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The first thing she does is drag you back to the center of the mall.
“So we officially have the day to ourselves,” Riley starts, wiping her nose with her unbitten hand.
“Riley, we-”
“I don’t want to think about it.” Her interruption is forceful, but not rude. “We’re not gonna think about it. This is- think of it as a vacation. Surfing in LA, remember?” She smiles, and it would be reassuring if it weren’t for her bloodshot brown eyes and the burning knowledge of your matching wounds.
“So we have the whole entire day off. What do we do first? I’ll let you pick because I’m nice.” You stifle a scoff, and it sticks in your throat.
“Um… can we go back and get our bags first?” you ask quietly, and your voice doesn’t crack, which is good.
“You’re the boss,” Riley responds, and she turns with a half smile to walk away. You follow. You always follow her.
About halfway there, you pass what could have been some kind of health store.
“Riley, wait.” You dart in, slipping through an open section of the metal grating to grab for two packages of something. Tearing open the packaging with your teeth, you toss one roll to her.
“For bandages,” you explain. It probably isn’t made for that- the backing is sticky and although it feels like fabric, it’s too tough to be gauze. You use your knife to slice off a good-sized band and begin wrapping it around your bite so the sticky side sticks to your arm, then twists and faces out. It stings, but it’s better than staring at it every time you look down, or getting dirt in it- although you suppose an otherwise-infected cut is the least of your worries. You roll another layer on top to cover the glue and hold it up to inspect. Good enough. You glance over to Riley, who’s having a little more trouble with it, but finishes up quickly, flexing her hand experimentally.
“Good idea.” You grin, and the two of you set off again.
After retrieving your bags, you rummage through quickly, finding all your meager supplies right where you left them. It takes all your self-control not to flinch at every little noise of the wind or a creaky pipe, consumed by terror at the thought of more of them coming after you to finish the job. You left the radio on when you ran out- you turn it off, almost unwillingly.
You turn to Riley, who pockets something shiny and announces, “Now, we’re gonna get changed. There’s gotta be something better than this around-” she pulls at her bloody t-shirt and shakes it about- “and God knows you don’t have a bit of fashion sense in you, so I am going to very graciously help you. You’re welcome.”
“Hey,” you almost protest, but think better of it. You’re never gonna win anyway. You just sigh and say, “Fine.”
So you stay to hang out in this giant fucking department store. You drag your fingers over a stack of soft but mildewing jackets, tap at the side of the table. It still kinda blows your mind that people just had new things, whenever they wanted them. Well, they had to use money, but whatever.
“What do you think of these?” Riley calls out, and you glance over to find her dramatically holding out the brightest pair of baggy orange pants you have ever seen in your life. You hold back a snort.
“Uh, think I’ll pass on those!”
“You sure? They could go with… this!” She ends her dramatic pause by bringing her other hand out from behind her back with an equally hideous and clashing shirt attached. You don’t bother holding back your laughter at that.
“Fuck yes. That’s fantastic.” You shake your head, smiling, and go back to rifling through the only non-destroyed stack of t-shirts in the area.
“Meet me at the back when you’re done.”
“Got it.”
Throwing a few shirts in your size (you’d guess) at random over an arm, you pick up a pair of jeans off a countertop and make your way over to her.
“I think these used to be for seeing if clothes fit before you got them,” you state, gesturing to a corner surrounded by curtains.
“So, we get to use them to see which ones we don’t hate,” Riley finishes, nodding.
“You first, it was your idea.” She smiles and walks past you, carrying a slightly larger stack than you.
“You sure you don’t want those pants?” she throws back behind her, smirking.
“Uh, yeah. Just… get changed already. You stink.”
“ You stink!”
You spend the few minutes waiting for her in trading joking insults, and the few after making fun of her style.
“What, you don’t like it?” she scoffs, spinning to show off the yellow smiley-face on her shirt.
“You look like a banana threw up on you,” you deadpan. She throws her head back and laughs.
“Whatever. Your turn.”
“Whatever,” you repeat, heading into the little room. You get changed as quickly as possible, relishing in getting out of your dirty, soaking wet tank top. By the time you rush back out with a little, “ta-da”, Riley quirks an eyebrow a bit and crosses her arms.
“That’s it?”
“It’s comfy,” you defend weakly. It’s not like you were aiming for anything adventurous. The jeans are practical, and the black shirt’s sleeves cover the tape on your aching arm, which you definitely count as a bonus. If you’re trying to pretend it never happened, that you have a future for more than a few hours, it’s better to not see the neon-green reminder written across your body every time you look down.
“Ugh, you’re so boring.” Riley rolls her eyes before spotting something across the store. “I can work with this, though. Sit tight.” She makes a quick dash for whatever it is, and you sigh and wait.
