The fever hit not long into the first night.
The intensity of it was what initially sparked Peter’s suspicion. There was something else affecting Miguel; even when the younger man adamantly denied it, somehow, Peter knew that it was more than a simple sickness.
Of course, these suspicions only grew when Miguel couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. His fever had grown so hot that Peter hadn’t even known that the body temperature of humans could even get so high—at least, without dying—and Miguel wasn’t able to keep his eyes open for very long.
By now, Peter knew that he was right; Miguel wasn’t sick. He had been bitten.
Now, as he sat with Miguel’s head and neck in his lap, absentmindedly running his hand through the other man’s hair, he couldn’t help but feel angry . He couldn’t pinpoint whether he was angry at Miguel or angry at the crawlers, but there was a deep, burning anger in his gut. How could he lie? How could he put the others in danger? How could he let himself get bitten in the first place?
There was a soft grumble from the head in his lap, and Peter glanced down. He’d subconsciously started gripping Miguel’s hair, and now his eyes were cracked open as he let out a pained groan.
“Where is it?” Peter asked softly. He let go of Miguel’s hair and shifted slightly, immediately causing Miguel to wince.
Miguel didn’t speak.
Peter frowned. He wanted to yell at Miguel, but he also knew that the poor man clearly didn’t have much time left. He didn’t want his last memory of Miguel to be of lecturing him. He sighed, once again stroking Miguel’s hair, reaching over for a moment to slide a few stray strands off of his sweaty forehead.
“I know you’ve been bitten,” Peter pressed. “Just tell me where.”
Miguel weakly lifted his arm and—very subtly—motioned towards his abdomen. His arm fell to his side and he let out a sigh. Peter’s lips were pressed thin as he reached down to slowly and gently pull the bottom of Miguel’s shirt up.
Right away, Peter caught sight of Miguel’s attempt to hide his wound.
Bandages—which had already been bled through—and gauze were wrapped around his belly. Peter moved his hand away from Miguel’s head and used both to carefully unwrap the dressing, wrinkling his nose in disgust when the strong, sickly sweet stench of infection practically slammed into him. But there it was—a wide bite mark, visibly infected, sat a few inches under his ribcage.
After a moment, Peter pulled Miguel’s shirt back down, not bothering with redressing his wound.
He was going to die anyway.
Peter hesitated when he thought he’d heard Miguel say something. “What’s that?” he asked, gently lifting Miguel’s head so he could slide his arm underneath and hold him better.
“Gabi,” Miguel rasped. “Where’s Gabi? Has she . . . has she come back yet?”
Peter frowned, gazing down at Miguel’s face. It was tense with a mixture of pain and confusion. The fever’s making him forget. He’s really struggling to hang on . . .
Once again, Peter sighed softly, resuming the rhythmic strokes to Miguel’s hair. “She’s back,” he lied. “She made it home safe. She’s going to stay with Jess while we make another run tonight. Gun store. I’m taking Miles and Hobie.”
Miguel grimaced. “You’re taking two twigs?” he asked. His voice was as weak as he looked.
He hadn’t noticed it until now, but the familiar sting of tears made Peter realize that he was holding back from crying. He forced out a small laugh, though the movement urged the tears to spill. Peter just hoped Miguel wouldn’t notice; he reached for Miguel’s hand and squeezed it. It was cold and clammy, but it gave a tiny squeeze in return.
“¿Por qué estás llorando?” Miguel asked softly. His glossy eyes were just barely fixed on Peter’s face.
Peter sniffed and turned his head, using his upper arm to wipe away the tears from the right side of his face. “I’m not. It’s hot in here.”
“No, estás llorando.” There was a small frown on Miguel’s features now. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
Peter looked away, biting his tongue to keep from sobbing. His throat was sore from holding it back, but he didn’t want Miguel to worry about him, especially when these were almost certainly Miguel’s final moments.
“I know you’re here, big guy,” Peter whispered, glancing back down at Miguel. He froze.
Miguel’s expression had softened, his unseeing eyes seeming to stare right through the ceiling. His lips were slightly parted, and Peter turned his head and leaned down, praying to hear Miguel’s breath. Adonai, please don’t take him.
Nothing.
Miguel was gone.
He sat back up, suddenly feeling hollow. He gently moved Miguel’s body off of his lap—though there was no longer any need for him to be careful—and stood up, lumbering numbly over to the coat that he’d hung on the back of the door. A shaking hand slipped into one of the pockets, fingers enclosing around a folded knife. Once he’d retrieved it, he stared at it blankly for a few heartbeats.
Peter turned back and returned to Miguel’s body, once again hesitating. He reached out, closing the younger man’s eyes—he couldn’t bear to see them while he put him down—before unfolding the knife and taking a shaky breath.
You’ve done it before. Don’t freeze up. You only have so much time until he turns . . .
He placed the tip of the knife under Miguel’s jaw. The early signs of reanimation were already appearing; Miguel’s chest was rising and falling weakly, his breath raspy.
It’s not him. It’s not him.
He took another breath before thrusting the knife up into Miguel’s skull. His chest stilled and the rasping ceased. Peter released the knife, still buried in Miguel’s body, and sat back, no longer holding back his tears.