Ex-Isle by Peter Clines (electronic reader TXT) 📕

were three big cloth Band-Aids stretched across his forearm. They were all wet and dark. “Yesterday morning,” he said. “I stepped outside and the neighbor’s kid got me.” He shook his head, chuckled, and it turned into a cough. “I was stupid. Should’ve been more careful. I just saw him by the garage and I thought he…” The words turned into a bout of sharp hacking.

“You’re strong,” I said. “Most people are bedridden by ten or twelve hours, tops.”

He swung his head back at his wife and daughter. “I was out of it for a little bit,” he said, “but I had to get them here. Get them safe. That was all that mattered.”

“You did it,” I told him. “They’ll be safe here.”

“You promise?”

As of this morning, we’d brought almost two thousand people inside our urban fortress. Odds were we were going to double that in the next month. We’d already attracted about a hundred exes to every gate inside. None of us were sure if this was going to work or not.

“I’ll do the best I can to keep them safe,” I told him. “Them and everyone else here. I promise.”

Some worry flowed out of his neck and shoulders. He sagged against the planter. “Thank you.”

I shook my head. “I wish we’d gotten to you sooner. You might’ve…”

He raised a hand. “There’s a lot of people in Los Angeles. You’re saving everyone you can, I’m sure.”

“You’re really calm about this.”

“You have anyone special?”

I thought about it. “Not really, I guess.”

His mouth twitched into a smile. “My wife and little girl are safe,” he told me. “That’s all that matters to me.”

He took in a breath, and it sputtered out of his lungs.

“So,” he said, “what happens now?”

I’d had to do this eleven times now. All of them fought and screamed. I’d kept hoping for someone reasonable who’d understand and accept it.

Turned out it didn’t make it any better.

I kicked at the ground. “You can’t stay inside,” I told him. “Zero tolerance for the infected. I can take you outside, drop you someplace…safe. Somewhere you won’t be attacked.”

He sighed. Something gleamed on his cheek. He was crying, but trying to keep it hidden.

“I’m sorry,” I told him. It sounded weak and stupid.

He shook his head. “They’re safe. That’s the important thing,” he repeated. “Can I say good-bye?”

“Yeah,” I told him. “Of course.”

He hooked his arm over my shoulders, and we walked back to the gatehouse. Most of the guards tried hard to make it look like they weren’t watching. They all knew what was coming. I think they were freaked out by how calm he was, too.

I don’t know what Bryan said to his wife and daughter. I’m glad I don’t have some kind of super-hearing or something. They cried. They hugged. He kissed them both on the forehead. They helped him back over to me, and then they backed away.

His wife and daughter looked at me. They were devastated and pleading and holding back tears. There was no anger or hate, at Bryan or at me.

He hooked his arm around my neck again. I held him by the waist, kicked off, and we sailed up to the top of the Melrose Gate. Both of us pretended not to hear the wails and crying behind us, but I think he did a better job than me.

Another leap sent us over the street and above the studio next door. It was awkward gliding with another person, but I was getting better at it. At least he wasn’t fighting me.

I kicked off the roof of a studio stage and got us higher in the air. We sailed past the studio, over a few houses, crossed another intersection, most of another block, and came down on the roof of an apartment building almost half a mile from the Mount.

The roof had a few potted plants, three wooden deck chairs, and one of those big shade umbrellas. It had been a great place to hang out once. If it wasn’t for the sound of clicking teeth from the street below, it’d be peaceful.

I let go of Bryan. He looked fine now. If I hadn’t seen the red on his sleeve, I wouldn’t’ve guessed he was sick.

Then he let out a deep, hacking cough and sprayed blood on the concrete roof. His knees buckled, and he dropped onto one of the chairs. He hung his head between his legs and shook for almost a full minute.

Then he pushed himself up and looked at me. There were spots of red on his lips and chin. “I’ve been holding it together so long,” he said. “Feels like my body’s catching up for lost time.”

I pulled one of the plastic bags out of my pocket. I’d been carrying two or three of them at a time for the past week or so. In my head I called them survival packs. I was pretty sure if Stealth had caught me with them she’d’ve given me a lecture about wasting resources. I liked to tell myself she knew I was doing it and just wasn’t saying anything until she had to.

I handed the bag to Bryan. “Here,” I said.

He looked at the collection of pills and lozenges. “What’s all this?”

“The round ones are aspirin,” I said. “Those are cough drops. The square ones are gum. Y’know just to make your mouth feel clean. It’ll help with hunger, too.”

“Okay,” he said. He sifted through the bag’s contents as I named them, then stopped on another pill. Blue and oval. “What are these?”

“Those,” I said. “Those are sleeping pills. Y’know, for if you can’t sleep.”

He smirked and then coughed again.

“It’s not a suicide thing,” I told him. “There aren’t enough of them. It’s just…if you’d rather be asleep.”

“I get it.” He nodded. “Thank you.”

“There’s some bottled water over there.” I pointed in the corner of the railing. Half of it was gone, used one way or another by other people I’d brought to this rooftop. “The door leads down into the building,