“Put this on,” she grins, and presents you with a t-shirt from the section she got hers from- something red, an island and a weird-looking tree.
“I’m not taking this off,” you warn.
“You don’t have to. Wear both. Chill out, I’m not asking you to strip,” she teases, and as always, you flush a light red. To shut her up, or maybe to hide your burning face, you do as she asks.
“Better?”
“So much better. I like red on you.”
There’s that little moment of silence between you again, that kind that’s become so common in the last few weeks. You like to think it’s an understanding of sorts, that you both get what the other is trying to say. You just smile instead of breaking it and give yourself a moment to stare.
“You have next pick,” she reminds you quietly, turning away to fix her hair in the shattered mirror.
“I mean, Skeleseer was fun…”
“We’re not going back to that store.”
“Oh, boo. Whatever. I think I saw something you’re gonna like- follow me!” You turn, try to do it the way she does, like you just got the best idea ever and you know she’ll follow you anyway. It just comes off a little weird. She trails you anyway.
The store is a little place, almost looking like an afterthought in the grand plan of the mall. All you care about is you saw headphones and records, and since you got the power back on earlier...
“No way,” Riley breathes, coming up next to you and rushing into the music store. You grin and watch her flit from aisle to aisle.
“Did you see these?” you ask, pointing to the little stalls on either side with headphones attached. “Wonder if they work now.” You pick up the first one, and, yep, it’s playing. You don’t know how they used to make shit this durable, but you’re definitely not complaining. A sugary, poppy love song plays in your ears, and although you can’t say you enjoy it, you’re just happy your plan worked.
“I can’t believe they still have all these!” she exclaims, flipping through stack after stack of music on large black discs. Riley slides one out of the packaging, running her fingertips over it in marvel.
“Well, it’s not like people can raid them and actually use them, I guess.” You switch over to the next booth, where the music is just loud . A woman screams over drums and what you think is probably a guitar. Nope. Next again.
The third booth- jackpot. You wait for a minute just to enjoy whatever’s playing- not too loud, or quiet, or dumb. You’re not too picky over music, and luckily neither is Riley, so you call her over and wordlessly put the headphones on her instead. She shoots you an approving smile- you feel your heart drop right out of your body at that, every time, and you grin back, a little goofy, feeling your face go pink as she bobs her head along in time. All you ever want is for her to approve of you.
“This is pretty good, Williams,” she says, just a little too loud, and you shush her, giggling.
“Yeah, I know.” You’re going for pompous, devil-may-care, but something genuine shines through. “I have the best taste in music ever. Like, ever , ever.”
“Okay, well, maybe you have decent taste in love songs, but nothing else,” she relents, still with that heartbreaking smile.
Well, fuck. You weren’t actually listening for the lyrics. You just kind of liked the sound of it, thought she would too. The words are secondary, right? Like, anyone can sing so it barely matters what they’re fucking saying . You maybe caught the word “love” a few times but that doesn’t make it a love song , you know, so…
You briefly consider kissing her again.
Riley breaks you out of your thoughts again. “So, why this song?” She takes off the headphones and hangs them back up, already starting to walk out of the store. “Don’t get me wrong, I liked it. Just wonderin’.”
“Uh… no reason, I just-” You grab up your bag and slip a CD into the pocket. Your walkman still works, so you want to have this for as long as you can. “I thought you’d like it. The, uh, the guitar part was cool, and the words were pretty, I guess.” Pretty words . God, she makes you an idiot sometimes.
Luckily for you, she seems to like that answer. She stares at the ground, smiles slightly, nods. “Well, you were right.”
Silence falls again. You hate to bring it up, but your arm is kind of burning now, and itching really bad.
“Should we, uh, check on the…?” You can’t bring yourself to say “bites”.
“Why?” she scoffs. “Wanna see if they’ve turned green yet? Started growing mushrooms and shit?” Your stomach flips at the thought. Even though you grew up seeing pictures and videos and real-life infected, it’s so jarring to think that you’re gonna be just like them in a few days, walking around, head covered in that mask of fungus. Making those god-awful fucking noises.
Biting other kids who were too dumb to stay in bed, to stay safe, and not follow their friend out into no man’s land.
“I just want to see.” You flip open your knife and sit cross-legged on the floor. Riley sighs dejectedly, but follows suit.
Cutting the bindings open is much harder than wrapping them up. Once they’re open, you stare into the wound. Red, inflamed, horrible and pus-filled- but the bleeding has stopped, so that could be worse.
Riley, on the other hand-
“Oh, God,” she mutters, leaning to one side to retch. You crawl to her and gingerly take her arm.
Her bite is much, much worse. There’s yellow pus and boils bubbling out of it, dark red tendrils ringing the area like roots. And she was right- little bits of something poke out from its deepest scores. You want to drop her hand in terror and disgust, want to cry, want to take it and hold it close to your chest and make it better with sheer stubbornness.
