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“Don’t ask. Please, for the love of all that is holy, don't ever ask.”
* * *
It wasFallon who killed the next Rager.
It had come up behind us, its footsteps masked despite the collection of twigs and pebbles snapping beneath our own feet.
I had been in the back, singing softly under my breath, when rough hands had grabbed me. I screamed.
The boys turned.
And then the Rager had fallen. In his head - I could discern by his features that it was, indeed, a male - was a gaping hole. Black blood oozed from the wound, staining my hands. I scrambled backwards.
Fallon stood before me; the gun was held steadily in his hand.
Since we don’t know how the disease - virus, parasite, worm, whatever the hell it was - was transmitted, the boys insisted that I wiped all the goo from my skin. They averted their eyes respectfully as I eagerly stripped off my leggings and jacket, the cold air keen on my sensitive bare skin.
I used water from our pack to scrub my skin raw. I wanted to rid the blood staining me, coating me, consuming me.
It had only been minutes. Mere minutes for a life to be lost. Fallon had not hesitated to shoot him in the head.
Would he, if I were to turn, not hesitate to shoot me as well?
