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Paul had always felt a great sense of responsibility since he was a child. So when the world went to shit, and the people scrambled to make a new society with a council of leaders, Paul volunteered. Although being much younger than many of the other council members, he was accepted as he was viewed as far more mature for his age. George teased him mercilessly for being ‘surrounded by old people all the time’. But since Paul wasn’t a naturally violent person, he would give George the stink eye in response.
Paul was arguably the most sensible of the four boys who had been titled the “Fab Four” by the camp. John frankly basked in the attention that the four got, especially when asked to sing for the camp. George never failed to mention how annoying it was that he and John had to share a guitar while Paul still had the very nice bass his father had given him on his birthday before the virus spread.
Paul was the responsible one, and so he made his friends his responsibility. And now that he knows that Ringo was bitten, that he was infected on a scavenging mission he’d agreed to. Paul felt like he was drowning in the guilt that now filled his entire mind and soul. And with George growing so clingy and defiant to his orders and warnings, he feared that the guilt and stress could very well kill him.
The wait for George to return after bringing Ringo supper was arduous, and it made the usually calm and put-together man stressed out of his mind, and his body language showed it. Pacing, combing his hair with his hands constantly, biting his thumb’s fingernail, and clenching and unclenching his fists. His clear display of stress also affected John, who was the only witness to it. John constantly called his name, but it wouldn’t stop his movements.
John was able to finally calm him by grabbing him and forcing him to sit down next to him, holding his hand while whispering reassuring words into his ear. When George came back, he looked rather sullen, his eyes red and puffy from tears he most definitely shed on his way back. He had stood there silently in front of the two older men before Paul stood up and hugged George. The younger seemed surprised at the sudden physical affection as he stiffened in Paul’s hold, but after a few seconds, he relaxed and grabbed the back of Paul’s shirt, putting his head onto Paul’s shoulder. He didn’t cry, didn’t say a word, just stayed there.
That night, Paul barely got any sleep. And from the look of the other two the next morning, he was sure they were the same. Everyone could tell something was off with the three when they went for breakfast at the meal tent. Paul just excused it as nothing, just still tired from another exhausting week of work. Even after eating, Paul’s stomach felt empty.
When they went back to their tent all together, Paul made it clear that he was going to be the only one to go back to the warehouse. George protested, but after a long shared look between the two, he backed off. George was too emotionally compromised in this; he wouldn’t be able to do it or allow someone else to. And John, the poor man, had enough trauma to deal with; Paul wouldn’t add to it.
And so he walked alone, a rifle slung across his shoulder. The sounds of the forest surrounded him, birds chirping, leaves bristling in the wind, tranquil and peaceful if this were any other day. He knew what would face him once he got to the warehouse, but he couldn’t get himself to picture it. He couldn’t fathom it, Ringo, with pale, lifeless eyes, black veinlike lines across his face, neck, and body. But he reminded himself that it wouldn’t be Ringo, not anymore. He halted in his path once the warehouse finally came into view.
Ringo, all alone in that empty warehouse. Cold and afraid. He’d left him there. Paul didn’t think he could hate himself more. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued on. He would get there, he would do what he had to do, and then…try and live his life without drowning in overflowing guilt.
Finally, he found himself taking the first few steps into the warehouse. Other than the creak of old metal and the drips of water droplets, the warehouse was rather silent. He did his best to put on a brave face as he continued further inside. His footsteps echoed about the space. Soon Ringo came into view, or at least his body. The man was slumped over, his head down, still chained to the pillar. Paul stopped a few feet from him. He stared at him for some seconds before removing the rifle from his shoulder and then raising it slowly.
Paul breathed slowly, doing his best to remain calm. He could do this; it would be over in a second. Besides, Ringo wasn’t in there any-
“Paul?” A voice called out weakly.
Paul froze, unsure if he’d really heard that. Was he hallucinating? He nearly jumped when Ringo began to raise his head.
“Is that you?” Ringo asked.
Paul felt his breath leave him as he stared at Ringo’s face. Instead of cloudy grey, he was met with the same signature blue eyes he’d become familiar with. His face, other than some dirt and some bags under his eyes, was the same. No vein-like lines, no cloudy eyes, he looked fine. Unbitten. Not Infected. A little over thirty-six hours. Ringo was fine. Ringo was...immune?
Paul immediately dropped his rifle and went to unchain him. There had been theories, people who suggested that it could be possible that someone could be immune, and sure enough, here was the proof. Ringo made a noise of confusion as his hands were finally freed. Paul immediately went and yanked down Ringo’s shirt to look at the bite mark. It was the same as it had looked the first time he saw it, no signs of the virus spreading.
“Paul?” Ringo called out again.
Paul immediately turned his head to look at him. Those blue eyes, those beautiful, wonderful, alive eyes. Paul moved to cup Ringo’s face in his hands.
“Rich. You, Rich, I think…I think you-you could be immune.” Paul said softly, hesitant joy filling his voice.
“Immune? But that’s not-”
“I’m looking at you, and you look fine- cold, obviously, but nothing else. Rich, you look perfectly healthy. You don’t look infected in the slightest.” Paul said, reaching out and adjusting the blanket that had slightly fallen during the night.
“It’s been thirty-six hours?” Ringo asked.
“Over,” Paul replied gently.
There was silence between them as Paul gently touched Ringo’s cold but soft face. His skin was still a nice light peach, not the grey of the undead and infected.
“How are you feeling?” Paul asked Ringo as he brushed his cheek with his thumb.
