Free Those Who Remain (Book 2) by Priscila Santa Rosa Page A

driver’s eye, as the man struggles to free himself from a restraining seatbelt. I wince when the Sergeant tosses the body out on the road to make room for himself.
    My eyes linger over the driver’s form. This is the first time I see someone infected for what was probably a full month. Victoria’s exposure didn’t last a week. I want to get out and examine it up close, but decide against it. It’s not safe, and I can help Tigh more inside the Humvee by letting him work without having to worry about my safety.
    The back of the man’s head is completely covered by black lumps, with no hair left. He’s bitten in the right shoulder, a line of swelling tumors originating from there and spreading over his upper arms and neck. The nails and extremities of his fingers are black, just as his teeth are likely to be. Tigh’s stab resulted in external bleeding, as a pool of blood forms below the face, but the rate and volume of the bleeding intrigues me: slower and less than of a healthy human.
    This virus is changing human bodies in a fundamental way, and very quickly. It can’t be a stronger strain of rabies, since it is far too devastating. Could it be multiple viruses mutating at the same time? A cluster of different diseases? Between Victoria’s behavioral pattern—a desperate hunt for meat—and the various extreme versions of different virus symptoms—rabies mania, saliva transmission with smallpox lumps—the more I think about it, the less I’m sure a simple vaccine will solve this. In my desperation to fix things, I became blind to the obvious level of complexity of the virus. Almost like it was manufactured… But that’s impossible. Or not. Three months ago I would never have imagined any of this to be possible. I don’t know what to think anymore.
    With the other car out of the way, Tigh comes back and starts our truck. I can only stare at the skeletal arms flailing out of the van, and, as we leave them behind, they almost seem to be pleading for help. Help that neither I nor anybody else can give them.
    By sunset, Tigh parks our car on the side of the road and we eat canned beans in silence. I half-expect him to tell me to drive, so he can sleep, but he doesn’t.
    “You can sleep on the backseat. More room,” he says instead.
    “Maybe we should take turns, I could drive while you rest, that way we can cover more ground. What do you think?”
    Tigh busies himself throwing the empty can out the window, then rolling the glass up again.
    “I’m not tired,” I insist, after his lack of answer. “I can drive just fine.”
    He frowns, passing a hand over his face. “That’s not a good idea.”
    The lack of trust stings, but he has every right to doubt my judgment. So instead of arguing, I move to the back of the car. I toss and turn at first, looking for a good sleeping position, but apart from the initial discomfort, it’s the first night in a long time without nightmares. Not even Tom and Victoria haunt my dreams.
    When Tigh wakes me, the moon’s still up in the starry sky, but the orange on the horizon mixes with the dark hue of the night. My back is killing me, but I hear a crack when Tigh feels his neck muscles. His back must hurt worse than mine. Between driving all day and the constant tension over obstacles, I worry about his health.
    After I jump over to the front of the car to sit in the passenger's seat again, he throws some bread and an apple into my lap, “Eat. We have a long day ahead.”
    “Before we leave… I think we need to talk.”
    “About?” He tears a piece of bread.
    “I know I don’t exactly inspire confidence after everything I did, but sooner or later you’re going to need me to help you. And it’s better if we get used to it soon. So….” I take a deep breath. Tigh gazes at the road ahead with a neutral expression. “What I’m saying is that you need to teach me how to shoot and fight for real this time. I need to know how to help you.”
    He doesn’t talk, so I