Not Dead Yet

We're safe ... for now.

"It's not much, but it's better than nothing."

"Yeah." She takes the gauze, wishing as she did every time, they had better supplies.

"Here, Zoey. This oughtta put him in a better mood."

Louis hands Zoey a bottle of painkillers. She takes the container and smiles gratefully at him.

"What about you? This was yours."

He shrugs good-naturedly, returning  her smile. "I'll find more. There's only a few left anyhow."

She walks back over to Francis, retrieving her own first aid kit from her back as she moves. She has some peroxide left. She can at least clean his cut before dressing it. What she wouldn't give for some antibiotic cream ...

"Hey," she says as she draws near. "Let me take a look at ya."

He turns toward her slowly. His left hand is covering his right forearm, but she can still see the blood seeping around his fingers. She braces herself. She reaches out and gently lifts his hand from the wound. She winces, but remains silent.

The wound is long and deep, slicing through the myriad of tattoos covering his arm. It's not a scratch or bite. Most likely he cut it on a piece of metal after being thrown. She can sympathize. She had a similar cut not too long ago on her leg. Francis had been the one to patch her up then.

"You really should be stitched up," she mumbles as she begins to pour the peroxide over the cut.

"You're not taking a needle and thread to me, shorty," he growls as the solution fizzes and bubbles. "I know you went to college and all, but, nope. Just wrap it up nice and tight. It'll be fine."

She rolls her eyes, but does as he says. She wraps it quickly, securing it with butterfly clips from her first aid kit. He releases a breath when she's finished.

"I was a film student, not a med student," she informs him.

"Even more reason for you to not come at me with pointy things." He shrugs, bumping her upper arm with a gloved fist. "Thanks," he whispers.

"No problem," she replies, holding his stare.

His eyes are actually kind of nice. A little sad, but ... nice.

"Oh," she says, giving herself a mental shake, "here." She shoves the pills at him. "Courtesy of Louis."

"Why am I not surprised?"

He takes the pills. Their fingers brush. He smiles and she smiles back.

"Don't forget to take care of yourself, there, Zoey," Bill calls. 

Talking around the cigarette in his mouth makes it sound like he's saying her name with an sh: Z-sh-o-ee.

Zoey looks over her shoulder at Bill. He gives her a knowing look. She blushes.

"I'm fine," she grumbles. "I can't really say the same for my jacket."

She fingers a hole in the red cotton fabric near the hem, on her left side. So far, it had survived without any tears. Plenty of goo and dirt, maybe even a little blood, but no rips.

"I really like this jacket," she huffs.

"You do?" Francis says, surprise evident in his deep voice. "I always thought you just threw on the nearest clothing once you found out the world was going to Hell."

She narrows her eyes at him. "No. I do like this jacket."

He shrugs. "Whatever."

"Hey," she says, "you really don't have any room to be criticizing my fashion sense, Mr. Leather Vest."

He affects dismay, placing a hand over his chest and widening his eyes. "Oh, stop. Your words wound me."

He drops his hand and chuckles. He moves away from her, ambling over to take stock of the available ammo and weapons.

"I'll wound you, alright," she mumbles to his retreating back.

She looks down at herself. What's so wrong with this jacket? It's comfortable. It was actually very clean ... once upon a time. She heaves a sigh and retrieves her gun from the ground. She joins Francis in his perusal of weaponry.

"Anything good?"

"Here's more ammo for your gun. You're a good shot with it. You should stick with it."

"A 'good' shot?"

"Yeah. Sometimes better than good."

She wants to whack him up side the head with her gun, but refrains from doing so when she sees his slow, easy smirk.

"You know I'm better than good," she asserts confidently. "Saved your ass more than once."

He nods. "No shit. You'll probably do it a few more times, too, if I'm lucky."

They share a smile again.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Bill interjects. He pulls at the labels of his Army jacket, pulling them up around his ears. He adjusts the green beret perched atop his shaggy white hair. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and waves it at Zoey. "You save him, he saves you, Louis saves me, blah, blah, blah. Enough blathering. If we want to get to that Army outpost before there's no one there to help us, we need to move, now."

Louis nods in agreement, pulling at his lopsided red tie. For the first time, Zoey notices that he looks worse than the three of them combined. His once crisp white shirt is partially untucked. The charcoal trousers he wears were neatly pressed when they'd first met up, but now they're marred with dirt, blood, and zombie goo. One leg is is shorter than the other, the hem torn off. His black leather shoes are in dire need of a shine, and his red tie, which he keeps tugging at, is hopelessly crooked. 

Poor Louis.

 "Bill's right. Let's wrap things up and move out," he states adamantly in his high-pitched voice. 

Zoey reloads her gun, then moves over to the boarded up window. She looks out at the surrounding fields, wondering what horrors wait for them out there. Zombies, zombies, and more zombies. Running, howling, growling monsters out for their blood. And to think she used to get her kicks watching zombie flicks. Over the last couple of weeks, she'd had enough zombies to last her a lifetime ... or two or three. She doesn't want to leave the safe room, but she knows she has to keep going. Eventually, she'll be able to rest. She hasn't given up hope yet. She has faith that the future holds something better for her ... for them. It just has to ...