#runner ten

Sam hadn't know him very long, but Sam was one of those people who loved deeply and quickly. It wasn't uncommon for some of the slightly older members of Abel to laugh softly over Sam's habit of hero worship. 

Chris hadn't been here very long, but during the time he had been, he had managed to merge the gentleness of the best of the mentors Sam had ever known, with the cool assuredness of the best professionals Sam had ever met, with the somewhat frightening capability that Sam had only ever witnessed in the hardest survivors.

Sam honestly wished he had gotten to know this man better, and sitting here for the fifteen minutes he had taken for Yang Pulse, the world seemed even more unfair. So, like any other time Sam was confronted by a situation where he was helpless to intervene or better the situation, he talked.

He talked softly to the still form of Chris McShell, if for nothing else so that the runner wouldn't feel alone, wherever he was wandering. He told him stories about other sick Runners, and how they got better, and news from other settlements, and watched and waited for Chris' pale face to relax.

It was so much harder seeing someone suffering up close like this. 

Fifteen minutes came and went, and Sam didn't notice, didn't realize until he heard the scuff of someone's foot on the floor. He broke off midword and looked over his shoulder, to see a small clutch of Runners standing in the doorway and listening to him talk. They looked at him silently, and Sam felt a blush sweep his face.

"I was just talking to him. You know-- so he wasn't so lonely."

There was a distant, indistinct patter of words that ran through his head like soft rainfall. He wasn't quite sure of what they were or where they came from, but they had a soothing, hushed rhythm and Chris McShell clung to them with the memory of soft curves of his wife's arms until it unraveled into the dusk of his mind. His eyes slipped open, just wide enough for them to feel as though there were lined with sand. 

The roof above him didn't seem familiar, and he wondered vaguely if it was still before, and he was still moving, if he had been hurt and taken in, if he had slept somewhere on the road and forgotten which where it was now. Someone near him shifted, and reality still refused to reassert itself. 

With the outbreak, the mortality rate for things like infections and the flu was nearly at the same number as the turn of the previous century. Everyone got sick, pretty much no exceptions.

And as one of the newest additions to Abel Township, Chris Mcshell had a new set of latent viruses and bacteria to get used to. It had started with a persistent dry cough that seemed to irritate him more than discomfort him. 

Gradually, a fever crept across his body, and more often than not, other Runners could find him slumped over a spread of data analyses, almost seeming to nap lightly before coming back with a jerk and an apologetic smile. Runner 7 finally put his foot down when he first found his Runner 10 in such a state. Between him and Runner 14, they got him up from the small table in the housing shack, and onto his cot. 

The tall man made inarticulate sounds of confusion, and then protest at being rousted, but quieted when they pushed him onto the bed, the fight going out of him. Seven spread a large hand across his forehead, and then rocked back, smoothing a thoughtful hand across his mouth. He sent a grim look at his Runner 14, Jordan, and shook his head. "He's got fever. High grade."

Chris shifted slighty, more of a shudder than a concerted effort to move, eyes scanning the tin roof blankly as though trying to remeber where he was. His lips worked slightly as he swung his gaze to the two men, and croaked a query.

Jordan, a veteran of close quarters living since he was a teen, had no compunctions about leaning closer. "What's that, mate?"

McShell's brow came together and he tried again, fatigue dragging at his words. "Have they found her yet?" The words came out thickly, almost a garble.

Evan Deaubl's breath caught with a click in his throat, and for a steep second all he could do was look at the newest of his runners. "I'm getting Doctor Myers," he said shortly, standing, and looked to Jordan. "Fetch a cloth, dampen it with water, and start cooling him down."

Chris McShell lay on his back, and could not tell if what he lay on was the grass of his front yard, the still air of the evening basking him and his dead wife in the gloom, or somewhere else entirely. They should be back now, they said they would be back in a second, just fetch some aid and they'd be right back-

Fourteen looked up from swiping a wet rag down one of Chris' bared arms when he heard footsteps outside the door, and identified Maxine Meyer's smooth, calm voice along with the head runner's baritone. He stepped aside as the other two drew close, leaving the gaunt, fallen runner. 

Maxine flicked a look of greeting at Jordan, bending and touching a hand to Chris' forehead. She opened the small bag she had brought with her, and performed a minute exam, and then stood back and sighed. "It looks like the viral infection that made the rounds a few weeks back." She pressed the back of a hand to her head, strain seeping into her posture. "I guess New Canton must not have gotten it. We're out of anti-virals, so the best we can do is try to keep his temperature down and keep him hydrated." 

For a doctor, one of the most frustrating circumstances was being unable to tend to someone who had contracted something so simple and easily combattable as this. Maxine crouched again, and shook out a few aspirin pills into her hand, and uncapped the jug of water she had brought. "Chris?" she asked softly. 

The runner swallowed a brief sigh and settled a tired look on Maxine. "Doctor Myers?"

A warm smile crossed her face. "That's right. Can you lift your head? I need you to swallow these, and I don't want you to choke. Here, let me help you."

A quick transfer of items- the pills to her left hand, the bottle into Fourteen's hand, and her right hand slipped under the base of Chris' skull where his hair stuck damply to his neck- and she tipped the small white pills into the runner's mouth. He swallowed them painfully, with a gulp of water, and then seemed to ease back into a half sleep.

Maxine slipped her hand away, and checked his temperature again, as though hoping she had been mistaken the first time. She stood, still looking over the long body. "There's no danger of him infecting any one else, we should all be immune to it by now. The next twelve hours will be the most critical." She paused, and looked to the head runner. "We'll need to see if any of the runs can dig up some medication. Otherwise, it's up to him."

1. Say hi. Decide to tell him your name instead of just your number.

2. Don’t stare at the ring on the chain around his neck.

3. Fuck, you’re staring.

4. Don’t ask about the ring on the chain around his neck.

5. Notice the sunlight reflected off his glasses because of the way he’s turned his head. Wonder if it’s intentional, because you can’t see his eyes.

6. Begin to sweat due to the uncomfortable silence.

7. Shake his hand when he offers. Don’t think about the softness of his fingers like worn cloth.

8. Accidentally hold on a second too long.

9. Ask for his number.

10. Wait, shit, not like that!

11. Try not to explode when he tells you.

12. Don’t ask how many zombies he’s killed.

13. Don’t ask how many zombies he’s killed.

14. Don’t ask how many zombies he’s killed.

15. Damn it.

16. Sheepishly avoid the long-suffering look on his face.

17. Stumble over yourself trying to compliment the number. Wonder if you should just pretend Sam’s started talking at you so you can run away.

18. Blink when he asks how many you’ve killed, completely deadpan.

19. Flounder as you admit you haven’t kept track.

20. Have a realization.

21. Quietly take him off the pedestal in your mind.

22. Dig around in your head for ice-breakers.

23. Ask him about “Local Sports Team.”

24. Pause.