What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER TWELVE

If I was right about one thing, it's that Nate's an arsehole – a very good-looking arsehole covered in tattoos. Hard to make out in the dim light, but he has a swirling design running from the fingers on his left hand all the way up his arm, over his shoulder, part of his chest, before finally stopping just behind his ear. Only a small amount runs its way over the side and what looks to be the back of his neck.

I slept peacefully - somehow - with my back against the log, facing the fire. Dog curled himself up into my side, using me as a cushion. But I didn't sleep for long. If anything, I closed my eyes for all of thirty seconds and then it was time to go.

Now, with the sun peeking over the horizon, shards of light penetrating through the thick trees, we move from the campsite, everything packed up and away.

Even though looking at Emmi is still somewhat difficult, I have her walking beside me, and between us, Dog on a leash, his little legs loping and moving quickly to keep in time with our steps. He always has to stop and smell things, from small plants to insects to the ground itself. And to mark his territory, obviously.

Nate, refusing to give me a gun, has the task of supporting Robbie, who now floats in and out of consciousness, which is a huge improvement considering last night. Not that I refused to help him, but Nate insisted it be him to carry his friend the few miles to the farmhouse, his rifle slung over one shoulder, my gun at his belt. I have his pack, plus mine, and probably later on, Emmi's, too.

"He's my responsibility," is all Nate said.

It's slow going, considering how bad Robbie is, and the fact that Dog is having too much fun exploring to the end of his leash. He likes to chew my shoelaces, and every time we come to a stop, he gives a fierce little growl and tugs on them, trying to pull them off.

We make it to the highway in just under an hour – which makes us sitting ducks to anyone who might be following or who might already be on the highway. Nate kindly gave me back my baseball bat, but it will be completely useless against a gun.

I know he doesn't trust me, but I don't want to be ambushed, either. His hands are full, and he'll be dead long before he can untangle himself from Robbie. It's not about me, and it's certainly not about him. It's about Emmi. Protecting her, protecting Robbie.

Today's going to be a doozy. The sun hasn't even risen yet and I've already shed my jacket, the earth ready to be turned into one giant sauna come seven o'clock.

Soon I can cut my ties with Nate and Emmi and be on my way. I can put this sad saga behind me and put the experience down for future reference – what not to do. Don't just rush onto an empty highway and assume no one's nearby. Go back to being cautious, and check my surroundings. Don't let some arsehole keep you prisoner. Especially avoid if they've got a little sister who looks like – I can't even bring myself to think her name.

As much as I have a problem with Nate and how he goes about things – ie: not letting me have my gun, being a complete arsehat – I try not to question or argue with him in front of Emmi.

"Not long to go now, Emmi," I say to the little girl trudging beside me. Dog sometimes gets himself tangled around her, which of course slows us down as well. I beckon for her to walk on my right, putting me between her and the empty highway. "We'll be there in no time."

Emmi nods, distracted. She keeps her gaze on the ground, to where she's about to step. "Is Robbie going to be okay?" she asks me. She glances over her shoulder, which makes me do the same. At the moment, Nate lags behind us by about ten or so metres, Robbie slumped over him, partially conscious.

"I don't know," I reply.

We walk in silence for another half hour, and eventually I take Emmi's pack as well, lumping hers on top of mine and Nate's. It's easier for her to walk now, but she feels guilty that I have to hold it for her.