2dozenowies: 16. puncture/laceration [gunshot] (cox/jd, r)
Title: Gunshot (part 2/?)
Rating: R.
Pairings: Cox/JD.
Notes: For 2dozenowies. The second part of that story I started a few months ago. I know I said this part would be the last, but a.) I think it's got a while left to go and b.) it's been months since I updated it and I wanted to post this part for you guys. Just stick with me!
Word Count: approx. 5300
Warnings: Violence, some dubiously consensual stuff. Also, zombies.
Spoilers: Some for season six.
Summary: You're terrified that those thoughts are really going to get you in trouble, that now's the time when those horrible things will happen. That the car will break down and zombies will flow in from all directions.
i. danger
You did not miss traveling nonstop, but at least you're able to sleep better, even though you always wake up with pain in your neck.
You keep stealing quick looks at the wounds on his hand, and they look fine. Sometimes he catches you staring and he snarls at you, and you look away, discouraged. You realize that as worried as you are (and you are, enough that you've been trying to form a strategy in case he should suddenly get an insatiable craving for flesh), he's got to be terrified.
Turk and Carla are in Fredericksburg, right in the middle of Texas, and unfortunately the quickest and shortest way to get there is to go straight through El Paso and every single city on this stretch of highway. Zombie country.
You kind of wish he would say something, or tell you about some plan he's got, because you've got nothing. You could tell him about how scared you are, the abject terror you're feeling that you're going to die or he's going to die or that you'll get to where Turk and Carla are staying and they'll be dead or zombies and the second you walk in they'll devour you. You're thinking about how he would respond to that only to realize that he is responding to it, because you've said it already. Dammit.
"Alright, Jessica, lookit. This is no time to be worrying about that pretty manicure of yours. If you start getting hysterical in the middle of a situation, we're going to be the menu, got it? Foie Cox with a garnish of finely shredded Newbie. And if I go down, so help me God, Nadia, you're going down with me."
"That helps," you reply quietly after a moment, turning back toward the window and frowning a little.
ii. pavement
It's easier to pretend you're asleep than to let Dr. Cox know that you're awake and be forced to make a point of not looking at him.
You haven't failed to notice when his eyes are red and a little puffy, and you remember what happened the other night and oh god you are a horrible person. You didn't even think about Jordan and Jack and JD. "I'm sorry," you blurt out, and it doesn't occur to you that this might not be a conversation he wants to have until you've already said it.
He looks over at you, his eyebrows twitching upward a little. "What?"
"Nothing," you reply quickly. You never thought you'd feel like you were taking advantage of Dr. Cox.
But he actually seems interested. For once. "This about the other night?" You don't respond, only look away, and he adds, "It is."
"Yeah. I mean ... yeah. I guess I wasn't really thinking about ... you know. Jordan."
"Stop," he cuts you off. "This is not the time, Sally."
"You can't just ignore this -"
"Of course I can't." His voice is dark and he's not looking at you, staring straight ahead with a glare on his face. He growls and slams his foot down on the brakes, and you hear the squeal of rubber on pavement as the car comes to a sudden stop. On the stereo, Neil Young is whining about needles or something, and Dr. Cox reaches forward to shut it off.
You kind of wish he hadn't done that, because the silence is so tense, you just want to get out of the car and never get back in. Jesus, you've really done it now. He's breathing short, harsh breaths that make you cringe.
"Yes, my family is now in a state that, let's say, is unsatisfactory." You're looking at him, holding your breath and kind of trying to sink down into the seat. "Jesus," he mutters, still looking ahead of him and not even sparing a glance at you. "What do you want me to say? That I miss them? That I wish I could have done something? You're smart enough to figure that one out on your own by now, aren't you?" He runs his fingers through his hair, and opens the driver's side door, unbuckling his seat belt and stepping out of the car.
For a minute, you don't know whether you should get out too or just stay where you are, so you just watch him. He's staring again, across the huge oil field that you've stopped beside. The machines are still. He puts his hands on the back of his head, and god, what if you see tears in his eyes? What the hell do you do then? He's likely to rip your larynx out if you say anything, but you get out and stand next to him anyway.
"You can probably guess at the last thing I said to her," he says after a few minutes. You nod, and he leans back against the car, his back against the driver's side window, his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose. "They could have gotten away, I guess. Maybe."
You wait a few minutes before you put your hand on his shoulder, wondering if it's a particularly wise course of action. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at you for a moment.
You don't know what to expect. Maybe he'll yell at you, maybe he'll call you Ricki or Jenny or another girl's talk show host name, maybe he'll get back in the car, lock the doors and speed away, leaving you for the zombies.
You aren't expecting him to kiss you, though, fingers gripping the lapels of your jacket and pulling you to him. You push him away. "No. I don't want to do this again. Not now, anyway."
"Who said this was negotiable?" he replies, and pulls you back toward him again, and when he reaches down to unzip your jeans you realize it's getting harder to remember the reasons why this is a particularly bad idea, and by the time he spits in his palm and starts stroking you, your brain has pretty much checked out because his lips are on your neck and his knee is between your thighs and you're pushing forward to meet his hand, gripping his shoulders and trying not to make too many girly noises.
God, this is so fucked up, you think. The thought keeps coming back into your head, even as you're panting and your hands are scrabbling for something to hold onto and he's quickening his strokes and you're coming, spilling everywhere, letting out a choked cry and leaning forward to rest your forehead on his shoulder. God, this is so fucked up.
And now that it's over, you try not to think about it. You're covered in uncomfortable stickiness with your pants down around your knees, he's looking through the car for something to clean his hand with, you feel boneless again, and you're trying not to think about this, or about the fact that you won't get to return the favor (a word which you use dubiously), or about the fact that he seems entirely unaffected by all of it, or about the fact that - considering what you were just talking about - it makes you feel kind of dirty.
"C'mon, Rita, clean yourself up and let's get going." He gives you a couple of tissues, and you make a face as you wipe it off your stomach and your clothes as best you can. Ew.
