Chapter 140: Skye

I watch suspiciously as the Bishop guy pulls a needle and some other equipment from his desk. I narrow my eyes at him when he approaches. Despite my death stare he smiles widely and explains what he's doing. Or what he's about to do.
"I'm going to draw several samples of your blood to see if I can isolate the protein that makes you and your sister immune to the Death Kiss. I'll need you to hold your arm like this, on this little table here."
I'm sitting on a chair next to a table. He picks my arm up and places the elbow on the table and then extends the arm with the inside facing up. When he picks up the needle, I start to pull back.
"Where I'm from we don't stick pointy things in each other unless we intend to kill the other person with it." Taran giggles from across the room and I glare at her.
"Pointy things," she says and laughs even harder.
"Real mature, sister. Is there a reason you have sex on the brain?"
She blushes and stops laughing.
"I just love how you girls have picked right up acting like sisters even though you were separated for so long. You two are an inspiration." This from Emery, who is sitting on one of the exam beds, holding Blaze in her arms. She doesn't look up as she speaks, so I can't tell if she's being sarcastic or real. Probably both. Emery is a kind woman, but a blunt one too. She smiles down at my nephew and tickles him under the chin, trying to get him to grin back.
"Are you trying to tell us to behave?" Taran asks her with a laugh. "Good luck with that. When we were kids, we were best friends and partners in crime, but we bickered constantly."
I laugh, forgetting for a moment that I'm about to be stabbed in the arm with a giant metal needle. "Oh god, did we ever. You remember when we were playing zombies and cowboys out back at the old farm? It was so long ago, you were only nine or ten and I would've been twelve. We'd built a little fortress to keep the zombies out. We were stealing logs from the wood pile, and when grandpa found out, you completely blamed me. You had an entire essay memorized on how the whole project was my idea and any punishment should fall to me. I was so mad at you for being such a little punk, I threw a stick with a spider on it at you. But instead of being mad, grandpa helped us. He enjoyed playing with us like that, but he also made his time with us educational. I think he was trying to teach us survival skills. He used to do that. Have us build a fire to roast our food outdoors, but then do drills to extinguish the flames so we wouldn't attract unwanted attention."
"I remember," Taran says softly. "Grandma used to scold him, tell him we were too young, but he insisted we were smart and we needed to know."
"Thank god he did teach you how to survive," Emery says. "Or I wouldn't have had the pleasure of meeting two such fine young ladies. But I'll tell you right now, if anyone throws a spider you both are getting your butts whooped. None of that nonsense around here."
We all laugh, and Blaze lets out a little burp then smiles. Emery coos over him, trying to get him to smile again. "What a good boy you are!"
Bishop squeezes my arm, wipes a swap across the vein with alcohol and places the needle against my skin. I tense up and try not to jerk away from him. Despite my unconventional upbringing and the past several years being married to a Warlord, I'm not really used to pain. My husband pampered me in every way, protecting me from all kinds of harm, while still trusting me to take care of myself. When I wasn't with my husband, Wolfe acted as my personal bodyguard. Even since leaving Santa Fe, he's made sure the worst of our situation doesn't touch me. He's made sure that I stay fed, watered, clothed and protected. I still don't know what his deal is, but I can't fault his protective nature.
As if sensing the fear in me, Bishop tries to distract me. "Tell me about your home in Canada."
"It doesn't exist anymore, either Canada or my old home," I say scornfully, untrusting of the man that holds so many lives in his hands. He seems kind and he has Taran's trust and respect, but I don't know him. Truthfully, I've spent the last few years surrounded by women, except for Wolfe and Silas. I don't quite know how to interact with men. And thanks to Talon, the man who kidnapped and sold me, I'm not sure I want to learn.
Still, this blood thing is supposed to be for a good cause. No one's said it out loud, but if he's able to figure out what makes us immune to the zombie bite, he might be able to produce some kind of vaccination or something. We won't be able to stop the zombies from attacking and biting, but we can stop anyone else from turning. Wait the Primitives out until they all die and then start civilization over again.
"Tell me about your old home and your family. I enjoy hearing you and Taran talk about happier times," Bishop says softly, pressing the needle into my skin. It's the weirdest feeling, having that bit of metal go into me. I feel a little queasy at the sensation.
"Skye used to do everything for us," Taran says, stepping closer to the bed and reaching for my hand, offering comfort. I have to resist the urge to pull away from her. Not because I don't want her touch, but because I've become accustomed to not showing weakness. Especially as a woman, living and fighting in a harsh and brutal world owned by men. Needing comfort is definitely considered a weakness. But her hand on mine feels nice, and does help me feel better about this process.
"My grandparents were older and there was no health care of any kind where we lived, so it was up to the oldest, Skye, to take on the brunt of responsibility," Taran continues. "They chose to settle down far from any cities in the hopes that Primitives wouldn't be attracted to settlements with only a few people scattered here or there."
"Did it work?" Bishop asks, filling the first vial with my blood.
"Yes," I respond this time, my eyes still following Bishop's hands as he replaces one vial with another. "We didn't encounter a single zombie until I was maybe five or six. Our parents were still alive then."
"I don't remember," Taran murmurs, edging closer, her hand tightening on mine.
"You were too small," I tell her. "And it was never the right time to tell a child about the time a zombie attacked the house."
"What happened?" she persists, wanting the full story.
I shrug, as though it doesn't matter anymore, as though it isn't the most terrifying memory of my childhood. "We boarded ourselves up in the house. For days it beat relentlessly at the doors and windows trying to get in. Day and night, it never stopped trying to get at its goal. We huddled together in the living room, dad, mom, grandma and grandpa with you and me in the middle. Mom was pregnant with Blaze. We gathered every weapon we had in the house. A fireplace poker, an axe, knives. No gun though, grandpa hated guns."
"Yes, he did," Taran says, flashing a smile.
"You wouldn't stop crying," I told her. "The noise the Primitive made kept you awake and you didn't understand why we were all stuck together like that, why you couldn't go outside. You just kept howling and howling and making the situation even more miserable. I wanted to feed you to the zombie myself."
We all laugh.
"Did it go away on its own eventually?" Emery asks.
"Yes, eventually," I agree.
Actually, what had happened was it heard the goat bleating in the barn. The goat hadn't made a peep for the longest time, perhaps sensing the danger nearby. But it must've gotten hungry and started crying for its food. When the zombie heard the bleating it charged the barn, a far flimsier structure than the fortified house. It'd gotten inside in minutes and torn the goat to pieces. We'd had to listen to the animal scream as it was devoured. After that the zombie either forgot about our existence in the house or gave up and left. For weeks after we'd been too scared to go much beyond the front door, eating canned foods and rationing the firewood. Luckily, we'd had a good system for pumping well water for years or we'd have had to leave the house for water. Eventually we realized he wasn't coming back and there didn't seem to be any more in the area. That was the first and last zombie I saw until my parents died of flu a few years later.
I don't say any of this out loud. It's not important. We've all had hardships in our lives. No one comes out of this brutal, apocalyptic world unscathed. I eye the doctor. "What's your story, Bishop?"
Taran looks curious as well, but says, "You don't have to tell us if you don't want to."
He shakes his head. "No, it's fine, my dear. I don't mind talking about how I got here."