“Riley, I’m so sorry,” you start.
“No, it’s just-” she sniffles. “It’s not you, it’s just really gross.”
You want to apologize again. You don’t.
“I think our little adventure is probably over,” she half-jokes. “I’m, uh, feeling pretty bad. Getting a headache, I think.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Well, if I’m gonna turn, I don’t want to attack people, you know? So we have to trap ourselves in, some way that we won’t get out easily.”
“Alright, where?”
“You’re not gonna pick?” She raises an eyebrow. “We’re talking about a final resting place, Ellie, so I get it if you want to-”
“It’s your turn.” You stand and help her up. Her other hand is clammy. You watch sweat roll down her face and notice the red tinge in her eyes- from the crying or the infection, you don’t know. “You get to choose, right?”
It earns you a small smile, and that makes it all worth it.
You end up finding sturdy rope hidden away in a supply store and tying yourselves to the merry-go-round. You find some solace in the warmly-coloured lights and the chipping, glittering paint.
“Hey, Riley?” you ask, leaning back against your pole.
“Yeah?”
“How’re you feeling?” It feels like the right thing to ask, even though you know the answer will hurt either way.
She’s just silent for a moment. “It’s getting worse. My head- God. And the... it aches so bad...”
“The bite, you mean?”
“My whole arm… feels like it’s broken or something.” Weird. “What about you?”
“Been worse, I guess,” you shrug. “It hurts, but it’s just the bite. I don’t think I have a headache yet.”
“Really?” She turns as best she can to look at you. “I’ve been dying for about an hour. It’s like someone’s hitting me with a fucking truck.”
“Nope, nothing. I’m cold, though.”
“Are you kidding me? I think I have a fever or something.” She just shakes her head at you, then shoots up. “What if you’re immune?”
“Everyone turns within 24 hours,” you rattle off, “usually less. You’re a Firefly, weren’t you paying attention to that part of class, at least? There are no immune people, just selfish liars who wanna get more time before they turn and kill everyone around them.”
“Ellie, seriously.” You scoff. “Okay, I know. But… just say it’s true and you don’t turn- stop looking at me like that. Say it’s true. What would you want to do with your life?”
“Riley, stop it. I’m not- immune, okay?”
“Ellie, please.” She sounds strained, in pain, and your heart pangs. “I just- I don’t care, just distract me, it’s getting worse. Fucking hell, this hurts.” The last word cracks and you realize she’s crying, and you resolve to do whatever she wants if it means it’ll help.
“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Uh…” What would you do? It’s a fair question.
“I would… well… maybe I could run away again. It’s not like I’m gonna go back to the military now or anything. I probably can’t tell anyone I’m immune, they’d just kill me, so I’d have to hide the bite, I guess?”
“Where would you run to?”
“Does it matter? I’d get the hell out of here, that’s all. Um… I’d go somewhere with a beach. You know, I’ve never been to the ocean.” She hums contentedly. “Then- no, say I find a safe town out there. With walls and shit so nothing gets in. I’d live there and never fucking leave again.” Your voice cracks a bit more than you meant for it to. “Yeah.”
“What kind of a house would you live in?”
“A little one. I don’t need a bunch of space to clean and worry about. I’d open my window every morning and- and see the ocean. And-” fuck it, you’re making this universe up as you go along. “And you could live there with me.”
“Ellie-”
“No, shut the fuck up for a minute. You’re coming with me. I make the decisions here. We’re gonna have a nice house, we’re gonna see the damn ocean, Riley. Every day.”
“Ellie, I’m not gonna make it out.” Her voice is soft and broken.
“Stop saying that.”
“You know it-”
“Stop!” You’ve never really yelled at her while you’ve been together- the first time was that night when you thought she was leaving you, and it’s almost funny how you’re doing it again now that she actually is. The first tear rolls down your cheek, and you would wipe it away furiously if you could reach. You toy with your knife instead, focus on the familiar weight and sound of the blade behind your back. “You’re gonna be okay.”
She doesn’t respond, just makes a choked noise like a cry, and all you can think is that she’s gonna sound like that forever now. You remember the first time you heard her speak and try to mix her voice with the raw screams of the infected. You try to imagine your own. It only makes you cry harder.
“Riley, I don’t want to lose you.”
No response. You turn to her to see she’s slumped over.
“Riley!” you scream. You saw through the rope restraining you and crawl to her, ignoring the bone-grinding ache of the fever that’s finally setting in. You lift her head with both bloodstained hands- there’s red foam at the corner of her mouth.
“Please don’t go, please.” You keep up a repeating stream of begging as you wipe at her face with a corner of your sleeve. Her head lolls over and she mumbles something.