You get back in the car and it's like he never stopped to begin with, like you didn't say a word. The stereo is back on and the landscape is rushing by your window.
You pretend you're asleep. It's easier that way.
iii. transit
Sometimes if you're lucky, you really do fall asleep.
And when that happens, you dream. And when that happens, it's usually a nightmare.
Sometimes you wake up gently, even though in your dreams you're screaming. Sometimes you wake up with a shout, and you look over at Dr. Cox and you have to touch him, just to make sure he's there; you'll settle for putting your hand on his knee even though you want to cling to him. He doesn't say anything, but sometimes you see his features soften a little.
You wake up, breathing hard, and you reach for him and you don't find anything. You glance around and you realize the car's stopped and he's not in it.
"Dr. Cox?" you call, your voice making your panic more apparent than you'd like it to. You struggle with your seat belt and get out of the car, stumbling a little. "Dr. Cox?"
"What?" He sounds irritable, frowning at you.
"Oh. Nothing," you reply, a little embarrassed. "Sorry." He's standing next to the driver's side door, leaning against the car. Your heart starts slowing back down, and you hesitate to move closer to him. "What's up?" you ask, shuffling around a little, looking at him over the roof of the car and scuffing a little at the ground with your shoes.
He shrugs. "Needed a break from driving."
"Oh."
You shuffle around some more, until he sighs and snaps, "Oh, what the hell, Newbie. I don't bite," and you have to hold back a smile at that, and he does too. You move over next to him, still looking at the ground - anywhere but at him, really. After a long, long while, he says, "Thanks for coming to get me. You know. From my place. I probably wouldn't have left."
You nod. "Sure." You should say something, probably, something important or profound but all you can really come up with, in your bleary, sleepy stupor, is "I'm glad you're not a zombie." He gives you a weird look, and you add, "I mean, of course, but -" You decide to shut up before you start babbling. No sense making him regret talking to you.
Instead you let the awkward silence continue and your mind wander to visions of Dr. Cox zombies moaning for Newbie brains until he whistles at you, snapping his fingers a little, telling you that this is so not the time for daydreaming and it's time to go.
He surprises you by giving the keys (practically throwing them at you) and you really really don't want to drive. You try to push them back into his hands but he's already getting in on the passenger side (your side, you think resentfully). "I've been driving for days, Daisy, and frankly I think you've gotten enough beauty sleep." He grabs one of the pillows from the backseat and leans against it, resting against the window.
After an hour or so of listening to him snoring gently in the passenger seat, you begin to wonder how the hell he was able to do this for so long. There's no change in the landscape and you find yourself wishing for something to happen. Nothing bad, though. Nothing like the car breaking down or anything.
Then for another hour you're terrified that those thoughts are really going to get you in trouble, that now's the time when those horrible things will happen. That the car will break down and zombies will flow in from all directions. You shudder, and keep glancing over at Dr. Cox, who is not a zombie yet.
You don't know why you're still so sleepy, since the whole time you've been traveling it seems like you don't do anything but sleep, despite the nightmares you keep having. It's not like sleeping in a car and waking up every few minutes with a nightmare is particularly good sleep, though. Maybe that's it. No need to think that you're the one you should be worrying about, that you could be the one who could become a zombie. You haven't been bitten, right? Then again, it doesn't seem likely that biting will really do anything at all except maybe get a little infected if you don't clean it.
You see a sign that says Fredericksburg is only seventy miles away, and it finally occurs to you that you might need a plan. Maybe you can call Turk. Your cell phone is sitting in the console, and you dial his number.
He answers and at first you're so stunned you can't say anything at all. "Hello?" he repeats, "JD?"
"Turk." Your voice is a little ragged, and you clear your throat. "Are you guys okay?"
"For now. How are you? Where are you?"
"We're coming to Fredericksburg. I got your message."
"Who's with you?" You can tell he's holding his breath, hoping for good news.
"Dr. Cox," you reply. "We ... Jordan ..." You can't go on. You hope he gets the point.
"Oh," he says.
"We're close to Fredericksburg. About seventy miles away. What's happening there?"
"They're kind of closing in. And we don't have the fuel to leave here."
"So what do we do when we get there?"
"We were hoping you could get us out of here."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"Other people have been going to New Orleans. I don't think it's out there." He pauses. "Yet."
You say goodbye (it's even harder than last time, because you've already had one last goodbye but now there's another one, because what if you don't make it? What if the zombies who are pounding at the gates break through and get Turk and Carla? What if they get you on your way there?) and you think about how everything lately is so fabled. Rumors. How the infection isn't spread through the bite. How if you could go just a little further you could find safety. Like a promised land.
iv. accelerate
You drive very slowly when you get to Fredericksburg, after being scared half to death by the first zombie that ran out into the road as you approached. You really don't want to wreck the car.
When you were going to Dr. Cox's apartment, carefully avoiding crowds of people because you didn't know which mobs would be zombies and which would be living people, one attacked you. She saw you crossing the street and ran toward you, away from the rest of the group, which was closing in on a group of looters, and you were terrified, because she looked for all the world like she was intelligent. Her face looked like it had a facial expression. Angry. Hungry. Predatory. She - well, it - rushed at you, moaning, and you don't remember making the decision to swing your shovel at it, but you did, and it faltered, almost as if it was confused.
So you took your chance and you side-swiped it, swinging the shovel like a baseball bat, the blade connecting with the zombie's temple. The zombie fell to its knees, still reaching for you, and you kicked her - it - in the chest and slammed the shovel down onto its face.
When it stopped moving, you were mildly horrified, hoping she - it - really was a zombie, because what if she - it, dammit - was just some addict on PCP?
You stood over the body for a few moments, subconsciously aware of the mob of zombies still making its way toward the storefronts across the street, and you mostly just wanted to find a quiet corner somewhere and curl up and maybe cry. You wanted some sound-canceling headphones to wear, and you wanted to go back home and sleep until this all passed.
