“Dakota… Koda! Wake up!”
“What?” he gasped, shooting upright. The back of his head throbbed like he’d just been hit with a hammer. “Fuck.”
“You passed out,” Steve said, pressing a damp cloth to the back of Dakota’s head.
“I’m fine,” he said, setting his head back on the cushion. “What about you? Did you get hurt?”
Steve pulled up his pantleg. A four inch long gash traced the ball of his heel. “Don’t worry,” the older man laughed upon seeing Dakota’s look of concern. “We’d both be dead if I’d’ve been bit.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, but I’m guessing I caught my leg on part of the fire escape.”
“What could you have caught it on?”
“Again, I don’t know.”
“As long as you’re ok.”
“It hurts like a mother.”
Mother. He chuckled. That’s Steve.
“What’s so funny?” Steve smirked, settling down at the end of the couch. “You think that’s funny?”
“I think it’s funny how you say mother like that,” Dakota smiled. “Usually a mother’s a good thing. I’m not one to judge though.”
“Oh fuck, Dakota. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”
Closing his eyes, Dakota tried not to remember a night seven years ago, when he’d woken to find his mother asleep in bed and a note from his father pinned to the door. To this day, he still remembered what the note said.
I love you, Tanner.
“I love you,” Dakota whispered.
No father loved their son when they drove his mother to kill herself.
“I was too young to remember anything about them,” Dakota said, opening his eyes when he felt the moment was right. “You couldn’t have done anything, Steve. You didn’t even know me then.”
“I didn’t know you until you were eleven,” Steve nodded, looking down at the hands he’d set between his knees. “I still remember reading your name in the paper.”
“I know.”
“How come you don’t like people calling you Tanner?”
“For the same reason that I don’t like thinking about my parents,” Dakota sighed. “It’s part of my past.”
“That fuckin’ asshole. I swear, if I ever got a hold of your father, I don’t know what I’d do.”
You’d kill him, Dakota thought. Rip him in half and cut him in two.
His friend didn’t need to say anything to make that much clear. “Anyway,” Dakota sighed, wetting his lips. “I try not to think about it. Why should you?”
“I just worry, you know? I’ve been your best friend since you were twelve.”
“It’s not very often a seventeen-year-old is friends with someone who’s twelve, is it?”
“Not really,” Steve said. Dakota chuckled. “You know I care about you, Kode. You really are my best friend.”
“I know. You wouldn’t have run to the adoption center otherwise.”
“It’s still hard to believe we used to live near each other. It couldn’t’ve been more convenient.”
“No. It couldn’t have,” Dakota agreed. Pushing himself forward, he reached back, grabbed the damp rag that had been behind his head, then lifted it in front of his face. A faint trace of blood speckled its surface. “I was bleeding?”
“Not bad, but enough for me to put a damp rag behind your head. Ice would’ve been better, but… well… you don’t need me to tell you we don’t have any.”
“Thanks for looking out for me.”
“Don’t mention it. Hey, you’re the one who saved my ass from being zombie chow.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
“Through thick or thin!” Steve laughed.
“And through death or undeath.”
Sleep didn’t come easily that night, not even with Tylenol. Ringing, pounding, throbbing, banging—he couldn’t imagine where all the sounds were coming from. Like a marching band at a parade, a chorus of pain lit up the side of his head, keeping him awake throughout much of the evening. When he did manage to fall asleep, he woke up an hour or so later, to the sound of gunshots going off in the street.
“What is it?” Dakota whispered.
“The gang.”
“What?”
“There’s been a gang coming through here for the past few nights. I’m surprised you haven’t heard their jeep.”
“They’ve got a jeep?”
“And from the sound of it, guns.”
Another shot rang out. A holler followed soon after.
“We’re gonna be ok, right?”
“Honestly, I don’t think we have anything to worry about, at least not until they come in here.”
“Why would they come here though?”
“For the same reason we’re here—shelter. We may be in a shitty little apartment, but at least we’re in this shitty little apartment. There’s not many people who can say they have what we’ve got.”
If there’s anyone who can say that.
Dakota kept his thought to himself.
“You need something?” Steve asked, easing himself out of bed.
“Like what?”
“A blanket, another Tylenol—whatever.”
“I don’t think I should take anymore. I’ve already had three.”
“Another Tylenol isn’t going to kill you.”
“I’d rather not risk it.”
“Suit yourself. Call me if you need something.”
As Steve made his way out into the kitchen, Dakota readjusted his position and closed his eyes, thinking about earlier and how easily one of them could’ve died. He could’ve dropped Steve, he could’ve hit his head harder than he did, the gun could’ve gone off and shot one of them. Anything could have happened.
“Steve?” Dakota asked.
“Yeah?” Steve replied, appearing alongside the bed.
“Please don’t tell me we’re going back down there again.”
“We’re not,” Steve said. “We’re going through the apartments next time we need something.”
Dawn cast its shade through the red curtains and stained the interior of the apartment like blood freshly cast from an open wound. Cold, tired, and head still aching, Dakota stumbled out of bed and into the living room. He found Steve standing in the kitchen, counting cans of vegetables and bags of food.
“Morning,” Steve said, smiling when he took note of Dakota’s disheveled appearance. “I’ve got good news.”
“What’s that?”
“Even though we lost half of the water and a few cans of stuff, we’ve still got enough food to last us a week or two.”
“Thank God.”
“The only bad news is that almost all of the canned shit is tomato soup.”
“That sucks,” Dakota grumbled, already bitter at the prospect of eating the same thing for the next two weeks.
“Food’s food, whatever it is.”
“You’ve got that right.”
Smiling, Steve reached over and tossed Dakota an open bottle of water. Dakota took a few sips before passing it back, then turned to look at the window. “It’d be nice if it rained more,” he said. “At least then we could collect our water.”
“Only one problem, bud—stove doesn’t work. We can’t drink it if we can’t clean it.”
“Couldn’t we start a fire? I know it doesn’t clean everything, but at least it wouldn’t be completely filthy.”
“I’m afraid that the sprinkler system would go off,” Steve said. “That is, if it even works.”
“What’d be so bad about the sprinklers going off?”
“Alarms, Dakota.”
“I thought they only went off on the main floor.”
“I wouldn’t count on that. Besides, even if they were only on the bottom floor, we can’t risk drawing zombies to the apartment.”