David Kennison was a man of few words. It had always been that way, since the moment we found him huddled in that abandoned jeep, smeared with days of dirt and gore. Nobody ever held it against him, though. Not for the three months we operated as a unit in the violent wasteland our city had become.
Shelby, Ryan and Ruth were out getting supplies. They left the rest of us in the library basement that had become our refuge. Our new home. We didn't see much daylight, but at least we were secure. They couldn't get in. And there was a lot of reading material.
From the corner of my eye, I caught just a hint of Kennison's lanky figure rising from his post at the corner of the bookshelf adjacent to mine. As he started to skulk off, I frowned slightly. He was even more quiet than usual. In fact, he hadn't said a single word in the past few days. Not even to me, before or after he drove a lamp through the skull of a walker that latched onto my leg.
The library was the safest place we could be. But no place was safe. The walkers could find their way into the most unexpected places, and it seemed that the longer we survived, the more tired we grew, the more they re-developed their human wits. The idea of anyone going off anywhere by themselves didn't sit well with me. Especially not him. Not after what he'd just done for me.
So, I followed him, which probably wasn't the smartest decision in retrospect. I had no weapon. My recent brush with death hadn't made me any more cautious. My survival was a sheer piss at Darwinism. Regardless, I felt I owed my concern to the quiet Englishman who saved my life. At the very least.
I found Kennison over in the archives, sitting with his knees to his chest. His back was turned to me, his shoulders slumped. As I approached, the floorboards creaked beneath me, causing him to jump as he turned to face me, expecting to find something undead behind him. I instantly regretted my thoughtlessness when I saw the tears that shone in his dark eyes, and the way his face flushed upon noting my noticing them.
"I'm sorry," I said softly, as he whipped back around to brush the wetness from his face, "I just didn't want you off by yourself..."
He nodded briskly, without a word.
I pressed, "Are... you okay?"
"I'm fine."
His lightly accented voice was low, raspy and curt. I hated the embarrassed, intrusive feeling that started to wash over me. Unable to stand it any longer, I turned around to head back toward the rest of the group when I heard words so soft that I wasn't sure I'd heard them at all.
"Hmm?" I asked, slowly turning back on my heel.
"I said... My parents. It's their anniversary."
Lost for words, I simply blinked at the back of his dark, disheveled hair. In fact, I was surprised when he continued.
"We were supposed to be taking them out, my little sister and me. To this Italian restaurant they love in Brighton. With a view of the sea..."
I cleared my throat, stepping closer.
"I'm sorry..."
It was all I could think of. Kennison looked up at me with such suddenness that it took the breath from me.
"We all are. I mean, we've all lost people, right?"
I didn't want to think about it. I didn't know where most of my friends and family were, and I didn't know for sure that they were dead. I refused to settle on it one way or another. It was easier that way. But still, I nodded.
"Yeah... We have."
With something like a laugh, but far too melancholy to really be, Kennison shook his head, "And I'm the only one weeping like a child."
At this I dropped to my knees beside him.
"No, that's nothing to be ashamed of. I don't think anyone can blame you for crying."
I put my hand on his forearm, and it was the first time I could remember us ever touching on purpose. I was unsure if I'd crossed a boundary, and I think he was to, from the way he looked at me. But his eyes softened. They were high-set and slanted in his slender face. And nearly black. They were striking.