You feel a lot like that now, with corpses everywhere: bodies ripped apart, attracting flies, maggots writhing around, zombies moving toward the car, some walking, some running. Oh god. "Dr. Cox?" You wonder how the hell he can sleep at a time like this. "Dr. Cox. Oh god, wake up, please." You don't want to take your eyes off the road to look at him, but there's that worry again, that the zombies really did get him. You shake him a little, still watching the road and going as fast as you dare with zombies flooding toward the car.
"Newbie, what the hell is your problem? Run over them, they're already dead, for Christ's sake!" As he reaches into the backseat to get the shotgun you found (okay, some would say you stole it - that was only a few days ago, and even though it smelled horrible and there were dead bodies just stacked up along the side of the road, you'd give anything to be back there right now), he tells you not to make him regret coming along with you, or letting you drive, because god forbid you should actually be able to do something without him hovering over your shoulder, even now that your very lives depend on it.
"Shut up!" you shout. "This is so not helping!" Your voice has risen about eight octaves, and he sneers at you and you ignore the girl's name because the zombies have caught up with you and they're holding on to the side of the car, and you reach down to press the button to lock the doors. "Fuck." Your heart is beating so fast it's making you feel a little nauseous (or maybe that's just the smell and the zombies and the fact that you're going to die) and you wonder how Turk and Carla have managed to survive here for so long. "They're staying at a school with some other people," you say, gritting your teeth. "It's along this road. Oh god, we just have to get there and get inside without getting eaten and then get Turk and Carla and Izzy and all their stuff back in the car without getting eaten and then drive again, east, to New Orleans and hopefully it won't spread out there so we can get somewhere safe without getting eaten." You're losing it.
You press down on the accelerator, and as fast as they can run (and, oh, they can run) they can't keep up with a car going seventy miles an hour, and the suspension is probably suffering from all of them that you're running over, but at least they're not eating you. You try not to think about the movies where the thing that the protagonist fears is waiting right in the back seat for him (or maybe the passenger seat, because as far as you're concerned, Dr. Cox isn't out of the woods yet) and jumps out at the very moment that it looks like he'll get away.
Dr. Cox is really making you nervous with that gun. "It's not loaded," he says to you, holding up a couple of cartridges. "Calm down."
You don't answer him, and let your white knuckles and tense shoulders speak for themselves.
v. shots
The school where they've set up is in the town limits, and you can see a pile of dead bodies on the soccer field. Dead zombies, maybe, or dead people. Or both. You're sure the tires squealing on the pavement is not exactly helping your situation - you don't know how good their hearing is - but you really can't help it, you're so eager to get out of this car and make sure everyone's okay. You don't feel safe in such a small space.
You leave the car running and in drive, your foot on the brake, ready to drive if you need to, as you pull out your phone and call Turk. Now would be a very bad time for him to not answer. You'd go in yourself but the every door is barricaded and even if you could get in, there's no guarantee you won't get shot right away if someone sees you. He answers, and you whisper to him that you're here, in the parking lot, and you need a way in.
When you stumble in past desks and sandbags and boxes full of textbooks and god knows what else, Turk is standing there, and you're so relieved when you see him. He hugs you so hard you have trouble breathing, and you're smiling (although you tell yourself not to get too comfortable).
Carla comes up, Izzy in her carrier, to help fix the barricade and she hugs you and Dr. Cox, even more tightly than Turk did. They ask you where you've been hiding out and you tell them you found a motel in New Mexico where there was still water and electricity. Carla scowls and mutters a little, wondering how on earth you got so lucky to find a place like that. You follow them to help gather their things so you can leave as quickly as possible.
You're surprised when Carla tells you there are fifty other people staying here. "At first there were only a few of us, but then some of the people who weren't able to leave town came too, and then other people came across the building while they were heading east on the highway." She gets Izzy's diaper bag and stuffs it as full as she can, struggling with the zipper. "Most of them are staying in the gymnasium, but we decided to stay in here. We figured if we stayed in one of the classrooms it wouldn't bother everyone when Izzy started crying."
Dr. Cox has a far-away look in his eyes, staring at something out the window and across the parking lot, but from where you're standing you can't see it. "How are you on weapons?" he asks, glancing at her and then looking back out the window.
"Some people have them, some don't. Some of the others got whatever bullets they could from the stores in town. There wasn't much left, but it's been enough." She pauses. "A lot of the ... you know. A lot of them just seemed to drop dead on their own after a while."
"We've heard," Dr. Cox replies.
Dr. Cox lags behind as you, Turk, and Carla start bringing things out to the car. Before you can get out the door, he grabs your shoulder and pushes the pistol into your hands. "Hide this," he says, and leads you over to the window. "Look."
Standing in one of the windows in the hallway, upstairs, is a man, looking down at your car, watching Carla and Turk.
"What ... has he been watching us this whole time?"
He nods grimly, and adds, "We should get out of here fast. He had a gun."
Your eyes widen, and you nod, unsure what to do with the gun in your hand. "Keep it quiet, alright? He'll get suspicious if he sees all four of us watching him," Dr. Cox adds. "He might get ideas. We want him up there."
You nod again, grabbing whatever you can and running out to catch up to Carla and Turk, not taking the time to organize the things in the trunk. "JD, don't rush this. We have a lot of stuff to carry, we want to conserve our space."
You laugh nervously, trying not to keep looking up at the man in the window too obviously. You look one minute, and he's there, and the next minute, he's gone, and you yelp, "Sorry, Carla! Just excited to get back on the road and get out of here, you know?" So you start taking bags and shoving them into the trunk. "It's just a bunch of clothes anyway, we can squish them down, right?" You put all your weight against the bags and close the trunk, looking back to see if Dr. Cox is still watching you all. "There's not much left. Let's go."
"Are you sure you're alright?" Turk asks, "You're acting a little ..." He trails off, and sees you looking back at Dr. Cox every few seconds, and you know what he's thinking. "You and -"
"Shh!" you say, and then Carla catches on, and it might not be good that they're so distracted, because they're demanding answers, and you're trying to tell them, "Later!" but Turk knows you won't talk about it when Dr. Cox is around.
Shit.
