He tried to keep his face neutral, but ghosts were playing in his head, dark hair and exotic accent, then bleeding wounds very similar to this one. “It is not nothing,” he said tightly before reigning himself in; he shouldn’t scare her anymore than she already so clearly was. Peter gritted his teeth, fingers gentle as he examined the bite. Back home, with the vampires, it took blood to turn you, vampire blood and your heart had to stop beating. This wasn’t a vampire bite, and the rules might not be the same.
The tension in her body and voice were familiar to him. Telling people meant questions, it meant suspicion and distrust. He held her gaze for a long moment before he could answer without letting his own old fears seep into his voice. “You don’t need to worry. I’m not going to tell.” he said, carefully neutral.
He let go of her arm, moving back over to his side of the trailer and the little cabinet that held his things. “Sit down,” he ordered, gesturing back at her without looking. “That needs cleaning. No fucking telling what sort of filth is in those fucking things’ mouths.” He pulled out a small bottle of whiskey he’d stashed away, then kept rummaging in the small space until his hand landed on an aluminum canteen. Rosary beads tinked and scuffed against the sides within as he pulled it out. He wasn’t sure holy water would even do anything against zombie bites, but it couldn’t hurt, and it would make him feel better.