Chapter 13: The Kindest Cut

Claire stared down at Rick, prone on the concrete. She could not mistake it. She could not mistake the source of the groan. Nor the twitch of his body. She prayed it was not true. That her fears were unfounded. That she was wrong.

But she knew better.

Her wrists were still bound by the cuffs. She pulled her knife from its shoulder holster, fumbling her grip into a reverse hold. Kneeling over her partner of the night. Her friend, she aimed the point at the base of his skull.

Her heart hammered. Claire did not want to do this, but if she did not, she might die. Fighting a zombie with her hands tied was suicide. She had no choice but to strike while she had the chance.

She did not know if she had the strength. Her hands shook. Tears threatened. Rick was a jerk, but a good one. He kept getting hurt saving her, and never complained. It seemed to be his nature. No one else had ever gone that far for her. Her brother Chris would have, but Chris was family.

Rick was a stranger she had met hours ago. Younger by a couple years, yet he had shown her how to survive this nightmare. And now she was about to stab him. In the back. For her own survival. It felt wrong. So very wrong.

‘He would do it. If the roles were reversed. He would. Without hesitation.’ She repeated it to herself. Perhaps to find some courage. Perhaps to find the determination to act.

Holding her breath, Claire steadied her hands and raised them high for momentum. She counted down in her head. At zero, she hesitated, and started again.

’Three. Two. One. Ze—’

“Fuuuuck.”

Her body froze. The knife stopped at the level of her stomach. Claire wasn’t sure she heard right. A word? A grunt? She did not know, and that terrified her.

Gathering what wits she had left, she called out, “R-Rick?”

“Claire?”

His voice was hoarse, weak, but it washed over her like a balm. The breath she had held burst out in relief. She tossed the knife aside, wanting it gone.

“God! Y-you’re alive! You’re alive!” She threw herself against his back. The tears she had fought back spilled down her cheeks. They were not of grief, but of sheer, dizzying joy.

“Ugh… You’re… Heavy… It… Hurts.”

She jerked away, realizing she had thrown her full weight onto his fresh gunshot wound. Guilt and a morbid flicker of amusement at being called heavy surged through her. She laughed. A ragged, half hysterical sound. The situation was absurd. She laughed because the situation was ridiculous. She laughed because it was better than being a crying, sobbing mess.

“Not… Ugh... The time.” Rick grunted, trying to roll onto his back.

Claire hurried to help. “Sorry!” she sniffed. “I’m just… I thought you were dead! A-and-and turning! And I was about to... And then you joked about my weight! Gosh! You’re such an asshole!” She was babbling, emotions swirling too fast to sort.

Once he was on his back, she saw the wound. Right in the shoulder.

“Why would you? Even if I died…. I wouldn’t… I’m not… Infected.”

She did not bother looking sheepish. Had she thought for a second, she would have realized. “I panicked, okay?!”

“Not really okay, no.” His stare was flat.

She huffed, annoyed more at herself, and slid the strap of his bag off. “I have to turn you on your side.”

He gave a slow nod. “Go ahead.”

She did, apologizing silently as he tensed in pain. She needed the first aid kit in the bag. Retrieving it, she lowered him back as gently as she could.

First, she cut away the sweater and shirt with thick scissors. The sight of the wound brought a wave of relief.

“You’re lucky. The bullet went through. Small caliber.” She packed the entry and exit wounds with green herb paste to slow the bleeding.

“That’s what she said.”

A smirk touched her lips. She pulled out a clean compress, sprayed antiseptic, and began wiping the blood from his skin. He grunted, but less than he had earlier when she had treated his waist.

“I’m on the… dirty ground… of a garage. Your hands… are filthy as… hell.”

“Shut up.” She tossed the used compress aside for a fresh one. “It’s better than nothing. We can worry about infection later.”

Rick found the strength to sit up, waving off her help though she gave it anyway. Leaning forward, he allowed her to clean the exit wound on his back.

“We can’t stay. The gunshot—”

“I know.” Claire cut in. “We don’t have a choice. I don’t know the layout, and we don’t know what area is safe.”

“Did the padawan… become the master?” He chuckled, then winced.

Her smirk softened into a proud smile. “Maybe.”

“No. If you were… you would have found… the cuff key in my bag.”

Claire stared at him, speechless for a beat. She had been struggling with bound wrists this whole time. The words erupted before she could think. “YOU ASSHOLE!”

If he were not injured, she would have smacked him. Time was short. She grabbed his bag, rummaging through the pockets. She knew him well enough by now. He would keep it accessible.

Her luck held true. She found it in the last pocket. She freed her wrists and returned to work.

“Just do my back. I can manage the front.”

Her hands kept moving. “Are you sure?”

“Hm.”

Rick took a clean compress, held it to the entry wound, and used his other hand to tear a strip of medical tape with his teeth. It was a clumsy job, but it held. He passed her the tape to secure the dressing on his back. She then wrapped his shoulder in a generous layer of bandage, so much that he almost joked about mummies.

“There.” She sat back, final and proud.

On her feet, she helped Rick up. When he bent for his bag, she caught his wrist and grabbed the pack herself.

“You can’t carry it, not with that shoulder. I will. Take the pouches.” She turned before he could argue.

Rick, predictably, said nothing. He did not remove the pouches from her belt right away. First, he opened them, removing items he would not need. Incendiary rounds. These he passed over her shoulder for her to slot into her bandolier. The rest went into the backpack.

“How will you use the launcher with the bag on?” he asked, handing her a few more shells.

Her voice was small. “I… Didn’t think about that.”

“Well. Let’s hope we don’t need it soon.” He took the pouches, his gaze lingering briefly on her backside as he hooked them onto his own belt behind him without looking. “I’m good. Sort of. Left arm’s useless, so it’s sidearm only.”

Claire turned, launcher in hand. Her improvised solution.

“We need to find Sherry and deal with that bastard.”

Rick nodded. “Irons is a sick fuck. I wouldn’t put it—”

“Irons?! That was the police chief?”

“Yep.”

“God. He’s worse than you said.”

“Yep. Now, you can rant or we can move. I choose…” He started toward the door Irons had come from and stopped, his foot scuffing something hard. He looked down. “Is that... Sherry’s necklace?” He knelt, picking it up.

Claire took it from his palm. “It is.” She tucked it into her tactical vest.

“First: find me clothes. Second: get into Irons’s office for clues of where he took Sherry. Third: find a keycard for the shutter and get out.”

“I like that plan.”

They passed through the door and hit a dead end. To their left, a control room required a Diamond Key. Ahead, a dead elevator.

Claire found a floor plan and studied it. “Two ways,” she said to Rick, who stood close behind. “Either the jail, or—”

“Hard no on the jail.” He did not let her finish and she turned around for an explanation. “With the chaos created by the outbreak, they rounded up lots of people. Sick people. It will be crawling with zombies.”

“Makes sense. But the other way is the morgue.” She checked the map again. “Well, not just the morgue. Firing range, kennels, power room, and…” Her finger tapped the diagram. “Stairs to the first floor. Probably leads behind that shutter near where we met Leon.”

“Morgue it is.” He headed back toward the garage. “It’s not even on the way.”

Claire agreed, quickening her pace to take the lead. With Rick wounded, it was her turn to protect him.