And then there's a gunshot, and another one, and you're running, the pistol in your hand with two stupid bullets, and you have no idea what you're doing when you run into the classroom where Turk and Carla were staying. You figured you had more time, time to get out of here before that guy did anything stupid.
When you get there, the man's body is on the floor and Dr. Cox is clutching at his shoulder, leaning against the wall, blood seeping through his fingers. You hear yourself shouting, and you check desperately for other wounds, running your hands down his abdomen and lifting his shirt. "There's a better time for that, Priscilla," he says, grimacing, his teeth gritted.
"He only shot you once?"
"Yeah." He moves his hand aside to show you, and you see both an entry and exit wound. "Come on," you say, leading him toward the door, picking up the shotgun. "We have some supplies in the car, I can clean it and bandage you up." Carla and Turk have caught up to you, and you tell them to get everything else and take it to the car.
But a group of people stops you in the hallway. "What the hell is going on here?" a woman demands.
"He's hurt!" you reply. "Get out of the way. I have to fix this!"
"Who do you think you are, coming here and starting fights? Who shot him?"
"He's in there," Dr. Cox says, gesturing with his good arm to the classroom behind you. A man runs past him and, after a moment, shouts, "He shot Andrew!" A few others storm past you, and when they come back, the man says, "He's dead."
You hear coughing and groaning from inside the classroom. "Well, maybe not," The man adds as the others rush back into the classroom. "But you shot him!"
"He was going to kill us," Dr. Cox snaps. "What the hell would you have done?"
"Why would he want to kill you?"
"Because we're getting out of here. We're getting our friends and leaving."
Everyone is silent for a moment, and then a woman says, "You have a car?" Her voice is low, and it gives you chills. She points a gun at you. "Give me the keys."
"Sandra!" As soon as she pulls the gun, there's panic, and the others try to get her to put the gun down, but she pulls away from them.
"Alright!" you shout, and bring up your shotgun, aiming at Sandra, stepping between her and Dr. Cox, Carla, Turk, and Izzy. "This stops now." You take the pistol from your jacket. "Turk, Carla? Take this. Get to the car. We'll be there in a minute."
"JD -" Carla starts, but you shake your head.
"Go!" you shout, and they rush out the door. You haven't taken your eyes off the people in front of you. "Give me your gun," you say to Sandra.
"No."
"That shotgun's loaded with scatter-shot," Dr. Cox warns. "If he pulls the trigger, you're all going to wish he hadn't."
"Do what they say, Sandra," one of the other women says. She looks back at you and adds, "None of the rest of us are armed. She's the only one." As Sandra hands the gun over, she starts to cry.
"Please," she says through her sobs, "I have a little girl. We're running out of everything and ... oh god. We're going to die here."
You falter, and you're about to lower your gun without thinking when Dr. Cox snaps, "Newbie, don't you dare. Let's get out of here."
You walk backwards through the parking lot, keeping the gun trained on them. Sandra has fallen to her knees, leaning against the wall and sobbing, beating at the concrete with her fists. The same woman is comforting her, and no one else as moves as you're walking away.
"Dr. Cox," you say, "they're ... there's no way they can -"
"Yeah. We're the lucky ones."
"Should we -"
"No. But leave their gun here."
Before you help Dr. Cox into the car, you put Sandra's gun down on the asphalt of the parking lot. Carla is quietly sniffling in the backseat while Turk holds Izzy. You rest your forehead against the steering wheel, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. You feel a hand on your shoulder, and Dr. Cox says softly, "Newbie. Let's go."
You nod and start the car, and pull over about a mile from the school to clean and bandage Dr. Cox's wound. As you search through the trunk for supplies, he says, "Hey. You did good back there."
"I didn't even try to help that guy."
"I shot that guy."
"I left a whole group of people to starve to death."
"So did I. So did Carla and Gandhi. We didn't have much of choice there, did we?"
"I guess." You pour the alcohol over the entry and exit wounds, letting it dry, and wrap it with gauze, taping it up with medical tape. "You'll be wanting some of this," you say, giving him the bottle of Demerol from your bag.
"Thanks."
"Yeah." You really don't want to start driving again just yet, so you close the trunk and sit on the back, your legs dangling over the side. Dr. Cox stands next to you, leaning against the car, and swallows one of the pills you gave him. You're glad you raided that drugstore. "I'll give it another twelve hours and check it again to watch out for an infection." You look over at him and ask, "So what happened?"
He glares at you and replies, "I got shot. What else is there?"
"Why did he shoot you? Did he say anything?"
He doesn't answer you for a second, and then says, "No." You don't press it, even though you could, because he's obviously lying. Your head and your muscles ache and you really wouldn't mind going to sleep for a few minutes or hours or days. You lie back, your back pressing against the glass of the rear window, your hands cradling your head.
"We should keep moving," he says, turning to look at you. "We can probably make it there by tomorrow morning."
Turk gets out of the car and asks Dr. Cox, "How's your arm?"
"The bullet went through," you answer before Dr. Cox can. "I gave him some Demerol, and we're just going to watch it for any infection."
"So are we ready to go?"
"You'll have to excuse Calamity Jane here," Dr. Cox interrupts. "She's busy pouting." You'd like to shout at him, ask him if he can ever keep his mouth shut, but instead you look over at Turk and say, "Sorry. I just needed a minute," and get down off the back of the car.
"One of us can drive," he says, pointing at Carla, sitting in the backseat, and then back at himself.
You're hesitant to ask for that, but Dr. Cox interrupts again and you find yourself sitting in the backseat with him, wedged between him and Izzy, who is strapped in her car seat. By now Dr. Cox is snoring gently, squished up against you, and your head eventually lolls back and you find yourself struggling to stay awake.
When you wake up, your head is resting on Dr. Cox's shoulder. He's still sound asleep, and you pull his sleeve up to unwrap the gauze wrapped around his arm. Blood has soaked through, and you get another strip of gauze from your bag, pour some alcohol on it to clean the wound again and wipe the dried blood off of his skin, and re-wrap it with some clean gauze and tape. He's since woken up, and his eyes are half-lidded, watching you as if you're some stranger in a dream.