“Are you there? Please, talk to me!” She isn’t making much sense, but her eyes lazily focus on you, and there’s that smile again.
“I’m sorry,” you cry. You wish there was something, anything you could do, take the hurt away, take it on yourself. You wish you had kissed her every time you had thought about it. If you never had, it would’ve been bad enough, but only once? Once was torture . Now you know for sure what her lips felt like, felt her smiling against your own, and you’ll never feel them again.
You wish you had taken her hand boldly in front of everyone and not just when nobody was awake to see. You wish you had told her exactly how you feel the moment you realized it because this is too fucking soon. You could have had years . Who would ever let someone like her die and leave someone like you?
The next few hours are agonizing for both of you in different senses. She fades in and out of consciousness, never fully coming to the surface, and you can tell how much pain she’s in. She has a few more brief, terrifying seizures. She says a few more disjointed words; “hurts”, “Ellie”, “don’t want to”. She manages a weak “love you” towards the end as she coughs dark blood onto her yellow shirt.
You just have to sit, waiting. What else is there to do? You fill the void with talk, anything that you think could comfort her. You make sure she knows what she means to you. You slowly feel the beginnings of the headache she was talking about, and it’s just as bad as she described.
After the fourth hour, you start to maybe believe her a little. Maybe it’s the delusions brought on by the mild fever, or a desperate coping mechanism, but it makes more and more sense. For a while, you begin to believe in the Fireflies. You might not turn after all.
Your symptoms don’t get much worse. It feels sort of like when you had a bad flu as a kid- you had spent the week in bed, sleeping it off, but you can’t do that now. The aches are a pain, the irregular vision blackouts caused by them are even more so, but you never fall unconscious. You stay awake, half through sheer willpower. You couldn’t save her, but by God you will protect her now.
After the tenth hour, you know she’s too far gone to know what’s happening around her. If you were going to take mercy on her, now would be the time- before the point where she’s dangerous, past the point where she would understand what you’re doing.
You don’t do it.
She was always the braver part of you. You ask yourself for the millionth time why it’s her dying on the floor and not you, why the world is losing her laugh and her fight and the way she cares so deeply and her and not your carelessness and irreverence, not your broken mess of a self.
Suddenly, she starts to writhe again, her limbs straining and contorted.
“Shh,” you comfort her mindlessly. “It’s okay, go back- go back to sleep, you’re- it’s all alright.”
She doesn’t listen. Riley continues to spasm and a sound comes out of her mouth that is so far from her voice that you feel your blood chill.
“Riley, stop that.”
Another sound, and her back is arched off the pole, head slamming against it like she can’t feel how much it should hurt, and you realize that she can’t. And you realize that she’s gone. Fully, truly gone. And you begin to cry again.
You know you can’t let her turn. It’s so selfish, so fucking selfish, but you can’t go on living knowing that she’s still out there (or her body is, anyway), never getting older, and she’ll hurt people, and she’ll inevitably get killed by someone who’s just trying to survive, someone who would never know how wonderful she is- was . You also can’t force yourself to kill her with your knife, though. You can’t force yourself to hold her head back, bleed her out like she’s an animal. She deserves a quick death, at least. You can still give her that.
Carefully, you slide her gun out from behind her.
And it’s fucking empty.
“No, no, no, no!” You check it again, praying it’s just a mistake. You’re sure she had bullets left. The empty chamber clicks, and it scares you more than the infected ever did.
She cries out again, sounding worse, less human. You spot an old metal bat, already dented and bloodstained, lying feet away, and you walk to it, pick it up with trembling hands. It’s cold, and your knuckles are white and trembling around it. You walk back to her, just standing there right in front of her body and staring, and suddenly a vision of what you would have to do with it to end her suffering flashes in vivid red through your mind. The bat drops and rattles away, and you fall away and retch at the floor.
And you do what you always do, and you fucking run away instead.
The Fireflies show up an hour later to find you sobbing in the records store, clutching the headphones on desperately, blasting the song she liked. They drag you out in handcuffs that are big enough to slide up and down your wrists, and you pass her again as they do.
She’s completely gone. Reddened eyes, scabby wounds opening up her arm, and a feral snarl. She’s still tied- your knots held tight. She starts to scream and make harsh noises in the back of her throat (your blood goes cold) as soon as you come into view, and before you can so much as yell an apology or a goodbye, even, one of Marlene's men walks right up to her and shoots her in the head. Just like that, it’s over. She drops and is silent again. She looks so human, dead, almost like she’s just sleeping if you ignore the hole and the blood.
You can’t find the energy to cry any more. You just let them drag you away, and resign yourself to whatever comes next. You’re only sure of two things. One: you are going to keep her cause. You’re going to try to save as many people as you possibly can. And two: you’ll never again let yourself watch someone you love die.