“Cold,” Ringo murmured.
Paul let out a small chuckle at that before placing his forehead to Ringo’s.
“Anything else?”
“Like I want a hot bath,” Ringo said.
“I can arrange that,” Paul replied.
“Lucky me to have a friend on the council.”
“Lucky me to have a friend that’s immune.”
___
Ringo groaned as Paul rubbed his wrists, helping get his circulation back to normal. His wrists were slightly sore as the numbness went away.
“Do you think you can walk?” Paul asked.
“I think so.”
Ringo slowly pushed himself up onto his feet. He found his legs to be a bit wobbly as he ended up needing to slightly lean on Paul as he nearly stumbled.
“Careful there,” Paul said, keeping a decent grip on Ringo’s waist.
“Ta,” Ringo responded.
Paul helped lead Ringo over to a nearby crate so he could sit down. He didn’t let go until he was sure Ringo was situated. Paul then took off his jacket and placed it on Ringo’s shoulders. Ringo put his arms through the sleeves, holding the jacket tight to his body.
“What happens now?” Ringo asked, looking up at Paul.
Paul put his hands on his hips, looking down at the ground as he thought.
“Well, while I’d prefer to take you back with me to camp...some people have noticed your absence, and I don’t know how we’d explain it. I also want to make sure. Make sure you really are immune. I hope you understand.”
Ringo pursed his lips but nodded. He looked down at his hands, his normal hands, no black veins in sight. He then placed his hand on his chest, feeling for his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. There it was, his heartbeat, slightly fast from the adrenaline rush, further proof that he was alive. Ringo let out a small laugh, a mix of disbelief and joy.
A gentle smile grew on Paul’s face before he crouched down.
“I’m going to need to go back to the camp. Do you think you will be alright by yourself again?” He asked.
“Well, it seems I’m a master at surviving anything, so I think I’ll be alright,” Ringo said with a chuckle.
Paul let out a chuckle in response. He then reached out and put his hand on top of Ringo’s. Ringo's hand, warm and peach-colored, alive. He rubbed the back of Ringo’s hand before standing. He reached into his waistband, pulled out a pistol, and placed it beside Ringo.
“Promise not to use it on yourself?”
Ringo laughed at that, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Paul seemed satisfied with that. He placed a hand on Ringo’s cheek before walking away. Ringo turned and watched Paul leave. But he didn’t feel fear and uncertainty like he did the day before. Now he felt hope and anticipation for what would happen next. Now he just needed to wait and trust that Paul would do what he needed to. He could wait. He trusted Paul with his life and more.
___
The walk back to the camp was filled with mixed emotions for Paul. Relief and happiness that Ringo could very well be immune. Anxious at the prospect of that. Fear that if Ringo really is immune, people could demand he be experimented on, or worse, cut open for whatever organ they see as the answer to Ringo’s immunity. Paul felt a sudden burst of rage at the mere thought of someone treating Ringo as a lab rat.
He would never allow that.
He did his best to enter the camp as quietly and secretly as possible. If anyone passed by him and asked what he was doing, he would say he was getting back from shooting practice. He took the rifle back to the weapons tent, giving a quick hello and goodbye to the attendant. When he finally got to his tent, he was met with the sight of George and John sitting and lying in different states of dismay. George was lying down with his back to Paul, John sitting as he wrote into a journal, his pencil not moving, and his eyes staring blankly at a nearly blank page. John looked up at Paul as he entered. He placed his journal and pencil beside him on the bed.
Paul walked over to George’s bed and sat down. George made no move to turn around. There was silence amongst the three men until John cleared his throat.
“Is he still…chained up?” John asked, dancing around his real question: Is Ringo still chained up with a bullet in his head?
“No.”
“Where did you put him?”
“On a crate. Where he’s sitting. Not infected.” Paul replied.
George immediately jolted up, his puffy red eyes wide as he stared at Paul in shock.
“That’s not funny.” He said, his tone tense.
“I’m not being funny.”
“He’s alive?” George asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Paul gave him a kind smile, “Yes, George. He’s alive.”
Paul then turned to look at John, who had been struck into silence. He stared at Paul, his eyes searching for any deception. Any uncharacteristic cruelty. He seemed to have found none as he immediately whipped off his glasses and placed his head in his hands. His shoulders shook before a tearful laugh tore out of him.
“He’s alive. The son of a bitch is immune.” John laughed, sounding near hysterics.
“We don’t know that for sure yet,” Paul responded.
“But you just said-” George began.
“I’m as hopeful as you two are, but- there still needs to be some precaution. So, I’m going to speak with the council.”
“What?” John asked, bewildered, moving his head up so fast Paul was worried he’d get whiplash, “Are you insane? What if they demand that they experiment on him? Harvest his organs or some crazy bollocks.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“What can you do on your own?”
“Whatever it takes,” Paul answered with finality.
George sat up on his bed, placing his feet on the ground.
“I want to go see him.”
“Not now. Just give me a bit of time. Then, when I think it’s alright, you can go.”
Paul and George stared at each other for a bit before George relented with a sigh, looking away.
“Fine.”
“Thank you,” Paul said as he stood up.
He walked to the entrance of the tent as John called out his name. He turned to look at him.
“Don’t break your promise, Macca.”
“I won’t.”
With that, he left the tent, walking towards the council’s cabin where they had their meetings. Even if it took Paul hours, he would do his best to safeguard Ringo’s future. Paul was the responsible one, and Ringo was his responsibility.