bucktooth

Fábia's POV 

I cautiously survey my surroundings, my eyes darting from shadow to shadow, trying to discern where he's leading me. He's carrying a rifle on his shoulder, its cold metal glinting in the dim night, as he guides us forward with his flashlight.

His hand, a vice-like grip on my bicep, is a stark contrast to my own. Its sheer size envelops my entire arm. 

Intricate tattoos, a map of his past, adorn his hand and fingers, and I can't help but wonder what stories they hold. I'm sure there's more under his jacket.

Beneath his worn ballcap, I see a glimpse of his ebony, tightly coiled curls. I've yet to catch sight of his face, though, and the suspense is becoming nerve-wracking.

His complexion reminds me of my father's, with a similar deep brown tone that brings a sense of familiarity. The resemblance to my dad subconsciously eases my nerves, coaxing me to keep following along with this stranger. I know such things shouldn't sway me, but yet I keep going.

I soon come to realize he's leading me toward a pickup truck, and his grip on my arm lessens. Then, unexpectedly, he completely lets go as he slings his rifle down in a panic.

"Get behind me!" he orders and aims his rifle toward the truck.

How he noticed it is beyond me, but three zombies suddenly leap from the shadows behind the truck and beeline straight for us, their growls and moans filling the air. The one at the forefront has no lower jaw, only protruding buck teeth dying to puncture into me.

The man doesn't shoot; he just cautiously keeps backing up. 

As Bucktooth gets closer and closer, I'm fixin' to abandon my good Samaritan and make a run for it. 

 My idea is foiled as something grabs my shoulder, and I whirl around, shrieking in fright. Bucktooth has a cousin, and she was seconds away from tearing into me. 

I pull my blade out, raise it above my head, and then drive it into the zombie's head, feeling the squish and crunch, relishing in the sickening sound and sensation of its skull giving way beneath my weapon.

As I look back to the man, he's using the butt of his rifle to obliterate the zombie's heads, shattering them into gruesome fragments. I finally understand why he wasn't shooting.  

I watch as he demolishes the monsters with ease, and as the last one squelches under his fury, we both take in a breath of air, just standing there. The quiet soon gets awkward and uncomfortable. We're just both recovering under the moonlight sky. The only sounds are our ragged breaths carried in the breeze.

Trying to take the initiative for my bleeding hand, I take a step toward his truck, walking past him.

"Stop right there," he warns in an icy tone. The sharpness of it causes me to freeze in my tracks and my lungs.

Slowly, I turn to face him, and as he comes into view, I catch a glimpse of a portion of his face beneath the brim of his cap. His eyes are shielded, but I can discern the sturdy bridge of his nose and his full, firm lips. A luscious, kinky beard adorns his cheeks and chin, imparting an aura of ruggedness to his countenance. 

Towering over me, he forces me to crane my neck upward to meet his gaze. "I thought that's where we were headed..." I respond, striving to maintain a calm tone despite my beating heart.

He emits a grunt as he adjusts his rifle over his shoulder and strides past me toward the tailgate of his truck. He lowers the small metal door, careful to minimize any noise. I notice his vigilant survey of our surroundings, ensuring that no zombies lie in wait. Leaning forward, his jacket lifts slightly, affording me a fleeting glimpse of his skin and the waistband of his boxers.

Removing a duffle bag from the truck bed, he instructs, "Give me your hand."

I extend my bleeding hand to him as he props his flashlight in his mouth to see and assess my wound. It's only then do I realize the extent of the damage. I have not only sliced off my pinkie but also my ring finger, nearly my middle, and a chunk of my hand. No wonder I was bleeding so much. 

Holding my hand in the palm of his, he examines the aftermath of my blade. I detect his dark eyes raised toward my face, but only for a brief second before he reaches into the duffle bag, pulling out a plastic bottle. 

"Don't scream," is all he warns right before he pours the contents onto my hand, leaving me with little time to react or process his words. The liquid, in an instant, jolts a horrendous burning sensation that shoots up my entire arm, shocking my body. I throw the crook of my left elbow over my mouth, biting onto my denim jacket to stifle my scream as it claws its way up my throat, desperate to escape. 

"Fuck!" I cry, the droplets freely falling from my eyes like a waterfall right before the pain gets worse. My eyes are blurry from the tears. I don't see him retrieving a towel, but the next thing I know, he's squeezing it onto my bare, exposed flesh. 

"Stop... stop... stop, please," I'm pleading, unable to catch my breath. I try to wring my hand free, but his hold is too tight. This pain is the worst thing I've ever gone through. My entire body is starting to shake uncontrollably, my head is spinning, and I want to deck this guy right in the nose. 

"I need to stop the bleeding," he says calmly, still squeezing the bejesus out of my hand. I'm sobbing like a baby in front of him, and it's nothing short of embarrassing. 

Soon, I feel him gently ushering me closer to the tailgate. "Hop up," I hear him tell me, but I can't do anything. This pain is overriding every fiber of my body and mind. He doesn't press the matter as I continue standing there sobbing.

After a few agonizing seconds, he stops to examine his efforts, and I feel the blood still seeping out, drenching the cloth, and just like that, my torture resumes. As he squeezes again, I exhale a sharp breath, throwing my head back. 

"How did this happen?" he asks softly; his eyes aren't on me but constantly scanning behind me and all around us for danger. 

I don't know how to answer and just stand there crying until his eyes finally pierce mine for an answer. 

"...I...did...it..." I finally make out; his intense eyes crack my resolve. They hold the power like that of Wonder Woman's Lasso of Truth.

His jaw twitches as he asks, "You got bit?" 

Fresh tears fall as I reveal, "A fucking squirrel..." my bitterness evident. 

He averts his gaze a moment with a sigh, "How long ago?" 

"Uhh... a few minutes before you found me." 

He doesn't say anything else. I can tell he's thinking. What about, though? I only wish I knew. I raise my head to gauge his reaction, but he's too focused on my hand and our surroundings. 

After a few seconds, he breaks the awkward silence with, "I don't want to tourniquet your hand because then you might lose it, but this bleeding won't stop."  

I'm about to answer him, tell him to do whatever he has to do, but nothing comes out. My mouth is open, but I'm just mumbling. An awful feeling washes over me as my head goes hot and wobbly like an infant unable to hold its own neck. The hotness spreads through my whole body from the top of my head to the ends of my toes, taking my bearings with it. 

"Hey! Hey!" he yells, and I feel his fingers dig into my back as he grabs my shoulders. 

The next thing I know, everything goes black.