Duality (The Hitchhiker Strain) Read Free Page B

smart. Stay alive.
    Blood loss is a bitch. Unlike the feeders, our bodies need to stay alive if we want to keep going, keep feeding. No blood, no heartbeat, we cease to be.
    If I die for real, would I wake up as one of them? I have no idea; I’ve never seen it happen. I have no intention of putting my feet up and waiting around to find out. I need to take care of my injury right away, before it slows me down.
    I press my good hand against the seeping wound in my arm and take off to ward the closest house—but not before giving the one-eyed wonder one final kick in the ribs. He deserves that gaping hole in his head a thousand times over.
    Injured, I have more control over my own thoughts and actions than I ’ve had in months. I’m better equipped to handle impending threats than the beast, more competent at thinking things through, and ultimately we both benefit from my ability to play medic. Giving in to my instincts and taking off in pursuit of our next meal right now would be an undeniably bad call. Blood is still streaming slowly through my fingers, and it shows no sign of letting up.
    The semi-detached house I enter is unlocked but has been stripped of anything useful. No antibiotics or bandages in any of the usual places. Nothing.
    Grateful that I’m not limited to the lumbering stride of the undead and careful to keep the pressure on, I run to a neighboring home, but the next three houses are all the same and I’m starting to feel lightheaded. I can’t risk going back out—if I have to fight again today, there would be no guarantees. Instead, I head up the stairs to a small bedroom in the fourth house and pull a shirt out of the closet to tie around the bite.
    The wound isn ’t large, just deep. Sitting down to brace myself, I have to use my teeth to pull against and knot the fabric tight enough to maintain steady pressure. When the sleeve drops from my mouth, blood stains the light pink fabric.
    The part of me that is Chelsea recoils in horror. I have blood on my mouth?
    Maybe it ’s mine. I try to push through the fog of my mind and remember what I was doing before the fight, but nothing surfaces. Every memory I try to touch slips away like water through my fingers. As I slam my head back against the wall I’ve slumped next to, a cry of frustration forces itself from my lips, startling me in its urgency.
    My lips. My voice. My voice.
    Hearing my voice again is jarring to say the very least. I haven ’t spoken in months. Or is it years now? Silence has been one of my greatest weapons. Groaning or yelling only serves to give your prey warning.
    The thought of trying to speak, of saying something coherent, sends my heart racing in an excited flutter. Do I even remember how to do it? The idea of forming various sounds and syllables seems so foreign. Do I sound different after everything that has happened? Hearing my voice might break me once and for all. Knowing that I could still be Chelsea underneath this shell… I don’t know.
    I can ’t do it.
    It ’s worth a try.
    My mind is still sluggish. Halting. I must sit ther e for over an hour because the sun is starting to set by the time I make a decision. I’m going to try. If nothing else, the challenge has distracted me from the now searing pain in my arm. I’m going to try.
    I lick my lips before pursing them together then pause. What do I say? It’s like my first word all over again, except I get to the make the decision. It’s the most monumental decision I’ve had to make in a long time. My first word.
    And possibly my last. Who knows if I ’ll ever have this chance again?
    Any final words, Chelsea Zimmerman?
    My tongue presses itself to the roof of my mouth as I try to form the sound of an N. The only sound I make is a weak moan. My vocal chords tense with the effort. I try again, and the results are better. More human.
    But w hen I try a third time, all I can manage is slurred gibberish. My vision starts to blur.
    I can ’t remember what I was