(2dozenowies table here)
Rating: R.
Pairings: Cox/JD.
Notes: For 2dozenowies. The second part of that story I started a few months ago. I know I said this part would be the last, but a.) I think it's got a while left to go and b.) it's been months since I updated it and I wanted to post this part for you guys. Just stick with me!
Word Count: approx. 5300
Warnings: Violence, some dubiously consensual stuff. Also, zombies.
Spoilers: Some for season six.
Summary: You're terrified that those thoughts are really going to get you in trouble, that now's the time when those horrible things will happen. That the car will break down and zombies will flow in from all directions.
i. danger
You did not miss traveling nonstop, but at least you're able to sleep better, even though you always wake up with pain in your neck.
You keep stealing quick looks at the wounds on his hand, and they look fine. Sometimes he catches you staring and he snarls at you, and you look away, discouraged. You realize that as worried as you are (and you are, enough that you've been trying to form a strategy in case he should suddenly get an insatiable craving for flesh), he's got to be terrified.
Turk and Carla are in Fredericksburg, right in the middle of Texas, and unfortunately the quickest and shortest way to get there is to go straight through El Paso and every single city on this stretch of highway. Zombie country.
You kind of wish he would say something, or tell you about some plan he's got, because you've got nothing. You could tell him about how scared you are, the abject terror you're feeling that you're going to die or he's going to die or that you'll get to where Turk and Carla are staying and they'll be dead or zombies and the second you walk in they'll devour you. You're thinking about how he would respond to that only to realize that he is responding to it, because you've said it already. Dammit.
"Alright, Jessica, lookit. This is no time to be worrying about that pretty manicure of yours. If you start getting hysterical in the middle of a situation, we're going to be the menu, got it? Foie Cox with a garnish of finely shredded Newbie. And if I go down, so help me God, Nadia, you're going down with me."
"That helps," you reply quietly after a moment, turning back toward the window and frowning a little.
ii. pavement
It's easier to pretend you're asleep than to let Dr. Cox know that you're awake and be forced to make a point of not looking at him.
You haven't failed to notice when his eyes are red and a little puffy, and you remember what happened the other night and oh god you are a horrible person. You didn't even think about Jordan and Jack and JD. "I'm sorry," you blurt out, and it doesn't occur to you that this might not be a conversation he wants to have until you've already said it.
He looks over at you, his eyebrows twitching upward a little. "What?"
"Nothing," you reply quickly. You never thought you'd feel like you were taking advantage of Dr. Cox.
But he actually seems interested. For once. "This about the other night?" You don't respond, only look away, and he adds, "It is."
"Yeah. I mean ... yeah. I guess I wasn't really thinking about ... you know. Jordan."
"Stop," he cuts you off. "This is not the time, Sally."
"You can't just ignore this -"
"Of course I can't." His voice is dark and he's not looking at you, staring straight ahead with a glare on his face. He growls and slams his foot down on the brakes, and you hear the squeal of rubber on pavement as the car comes to a sudden stop. On the stereo, Neil Young is whining about needles or something, and Dr. Cox reaches forward to shut it off.
You kind of wish he hadn't done that, because the silence is so tense, you just want to get out of the car and never get back in. Jesus, you've really done it now. He's breathing short, harsh breaths that make you cringe.
"Yes, my family is now in a state that, let's say, is unsatisfactory." You're looking at him, holding your breath and kind of trying to sink down into the seat. "Jesus," he mutters, still looking ahead of him and not even sparing a glance at you. "What do you want me to say? That I miss them? That I wish I could have done something? You're smart enough to figure that one out on your own by now, aren't you?" He runs his fingers through his hair, and opens the driver's side door, unbuckling his seat belt and stepping out of the car.
For a minute, you don't know whether you should get out too or just stay where you are, so you just watch him. He's staring again, across the huge oil field that you've stopped beside. The machines are still. He puts his hands on the back of his head, and god, what if you see tears in his eyes? What the hell do you do then? He's likely to rip your larynx out if you say anything, but you get out and stand next to him anyway.
"You can probably guess at the last thing I said to her," he says after a few minutes. You nod, and he leans back against the car, his back against the driver's side window, his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose. "They could have gotten away, I guess. Maybe."
You wait a few minutes before you put your hand on his shoulder, wondering if it's a particularly wise course of action. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at you for a moment.
You don't know what to expect. Maybe he'll yell at you, maybe he'll call you Ricki or Jenny or another girl's talk show host name, maybe he'll get back in the car, lock the doors and speed away, leaving you for the zombies.
You aren't expecting him to kiss you, though, fingers gripping the lapels of your jacket and pulling you to him. You push him away. "No. I don't want to do this again. Not now, anyway."
"Who said this was negotiable?" he replies, and pulls you back toward him again, and when he reaches down to unzip your jeans you realize it's getting harder to remember the reasons why this is a particularly bad idea, and by the time he spits in his palm and starts stroking you, your brain has pretty much checked out because his lips are on your neck and his knee is between your thighs and you're pushing forward to meet his hand, gripping his shoulders and trying not to make too many girly noises.
God, this is so fucked up, you think. The thought keeps coming back into your head, even as you're panting and your hands are scrabbling for something to hold onto and he's quickening his strokes and you're coming, spilling everywhere, letting out a choked cry and leaning forward to rest your forehead on his shoulder. God, this is so fucked up.
And now that it's over, you try not to think about it. You're covered in uncomfortable stickiness with your pants down around your knees, he's looking through the car for something to clean his hand with, you feel boneless again, and you're trying not to think about this, or about the fact that you won't get to return the favor (a word which you use dubiously), or about the fact that he seems entirely unaffected by all of it, or about the fact that - considering what you were just talking about - it makes you feel kind of dirty.
"C'mon, Rita, clean yourself up and let's get going." He gives you a couple of tissues, and you make a face as you wipe it off your stomach and your clothes as best you can. Ew.
You get back in the car and it's like he never stopped to begin with, like you didn't say a word. The stereo is back on and the landscape is rushing by your window.
