To The Grave

Chapter 55. Randall. Day 386.

I could feel my legs burning, aching in sharp pain as I sprinted down the exit ramp of the highway. I fell to the flat ground, my hands and arms sliding against the loose, cracking gravel. I pushed my bloody arms into the pavement, looking at the body in front of me.

I pushed her hair out of her face, my fingers pulling a broken worn out elastic from her strands. Blood trickled from her nose, spilling into her open mouth.

I grabbed her head, lifting it on my lap, smoothing out her hair with my frantic hands. I could hear gun fire exploding above us. I moved my hand to touch the back of her head, feeling blood moved onto my hands.

Her blue eyes pulled open, a small gasp of air entering her lungs. A loud groan erupted from her throat, her arms pulling me closer to her.

I sat up, gasping for air. I looked at the girl beside me, her eyes still closed. Her brother sat on the mattress beside her, his hand tangled in her matted, dark hair. His red and black flannel rested over her body.

She remained hauntingly still, her chest only moving slightly. I moved to lean against the highway median, my back aching as it touched the hard concrete. I sighed, moving against the uncomfortable ground. I pulled out a cigarette, hearing something hit the ground beside me. I stood up, lighting my smoke, as I walked out from under the overpass, seeing Ferris kicking rocks off the sides.

I could hear him pacing the stretch of road, his puffy red eyes alert and awaiting anyone or anything to move. I ducked back under the overpass, retaking my seat.

Wind blew through my hair, pushing the lingering smoke towards Marty and Winona. He sat on the mattress we had dragged two miles back for his sister, his hand still caught in her messy hair. His head leaned against the median, the kid capable of falling asleep anywhere. Anywhere from house parties, only popping his head up to finger gun at whoever suggested ordering pizza, to concerts, his head resting on a table near the bar, 'Power napping for the main band.'

I flicked ash, watching the wind blow it away along with the nostalgia raging inside me. I pushed the small filter against the ground, feeling the small cherry of flame burst against the asphalt, ashes burning my skin.

I jerked my hand back, my elbow bashing against the median. I stood back up, grabbing my large gun from the ground. I walked slowly towards the ramp, moving to replace Ferris.

A gasp stopped me in my tracks. I stared from my spot halfway up the exit ramp, at Marty and Winona, waiting to see which of them moved. Marty moved his glasses off his face, looking around. His hands touched his face, pushing his too long hair back. I continued up the ramp, finding Ferris sitting on the median, near a car.

I moved beside him, sitting facing the opposite way. I stared at the vast empty stretch of road. He stood up, moving his hands to his face, wiping tears away from his eyes. He walked to the ramp, slowly moving down.

I remained alone on the overpass, staring at the large van in front of me. Blood splattered the vehicle, a dozen bodies lying near the tires. Bullet holes littered the metal exterior, haunting me.

Rachel sat quietly at the start of the ramp, sloping down towards the lower road below us. I couldn't even hear her breathe, her loud shaky breaths mixed with sobs usually kept me awake.

I turned to look at the road from the other direction, bored of the empty views and unmoving reminders of the events that had transpired here.

'I don't want to see another of my kids dead.' The words echoed in my head, the look on Rachel's face as she refused to move down the exit ramp to see her daughter. It lingered with me, hanging around my head, long past it's welcome. As if it was ever welcome.

The scared look on Marty's face when he realized his pleas weren't going to persuade his only remaining parent, the transition to unforgiving anger as Ferris uttered the words his own mom had said.

I tightened my grip on the gun, thinking about all the trauma. Every unwanted hand on my body and every gun pointed at me. Every moment spent shaking behind something, hoping to get out of it alive. Every head injury and stomach ache and blister and sunburn and broken hand and punch to the face. Every bit of it, flooding to me. I stood up moving to the railing, looking over at the ground below me.

It didn't look so far away, just far enough to kill anyone who fell. Anyone except Winona. A part of me wanted to test it, to see if it really wasn't that far, to see if she should even still be asleep.

I felt myself leaning over the railing, jerking myself back. I hurried back to the median, sitting on the concrete. I moved my hands to my face, looking back around, checking for rotters.