No one can know
Matthew Ryan Fischer
When he took another step, there was a slight squish as the blood
had soaked through the sock. He imagined his boot was full of blood by now. He
had felt the trickle running down his leg, but so far, he had hidden the limp
from the others. But things were getting worse. The leg felt numb and he couldn’t
feel his toes anymore. He was probably leaving a trail behind them, but thankfully
no one looked down. It was a matter of time now; time he didn’t have. Time none
of them had. There was still work to be done.
He was on his last bullet. He had been on his last bullet for a
while now. Before when he had been on his last bullet, that really meant he had
two. A last bullet to try and save the day and then a final bullet in case he
had to do the unthinkable. Be he had used the save the day bullet, but the day
hadn’t been saved. Now he had to decide what he was really doing. One bullet wouldn’t
save them or stop a swarm if they were attacked. One bullet would mean he could
take the easy way out. Or give the gift to someone. But who? And would they
even want it or would the idea sicken them? He couldn’t tell them. He couldn’t
ask. They were counting on him. He was the one with the training. The one with
the plans. He was supposed to save them and give them hope. But if they knew he
was done for, then what chance did any of them have? None, he thought. But he didn’t
want to take that from them. He kept his mouth shut and said nothing. There
were still miles to go.
His leg began to throb. The endorphins were wearing off. The pain
would become unbearable. Somewhere out there he hoped his daughter had
survived. He had hoped to see her again. Now, they would never know what
happened to the other. He could tell the others, tell them her name. But how
could they seek her out? She could be anywhere by this point. It was a fantasy
to begin with to think he would find her. But now, there would be no chance. If
he told them, it would just be one more thing for them to feel sorry about. Better
to let them go on and take whatever chances they would have to take, unburdened
by anymore baggage. He would keep it to himself.
His foot didn’t raise enough and he nearly tripped himself. He
could feel the sweat beads forming around his brow. At least I kept my hair, he
thought. What a dumb, vain thing to think about at a time like this. A million
men would kill him for his hairline. But a million other men wouldn’t get a
chance. The slow bleed festering wound would beat them all to the punch.
The others would have a choice to make soon. He
couldn’t take part in that. But he did have a choice of his own. The final one.
The only one that mattered. What, when and how, and would it be on his terms or
at the whim of the group. He if waited, he might endanger them all. He could
spare them. Be a hero one last time. But he couldn’t quite make himself do it. He
liked his life, what little he had left. He liked clinging to it. No one wanted
to give up and leave a minute before they really had to. It was a hard burden
to bear, but no one could really know what they themselves would do in the moment
before they got there. The choice was his and his alone.
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