You pretend you're asleep. It's easier that way.
iii. transit
Sometimes if you're lucky, you really do fall asleep.
And when that happens, you dream. And when that happens, it's usually a nightmare.
Sometimes you wake up gently, even though in your dreams you're screaming. Sometimes you wake up with a shout, and you look over at Dr. Cox and you have to touch him, just to make sure he's there; you'll settle for putting your hand on his knee even though you want to cling to him. He doesn't say anything, but sometimes you see his features soften a little.
You wake up, breathing hard, and you reach for him and you don't find anything. You glance around and you realize the car's stopped and he's not in it.
"Dr. Cox?" you call, your voice making your panic more apparent than you'd like it to. You struggle with your seat belt and get out of the car, stumbling a little. "Dr. Cox?"
"What?" He sounds irritable, frowning at you.
"Oh. Nothing," you reply, a little embarrassed. "Sorry." He's standing next to the driver's side door, leaning against the car. Your heart starts slowing back down, and you hesitate to move closer to him. "What's up?" you ask, shuffling around a little, looking at him over the roof of the car and scuffing a little at the ground with your shoes.
He shrugs. "Needed a break from driving."
"Oh."
You shuffle around some more, until he sighs and snaps, "Oh, what the hell, Newbie. I don't bite," and you have to hold back a smile at that, and he does too. You move over next to him, still looking at the ground - anywhere but at him, really. After a long, long while, he says, "Thanks for coming to get me. You know. From my place. I probably wouldn't have left."
You nod. "Sure." You should say something, probably, something important or profound but all you can really come up with, in your bleary, sleepy stupor, is "I'm glad you're not a zombie." He gives you a weird look, and you add, "I mean, of course, but -" You decide to shut up before you start babbling. No sense making him regret talking to you.
Instead you let the awkward silence continue and your mind wander to visions of Dr. Cox zombies moaning for Newbie brains until he whistles at you, snapping his fingers a little, telling you that this is so not the time for daydreaming and it's time to go.
He surprises you by giving the keys (practically throwing them at you) and you really really don't want to drive. You try to push them back into his hands but he's already getting in on the passenger side (your side, you think resentfully). "I've been driving for days, Daisy, and frankly I think you've gotten enough beauty sleep." He grabs one of the pillows from the backseat and leans against it, resting against the window.
After an hour or so of listening to him snoring gently in the passenger seat, you begin to wonder how the hell he was able to do this for so long. There's no change in the landscape and you find yourself wishing for something to happen. Nothing bad, though. Nothing like the car breaking down or anything.
Then for another hour you're terrified that those thoughts are really going to get you in trouble, that now's the time when those horrible things will happen. That the car will break down and zombies will flow in from all directions. You shudder, and keep glancing over at Dr. Cox, who is not a zombie yet.
You don't know why you're still so sleepy, since the whole time you've been traveling it seems like you don't do anything but sleep, despite the nightmares you keep having. It's not like sleeping in a car and waking up every few minutes with a nightmare is particularly good sleep, though. Maybe that's it. No need to think that you're the one you should be worrying about, that you could be the one who could become a zombie. You haven't been bitten, right? Then again, it doesn't seem likely that biting will really do anything at all except maybe get a little infected if you don't clean it.
You see a sign that says Fredericksburg is only seventy miles away, and it finally occurs to you that you might need a plan. Maybe you can call Turk. Your cell phone is sitting in the console, and you dial his number.
He answers and at first you're so stunned you can't say anything at all. "Hello?" he repeats, "JD?"
"Turk." Your voice is a little ragged, and you clear your throat. "Are you guys okay?"
"For now. How are you? Where are you?"
"We're coming to Fredericksburg. I got your message."
"Who's with you?" You can tell he's holding his breath, hoping for good news.
"Dr. Cox," you reply. "We ... Jordan ..." You can't go on. You hope he gets the point.
"Oh," he says.
"We're close to Fredericksburg. About seventy miles away. What's happening there?"
"They're kind of closing in. And we don't have the fuel to leave here."
"So what do we do when we get there?"
"We were hoping you could get us out of here."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"Other people have been going to New Orleans. I don't think it's out there." He pauses. "Yet."
You say goodbye (it's even harder than last time, because you've already had one last goodbye but now there's another one, because what if you don't make it? What if the zombies who are pounding at the gates break through and get Turk and Carla? What if they get you on your way there?) and you think about how everything lately is so fabled. Rumors. How the infection isn't spread through the bite. How if you could go just a little further you could find safety. Like a promised land.
iv. accelerate
You drive very slowly when you get to Fredericksburg, after being scared half to death by the first zombie that ran out into the road as you approached. You really don't want to wreck the car.
When you were going to Dr. Cox's apartment, carefully avoiding crowds of people because you didn't know which mobs would be zombies and which would be living people, one attacked you. She saw you crossing the street and ran toward you, away from the rest of the group, which was closing in on a group of looters, and you were terrified, because she looked for all the world like she was intelligent. Her face looked like it had a facial expression. Angry. Hungry. Predatory. She - well, it - rushed at you, moaning, and you don't remember making the decision to swing your shovel at it, but you did, and it faltered, almost as if it was confused.
So you took your chance and you side-swiped it, swinging the shovel like a baseball bat, the blade connecting with the zombie's temple. The zombie fell to its knees, still reaching for you, and you kicked her - it - in the chest and slammed the shovel down onto its face.
When it stopped moving, you were mildly horrified, hoping she - it - really was a zombie, because what if she - it, dammit - was just some addict on PCP?
You stood over the body for a few moments, subconsciously aware of the mob of zombies still making its way toward the storefronts across the street, and you mostly just wanted to find a quiet corner somewhere and curl up and maybe cry. You wanted some sound-canceling headphones to wear, and you wanted to go back home and sleep until this all passed.
You feel a lot like that now, with corpses everywhere: bodies ripped apart, attracting flies, maggots writhing around, zombies moving toward the car, some walking, some running. Oh god. "Dr. Cox?" You wonder how the hell he can sleep at a time like this. "Dr. Cox. Oh god, wake up, please." You don't want to take your eyes off the road to look at him, but there's that worry again, that the zombies really did get him. You shake him a little, still watching the road and going as fast as you dare with zombies flooding toward the car.
