The Passing

Chapter Three [updated]

Twigs snap behind me, and I'm alert. The horde followed me. Maybe this is a sacrifice that will save my family and my people. There's a voice- a whisper. Olivia. The faintest sound, just barely above a breath, so soft and delicately I swear I am losing my mind. One hand on the worn handle of my knife, I get ready, my nails dig into the palm of the other.

"Is somebody there?" I whisper, my head swiveling in every direction. Instantly, I regret it. How naive of me? If James were here, he'd scold me for being so inconsiderate— my life is hanging on a thin line. My eyes sweep over every shadow, searching.

"Kimmy? Where are you?" their tone is hushed, careful not to attract the undead, but at least finally they speak and the anvil in my chest lightens up. Hesitantly, I step from the tree with wobbly legs. She runs into me, full force, throwing her arms around my neck. Her cold skin shakes, her nails dig into me as she holds me close.

"You can't do that," Savanna cries into my neck. Sharply, she pulls away, holding me out in front of her at arm's length. I'm frozen in place with disbelief as she holds me there, focusing intensely on my eyes. She's supposed to be with Sam and James. She shouldn't be here, wasting time on me. "you can't just run, okay? We're all out here together —" She pauses and wipes at her cheek. "your brother and Uncle should be back at Camp by now. I told them I would bring you back."

Something in me snaps, and I try to repress it but the attempt to do so comes out as a half-stifled sob. "I'm sorry," I force, covering my face with my hands. Air thick in my throat, a tremor lingers in my fingertips. The tension from the guilt I carry still resides in my chest, nestling deeper and deeper in its makeshift nest, making itself a more permanent home.

The cool touch of her fingertips brush mine before folding over my hand. She gives my palm a reassuring squeeze, but doesn't say a word. She must know, she must see it, the readiness to give up brimming my eyelashes. I can't keep on. Not like this. One false move, one mistake and everyone could die. I've already screwed this up. Lifting my watery eyes to hers, she waits for my okay before we move. It's now, or never. I wipe at my damp cheeks and nod. She readies her weapon, glancing over her shoulder to make sure I follow this time.

Every misstep, the crunch of leaves and twigs echo in the night. My heart thumps in my ears and I quicken my pace to match Savanna's. We carefully walk, and while Savanna seems certain of her directional skills, something else bothers me. "What happened to all the Roamers?" My question lingers in the eerily quiet.

She slows, her head swiveling in every which direction as if she too were only now realizing really how quiet it's gotten. Despite the lack of light, her features reveal something. Her grip tightens, knuckles turning white around Sam's Gun. "Come on, let's keep moving."

I swallow hard.

She's hiding something. Or at least, she has an idea as to why these woods are silent, but she refuses to share it with me. Maybe she thinks I can't handle it either, just like James, and I can't blame them.

The pang in my chest grows, swells beyond its means. I force my own steady breathing, anything to conceal the guilt burrowing in my stomach. Mama always prayed. She prayed before we would eat, when we went to sleep, before Daddy and James would leave on their trips, before every journey to find a new home. As we press onward into the night, my prayers dance from my lungs, a plea to save the people I may have left behind.

* * * * * * * *

Our surroundings grow more and more familiar, markings carved into the trees more recognizable than the back of my hand. Fumes of gasoline and burning plastic mix in the air, making us choke with every breath we take. Despite the rising sun, the trees still harbor night's shadows making it harder to pinpoint where the smoke accumulating around our ankles comes from. I pull the collar of my shirt up over my nose, and try to muffle the sound as I cough. Savanna stops, glancing at the exposed patches of ground around our feet, concern written on her face.