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Tank is gone the next day. We don't talk about him for the five days after that, and even when Zombie and I have our talks in the bathroom we say nothing about him. It's mostly him talking, anyways, and me sitting there and listening and getting the courage to actually speak.
I find out that he was a football player, and he used to play in little league, and so I tell him that I was in cross country and ballet. He tells me that he likes dogs so I tell him that I like octopi, because I used to have a stuffed animal named Carl that kept me protected when I was younger. He laughed when I told him that, and he tells me that he has a sister named Sissy and she was younger than him and the only person he ever really cared about.
That's when my stomach starts twisting and my heart starts pounding and I want to throw up. I didn't tell him about Thomas and it makes me feel like a liar, because I haven't really told him anything at all. The next day I feel ten times worse.
"I don't want to talk today," I tell him, and so we sit in silence.
I take the time to sort my thoughts. Zombie sits in front of me and I think he is doing the same, except his hand is clutching the gold around his neck.
"Is it okay if I talk?" He asks suddenly, and his voice is surprisingly quiet and hoarse. He looks like he's going to cry.
A gentle nod as my answer yet still he doesn't speak for a couple more minutes. When he lifts his eyes to look at me, they're brimming with tears.
"It was my sisters," he says after a few moment, and I know he is speaking about the metal enclosed in his calloused fist. He swallows thickly and wipes at his eyes with one tight fist. "I... She died."
I had expected such. He cared for the locket with his entire being, and it was quite possibly the only thing keeping him sane anymore. His sister had been important to him, as my brother was to me.
I wait for him to tell me what happened to her. I know talking about it is hard and my asking questions wouldn't help in the slightest. This was hard enough as it was.
"It was after the Arrival," he starts. He pauses again. I find myself pressing my leg against his, a lazy bump that he seems to cling to. He stares at my calf for a long moment, and then the tears start to fall.
"My family and I— we locked ourselves inside. Boarded up the windows, any exits, really." He wipes his eyes and sniffs. I take his hands in mine to stop him. He shouldn't wipe the tears away. It feels better to let them flow freely. He seems grateful for the gesture. "We were okay for a while, but then these men broke in, and..." He pauses. A tear slips down my face. "I ran. I saw them die and someone grabbed her and I ran. The only thing I have left is this stupid locket!"
I swallow thickly. "My brother died, too."
He blinks. "You had a brother."
"His name was Thomas. He got the virus, and then he died in my arms and there was nothing I could do about it," I whisper. I look up at him. "Was it my fault?"
He shakes his head. "Of course not. You couldn't stop that."
"And you couldn't stop them from killing your family, and yet you believe that was your fault."
"It's not the same."
I clench my jaw. "His name was Thomas. He was five-years-old and he watched our mother die behind us, and then he died the day after. And I lived. And your parents died and then your sister died a minute later. And you lived. Sounds pretty fucking similar."