"Newbie, what the hell is your problem? Run over them, they're already dead, for Christ's sake!" As he reaches into the backseat to get the shotgun you found (okay, some would say you stole it - that was only a few days ago, and even though it smelled horrible and there were dead bodies just stacked up along the side of the road, you'd give anything to be back there right now), he tells you not to make him regret coming along with you, or letting you drive, because god forbid you should actually be able to do something without him hovering over your shoulder, even now that your very lives depend on it.
"Shut up!" you shout. "This is so not helping!" Your voice has risen about eight octaves, and he sneers at you and you ignore the girl's name because the zombies have caught up with you and they're holding on to the side of the car, and you reach down to press the button to lock the doors. "Fuck." Your heart is beating so fast it's making you feel a little nauseous (or maybe that's just the smell and the zombies and the fact that you're going to die) and you wonder how Turk and Carla have managed to survive here for so long. "They're staying at a school with some other people," you say, gritting your teeth. "It's along this road. Oh god, we just have to get there and get inside without getting eaten and then get Turk and Carla and Izzy and all their stuff back in the car without getting eaten and then drive again, east, to New Orleans and hopefully it won't spread out there so we can get somewhere safe without getting eaten." You're losing it.
You press down on the accelerator, and as fast as they can run (and, oh, they can run) they can't keep up with a car going seventy miles an hour, and the suspension is probably suffering from all of them that you're running over, but at least they're not eating you. You try not to think about the movies where the thing that the protagonist fears is waiting right in the back seat for him (or maybe the passenger seat, because as far as you're concerned, Dr. Cox isn't out of the woods yet) and jumps out at the very moment that it looks like he'll get away.
Dr. Cox is really making you nervous with that gun. "It's not loaded," he says to you, holding up a couple of cartridges. "Calm down."
You don't answer him, and let your white knuckles and tense shoulders speak for themselves.
v. shots
The school where they've set up is in the town limits, and you can see a pile of dead bodies on the soccer field. Dead zombies, maybe, or dead people. Or both. You're sure the tires squealing on the pavement is not exactly helping your situation - you don't know how good their hearing is - but you really can't help it, you're so eager to get out of this car and make sure everyone's okay. You don't feel safe in such a small space.
You leave the car running and in drive, your foot on the brake, ready to drive if you need to, as you pull out your phone and call Turk. Now would be a very bad time for him to not answer. You'd go in yourself but the every door is barricaded and even if you could get in, there's no guarantee you won't get shot right away if someone sees you. He answers, and you whisper to him that you're here, in the parking lot, and you need a way in.
When you stumble in past desks and sandbags and boxes full of textbooks and god knows what else, Turk is standing there, and you're so relieved when you see him. He hugs you so hard you have trouble breathing, and you're smiling (although you tell yourself not to get too comfortable).
Carla comes up, Izzy in her carrier, to help fix the barricade and she hugs you and Dr. Cox, even more tightly than Turk did. They ask you where you've been hiding out and you tell them you found a motel in New Mexico where there was still water and electricity. Carla scowls and mutters a little, wondering how on earth you got so lucky to find a place like that. You follow them to help gather their things so you can leave as quickly as possible.
You're surprised when Carla tells you there are fifty other people staying here. "At first there were only a few of us, but then some of the people who weren't able to leave town came too, and then other people came across the building while they were heading east on the highway." She gets Izzy's diaper bag and stuffs it as full as she can, struggling with the zipper. "Most of them are staying in the gymnasium, but we decided to stay in here. We figured if we stayed in one of the classrooms it wouldn't bother everyone when Izzy started crying."
Dr. Cox has a far-away look in his eyes, staring at something out the window and across the parking lot, but from where you're standing you can't see it. "How are you on weapons?" he asks, glancing at her and then looking back out the window.
"Some people have them, some don't. Some of the others got whatever bullets they could from the stores in town. There wasn't much left, but it's been enough." She pauses. "A lot of the ... you know. A lot of them just seemed to drop dead on their own after a while."
"We've heard," Dr. Cox replies.
Dr. Cox lags behind as you, Turk, and Carla start bringing things out to the car. Before you can get out the door, he grabs your shoulder and pushes the pistol into your hands. "Hide this," he says, and leads you over to the window. "Look."
Standing in one of the windows in the hallway, upstairs, is a man, looking down at your car, watching Carla and Turk.
"What ... has he been watching us this whole time?"
He nods grimly, and adds, "We should get out of here fast. He had a gun."
Your eyes widen, and you nod, unsure what to do with the gun in your hand. "Keep it quiet, alright? He'll get suspicious if he sees all four of us watching him," Dr. Cox adds. "He might get ideas. We want him up there."
You nod again, grabbing whatever you can and running out to catch up to Carla and Turk, not taking the time to organize the things in the trunk. "JD, don't rush this. We have a lot of stuff to carry, we want to conserve our space."
You laugh nervously, trying not to keep looking up at the man in the window too obviously. You look one minute, and he's there, and the next minute, he's gone, and you yelp, "Sorry, Carla! Just excited to get back on the road and get out of here, you know?" So you start taking bags and shoving them into the trunk. "It's just a bunch of clothes anyway, we can squish them down, right?" You put all your weight against the bags and close the trunk, looking back to see if Dr. Cox is still watching you all. "There's not much left. Let's go."
"Are you sure you're alright?" Turk asks, "You're acting a little ..." He trails off, and sees you looking back at Dr. Cox every few seconds, and you know what he's thinking. "You and -"
"Shh!" you say, and then Carla catches on, and it might not be good that they're so distracted, because they're demanding answers, and you're trying to tell them, "Later!" but Turk knows you won't talk about it when Dr. Cox is around.
Shit.
And then there's a gunshot, and another one, and you're running, the pistol in your hand with two stupid bullets, and you have no idea what you're doing when you run into the classroom where Turk and Carla were staying. You figured you had more time, time to get out of here before that guy did anything stupid.
