Metastasis

Chapter 3

Staring up at the sky, heart hammering behind his ribs, Lowry jolts when a foot taps against his—quick and hesitant. He's not the only nervous one here.

The only word that solidifies enough in his jumbled thoughts to be wheeze out is, "Fuck." Closing his eyes, he breathes through the dissipating fear of infected and queasiness of nearly having to shoot someone. He's left with jittery muscles, throbbing joints, and a sharp pain at the back of his skull.

"Hey?"

The voice is close, but Lowry only opens his eyes when fingers pulling at the mask over his face than in response to the words.

Lifting his hands up, he grips the mask, holds it in place. "No." Panic is bubbling up in his chest again, though he's not sure why. Four days and the thing has become everything to him. Shield and security. An embodiment of everything he knows he needs to be right now. If he takes it off now—He doesn't want to think about it. He needs it.

"Look, you're head's bleeding pretty badly. I need to take it off so I can get a better look at you, alright? I'm not going to take it. You can hold on to it if you want." The man's voice is hard but soothing. It's the voice of someone who's used to rough situations, and, for whatever it's worth, sounds trustworthy.

"Yeah. Okay. Hold on." The words croak out of him past a tight throat and dry lips, but he makes quick work of the straps, ignoring the warm, slick stickiness of his own blood coating them and the buckles. Squinting, he lifts off the mask, keeps it clutched tight in his hands as he looks up at the guy kneeling beside him.

He reminds Lowry of an environmental sciences TA he had his freshman year of college, a too many years into his PhD to give up. Except, with his broad shoulders and thick-fingered hands, this guy looks like he'd play whatever the environmental science version of football is—rugby? Then there's that semi-scraggly beard that should be a lot more worse for wear considering the current apocalypse, and the hard line of his jaw, and the dirt coating his canvas jacket that make Lowry think of hunters—though he's not sure if environmental science TA's hunt. But that's what the guy looks like. Some professor-to-be who plays rugby and hunts on his off time. Albeit, one with a brow furrowed with worry and soft concern in his gaze.

Light brown eyes narrow as they take in Lowry's face, which, from the way his eyebrows jump, isn't whatever he was expecting. Then he's reaching forward, gripping Lowry's shoulders in his sturdy hands. "Let's get you sitting up and take a look at this."

It's embarrassing how much Lowry relies on the guy to haul him up, though he's going to blame that on the head injury if it ever gets brought up in conversation.

"Damn, do head wounds bleed."

The guy pushes Lowry forward a bit, until he's able to stay seated without a hand on his back, and then the hands are gone. There's motion, though Lowry doesn't waste the energy to look over and see what's going on. A moment later there's soft fabric pressing against the back of his scalp. After a second he realizes it's probably the guy's shirt.

"Let's get you up and into your car. I saw some dishtowels in that grocery store. We'll just keep some pressure on it and let it clot."

Standing is another feat made possible by the stranger. It takes what's left of Lowry's energy and focus and it's not until he's sitting in the driver's seat of the jeep, leaning forward and resting his forehead against the wheel, a position he's all too familiar with by this point, that he thinks to say, "It won't," before the guy leaves.

"What won't do what?" There's still a hand on his shoulder, like he might melt and slide off to the side without some guidance. Maybe he will.

Lowry's head pounds. "It won't clot. Not for a while. I need to bandage it."

There's whoosh of breath from beside him. "You're a hemophiliac?" asked with soft astonishment. No doubt the guy is agonizing that he would, of course, run into a legitimate, talking, thinking person just to find they're damaged.

A ghost of a smile pulls at the corners of Lowry's lips at the thought. Damaged. The smile disintegrates, as he says, "No I have leukemia."

"Shit."

He closes his eyes against that, clenches his jaw against the lack of pressure on his shoulder as the hand slides away. This is it. The first person, the first non-infected, he's seen in two weeks and this is it. Two and a half minutes, a bit of a scare, and a confession. It'll be enough. A sad but nice memory of a stranger who helped pile him into his jeep after taking a fall, before parting ways.

It'll override the other memories for a little bit.

He only needs it to last him a month—two at the most.

"Let me get the dishtowels."

The door of the jeep shuts with a soft thud and outside the window footsteps fade into the distances, leaving Lowry with his breathing and his heartbeat and his aching, full-body pain, clasping a stranger's t-shirt to the back of his head. He has every intention of starting up the engine and driving away, making it to the dam and hauling the Roberts' boat out onto the water, but he ends up falling asleep instead.