Cutting Losses

Chapter 11

A few days passed, and while the safe room had offered temporary shelter, the air between Bill and Francis had grown heavier with worry. Bill’s wound wasn’t healing. The swelling remained, and the angry red around it had deepened to a sickly shade that worried Francis every time he caught a glimpse.

Bill, on the other hand, was stubborn as ever. He carried himself with that same gruff resolve, even as his body betrayed him with each step. They needed to move forward, and he wouldn’t let a little pain slow them down.

Francis paced the room, glancing at Bill every so often as he fiddled with his gun. “You sure you’re good to go?” he finally asked, voice laced with doubt. “I mean, we’ve been here a few days, and that thing isn’t getting any better. Maybe we should wait it out, see if it heals up a bit more.”

Bill, sitting against the wall with a ragged breath, didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he adjusted his bandages, wincing slightly but trying his best to hide it. “Waiting around isn’t going to fix this, Francis,” Bill replied, his voice rough but firm. “We’re burning daylight. The longer we sit here, the less likely we are to find help.”

Francis frowned, his arms crossed. “Help? Bill, you’re barely standing, and if we leave now, I’m not sure what the hell we’re gonna find out there. That wound… it looks infected. I’m not gonna let you get worse.”

Bill grunted, finally pushing himself to stand, leaning against the wall for support. “I’ll be fine, dammit. We head for the military outpost, just like we planned. They’ve gotta have supplies—better supplies than what we’ve got here.” He glanced over at Francis, locking eyes with him. “If there’s anything that can help me, they’ll have it. But we’ve got to call them in first.”

Francis’s jaw tightened, his worry evident. He didn’t like it—Bill wasn’t just pushing himself, he was gambling with his life. But he knew Bill wasn’t going to back down. That was who he was. Bill wasn’t one to sit still when there was a mission in front of him, no matter the cost.

“Look,” Bill continued, softening his tone just a bit, “I know you’re worried. I get it. But sitting here isn’t gonna help me any more than heading out. If we reach that outpost, we’ve got a real shot at getting what we need. Maybe they’ve got the kind of medicine that’ll actually fix this.”

Francis swallowed hard, biting back the rising anxiety in his chest. He couldn’t deny that Bill had a point. Their supplies were dwindling, and nothing they had was making a difference with that damn wound. But the idea of heading out with Bill in this condition? It didn’t sit right with him. He had a bad feeling, one he couldn’t shake.

“I don’t know, man,” Francis said, rubbing a hand through his hair. “This doesn’t feel right. What if we head out there and you don’t make it? What if we run into another horde, and you—”

“I’m not gonna drop dead on you,” Bill interrupted, though his voice was more strained than before. “Not today. Not tomorrow. We’ve been through worse than this. You know that.”

Francis wanted to argue, wanted to convince Bill to stay longer, to give it more time, but Bill’s expression told him everything. The old man was set in his ways, and nothing Francis could say would change his mind.

With a deep sigh, Francis relented. “Fine. But the second you start looking worse, we stop. No arguing, no pushing yourself past the point of no return. You hear me?”

Bill nodded. “I hear you. But I won’t need to stop. We’ll make it.”

Packing up their meager supplies, they prepared to leave the cabin behind. The tension between them lingered, thick and unspoken, as they both wrestled with their own fears about what was ahead. Francis kept glancing at Bill, watching for any sign that he might falter. And though Bill walked with the same tough exterior, every now and then, Francis could see the pain flash across his face when he thought no one was looking.

They stepped out into the world once again, the forest looming before them. The pathway toward the outpost stretched ahead, lined with uncertainty and danger. Francis hefted his gun, his eyes scanning the treeline for any movement. Bill, ever the soldier, moved forward with purpose, though his steps were slower than usual. The wound on his side was a constant reminder of the stakes.

“We’ll make it,” Bill repeated, more to himself than to Francis. But even he couldn’t ignore the nagging doubt that gnawed at the back of his mind. This time, he wasn’t just fighting the infected. He was fighting against his own body.

They followed the path, the idea of their mission heavy on their shoulders. And as they moved, Francis couldn’t shake the growing fear that, despite Bill’s promises, this might be one fight they couldn’t win.