When you get there, the man's body is on the floor and Dr. Cox is clutching at his shoulder, leaning against the wall, blood seeping through his fingers. You hear yourself shouting, and you check desperately for other wounds, running your hands down his abdomen and lifting his shirt. "There's a better time for that, Priscilla," he says, grimacing, his teeth gritted.
"He only shot you once?"
"Yeah." He moves his hand aside to show you, and you see both an entry and exit wound. "Come on," you say, leading him toward the door, picking up the shotgun. "We have some supplies in the car, I can clean it and bandage you up." Carla and Turk have caught up to you, and you tell them to get everything else and take it to the car.
But a group of people stops you in the hallway. "What the hell is going on here?" a woman demands.
"He's hurt!" you reply. "Get out of the way. I have to fix this!"
"Who do you think you are, coming here and starting fights? Who shot him?"
"He's in there," Dr. Cox says, gesturing with his good arm to the classroom behind you. A man runs past him and, after a moment, shouts, "He shot Andrew!" A few others storm past you, and when they come back, the man says, "He's dead."
You hear coughing and groaning from inside the classroom. "Well, maybe not," The man adds as the others rush back into the classroom. "But you shot him!"
"He was going to kill us," Dr. Cox snaps. "What the hell would you have done?"
"Why would he want to kill you?"
"Because we're getting out of here. We're getting our friends and leaving."
Everyone is silent for a moment, and then a woman says, "You have a car?" Her voice is low, and it gives you chills. She points a gun at you. "Give me the keys."
"Sandra!" As soon as she pulls the gun, there's panic, and the others try to get her to put the gun down, but she pulls away from them.
"Alright!" you shout, and bring up your shotgun, aiming at Sandra, stepping between her and Dr. Cox, Carla, Turk, and Izzy. "This stops now." You take the pistol from your jacket. "Turk, Carla? Take this. Get to the car. We'll be there in a minute."
"JD -" Carla starts, but you shake your head.
"Go!" you shout, and they rush out the door. You haven't taken your eyes off the people in front of you. "Give me your gun," you say to Sandra.
"No."
"That shotgun's loaded with scatter-shot," Dr. Cox warns. "If he pulls the trigger, you're all going to wish he hadn't."
"Do what they say, Sandra," one of the other women says. She looks back at you and adds, "None of the rest of us are armed. She's the only one." As Sandra hands the gun over, she starts to cry.
"Please," she says through her sobs, "I have a little girl. We're running out of everything and ... oh god. We're going to die here."
You falter, and you're about to lower your gun without thinking when Dr. Cox snaps, "Newbie, don't you dare. Let's get out of here."
You walk backwards through the parking lot, keeping the gun trained on them. Sandra has fallen to her knees, leaning against the wall and sobbing, beating at the concrete with her fists. The same woman is comforting her, and no one else as moves as you're walking away.
"Dr. Cox," you say, "they're ... there's no way they can -"
"Yeah. We're the lucky ones."
"Should we -"
"No. But leave their gun here."
Before you help Dr. Cox into the car, you put Sandra's gun down on the asphalt of the parking lot. Carla is quietly sniffling in the backseat while Turk holds Izzy. You rest your forehead against the steering wheel, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. You feel a hand on your shoulder, and Dr. Cox says softly, "Newbie. Let's go."
You nod and start the car, and pull over about a mile from the school to clean and bandage Dr. Cox's wound. As you search through the trunk for supplies, he says, "Hey. You did good back there."
"I didn't even try to help that guy."
"I shot that guy."
"I left a whole group of people to starve to death."
"So did I. So did Carla and Gandhi. We didn't have much of choice there, did we?"
"I guess." You pour the alcohol over the entry and exit wounds, letting it dry, and wrap it with gauze, taping it up with medical tape. "You'll be wanting some of this," you say, giving him the bottle of Demerol from your bag.
"Thanks."
"Yeah." You really don't want to start driving again just yet, so you close the trunk and sit on the back, your legs dangling over the side. Dr. Cox stands next to you, leaning against the car, and swallows one of the pills you gave him. You're glad you raided that drugstore. "I'll give it another twelve hours and check it again to watch out for an infection." You look over at him and ask, "So what happened?"
He glares at you and replies, "I got shot. What else is there?"
"Why did he shoot you? Did he say anything?"
He doesn't answer you for a second, and then says, "No." You don't press it, even though you could, because he's obviously lying. Your head and your muscles ache and you really wouldn't mind going to sleep for a few minutes or hours or days. You lie back, your back pressing against the glass of the rear window, your hands cradling your head.
"We should keep moving," he says, turning to look at you. "We can probably make it there by tomorrow morning."
Turk gets out of the car and asks Dr. Cox, "How's your arm?"
"The bullet went through," you answer before Dr. Cox can. "I gave him some Demerol, and we're just going to watch it for any infection."
"So are we ready to go?"
"You'll have to excuse Calamity Jane here," Dr. Cox interrupts. "She's busy pouting." You'd like to shout at him, ask him if he can ever keep his mouth shut, but instead you look over at Turk and say, "Sorry. I just needed a minute," and get down off the back of the car.
"One of us can drive," he says, pointing at Carla, sitting in the backseat, and then back at himself.
You're hesitant to ask for that, but Dr. Cox interrupts again and you find yourself sitting in the backseat with him, wedged between him and Izzy, who is strapped in her car seat. By now Dr. Cox is snoring gently, squished up against you, and your head eventually lolls back and you find yourself struggling to stay awake.
When you wake up, your head is resting on Dr. Cox's shoulder. He's still sound asleep, and you pull his sleeve up to unwrap the gauze wrapped around his arm. Blood has soaked through, and you get another strip of gauze from your bag, pour some alcohol on it to clean the wound again and wipe the dried blood off of his skin, and re-wrap it with some clean gauze and tape. He's since woken up, and his eyes are half-lidded, watching you as if you're some stranger in a dream.
(2dozenowies table here)