Rise

Cries

The pounding of his strides against the asphalt could only be paralleled by the beat of his heart. Utter terror is great for cardio.

Disregarding most of what's around him, he runs. The gasps and snarls of creepers and stalkers he'd caught the attention of along the way, the unattended vehicles possibly stocked up with supplies, his lungs ready to explode from the exertion – all ignored. He runs, mind one-track.

Finding her. That's all that matters.

"Trish!" He cries her name out repeatedly. "Triiiiiish!" Over and over until he could no longer hear the sound of his own voice. Being someone with such short legs, how far could she have gone? He's certain she'd gone this way. The small trail of breadcrumbs she left were the only thing he'd been paying attention to. The dainty footprints she left in muddier parts of the road, the water canteen he's positive is hers...The fresh blood. Which is what ultimately drove him to a sprint. He isn't certain if it's hers, but that does nothing to calm him.

She could be out there. Bleeding. Injured.

And it would be on him.

Why couldn't he have just reprimanded her? Sending her away, to face this world by herself...He might as well have killed her himself. He shakes off the thought. She's strong, resilient – she's got this, he reminds himself. She's the reason he's still alive, after all. He owes her nothing short of everything.

"Trish..." he tries again, his strained voice barely making a sound. His legs sore, and his chest aching, his body finally seizes control from his mind, and he falls to his knees. Ignoring the pain in his joints from the landing, he slips his water bottle out of the side pocket of his backpack and downs a few gulps. "Trish..." he repeats, setting the bottle down beside him. "Tri-" He moves onto his hands and knees and vomits. There goes some of his water supply.

Getting himself up off the ground is no easy feat; legs shaking, back aching. He wipes his mouth, picking up his bottle and sliding it back into its designated pocket. He winces, focusing his sight down the long, empty road ahead of him. No sign of her. Perhaps the trail she left was meant to be a distraction; to mislead him? Would she have had the time to purposely lead him astray? Not a minute after discovering her disappearance had he hesitated. Had he sat their sobbing for that long?

Though his pursuit of her had given him the time he needed to process. It gave him a chance to reflect on what the girl had done. Everything happened so fast at the time, he wasn't quite sure how to react – hadn't even begun to sort it out. And he pushed her away.

Self-defense; Trish was protecting them both. The darkness in Etta's eyes resurfaces in his memory. The way she honed in on them. The way she approached Trish, as if one of the dead – starving for her flesh. Why had he been so ready to push his friend away? His fear was what had drove him to protect her – yet that fear came back around to seek protection from her. As if she would ever hurt him.

"Damn it!" he shrieks through gritted teeth, clenched fists tightening to the point his nails dig into his palms. He slams them down onto the asphalt, wincing and whimpering from the throbbing. He wipes his watering eyes. No time to wallow in regret. He steadily picks himself up again, experiencing vertigo from the torrent of emotion, as well as the overexertion.

A few hours had passed in his search, and although he had welcomed the cool of the night after sundown, he knows that he can't continue wandering about in the open after dark. Though he hasn't a choice.

_______________________________________ 

 "Dez." His name on her lips first thing in the morning. She stirs in her sleep, wakening to the raspy melody of the dead. What she doesn't hear is his steady heartbeat. She was so certain he'd been there by her side – or was it all a dream? Had she not fallen asleep, curling up against his chest? Had he not lulled her as he played with her curls?