by K. M. Fawkes
Running for the door, he cast his mind back to the hardware store next door. Most hardware stores also held coolers for water and soda; had he seen anything like that over there? Many stores like that also had aisles of gallon-jugs of water, had he seen anything like that?
Yes, he realized. He had. He’d seen at least one aisle that held jugs of water, and he was positive he’d seen a refrigeration unit that would have held soda and other drinks. They might not be there anymore, but the chance that they might be meant he had to go check it out. He blew through the doors of the market, made a sharp left, and darted back toward the hardware store, his breath blowing hard against the kerchiefs covering his mouth.
Chapter 9
Garrett had already dropped everything he’d found off at the truck and told Bart to sit and wait. Now he was in the neighborhood on the other side of the strip mall, looking at the houses. He didn’t want to be here anymore. Didn’t trust what he might find in those houses. But he’d agreed to scout the town and take everything he could back to his own community, and they’d long ago agreed among them that “scouting” meant going into every possible situation and seeing what they might find. Their continued survival depended on it.
Now, if the market had been raided, he was guessing the houses had been as well. Either that or they still had people living inside of them. Either way, he doubted he’d find anything of value—and thought there was a chance that he’d open up a door to find a rifle pointed right at him.
But he had to know for sure. Half a cart full of groceries and a full cart of water and soda, plus some tools and gas cans—and the fuel Bart had managed to find—was an okay haul. But it wasn’t what they’d been expecting, and it certainly wasn’t what they needed. As long as there was a chance that he could find more, he had to take it.
Especially if it meant they didn’t have to come back to this town. This town that felt so wrong. Crossing Las Ramblas off the list completely could mean that they went somewhere else next time.
“And in this game, efficiency is everything,” he muttered as he started walking and turned up the driveway to the first house on the right. It wasn’t anything fancy—just one of those housing tract homes where the developers had practiced their own sort of efficiency by using the same design again and again, and buying supplies in massive orders that got them some sort of discount.
Pretty typical for this area. Nothing special. And it looked deserted, which was a plus.
He climbed the three steps to the hacienda-style patio and put his hand to the doorknob, then paused and listened carefully for any sound on the other side of the door. After a minute, curiosity satisfied, he twisted the knob and pushed the door in about three inches—just enough to glance through the opening and look around the foyer.
Nothing. A side table that ran about four feet long on one of the walls, adobe-colored tile on the floor, off-white walls. Artwork that might have passed as acceptable in the mid-1980s, but now looked like the height of gaudiness. And on the other side of it… nothing but stark, heavy stillness.
Now came the tricky part. He’d always disagreed with Alice on this part, because he firmly believed that the best thing to do—the smart thing to do—was to call out into any home, to either warn the people inside that they were coming or shock them into making a move. Either way, it increased your chances of knowing what you were getting into.
Alice, of course, believed in taking anyone who might be in there by surprise. Smaller chance of ending up dead, she said.
But Alice wasn’t here.
“Hello?” he called, pitching his voice so it would travel through the house—or at least the bottom level.
A pause, and then he called out again. “Anyone here? I don’t mean any harm, but I’m at the front door and I’m going to be coming in.”
Another pause. This one longer, as he waited to see whether there would be any reaction. When no one answered, he opened the door a bit more and slid through the opening, then closed it behind him. He looked around, knees slightly bent and poised on his toes, ready to run if he needed to. But the stillness reigned here, and though he cast his senses out through the house, it didn’t feel as if anyone was here.
It also didn’t smell like anyone had died here. And at that, the mystery deepened. Many of the houses they’d been in before had held the bodies of those who had tried to stay, and who had died of the virus, or starvation or lack of water. The fact that this house seemed clean… Well, it made him wonder even more about this town.
“Wonder about it later, kid,” he said, forcing himself into movement. He wasn’t here to solve mysteries. He was here to get food and water for his own community so that whatever had happened here didn’t happen to them.
Fifteen steps straight ahead took him into the great room with a vaulted ceiling—standard architecture in a hacienda style, he thought to himself—and fifteen more carried him through the living area and right into the kitchen. There, he stopped and looked around cautiously. If there was any sign of life in the house, this is where it would be. But there was nothing. No dishes on the counter, no pans on the oven. He didn’t even see any sign of anyone ever having cooked in here.
Had he somehow managed to get into a house that was used only for sales purposes or something? Some sort of model?
He cursed at the thought, because that would mean no food or water in here, and rushed toward the pantry. Throwing it open, he nearly staggered back in surprise.
The thing was completely stocked. Row upon row of canned goods, boxed goods, and packages of pasta and sugar, packed so tightly that it looked like someone had actually been planning to survive in this place after a nuclear war.
The opposite of a model house. It was a doomsday prepper’s house, or at least it looked like it was. Only something had happened to them during the doomsday part, and they’d left all their prepping behind. And for some reason, no one had raided them yet.
He didn’t care what that reason was. He started scooping everything out of the pantry and into the bags he was carrying, uncaring what it was he was stealing. They needed all of this—everything he could fit.
Once he was done, he searched the other pantry for water, and found three gallon jugs. Not a lot, but enough to give water to someone. Then he rushed to the cupboards over the sink—if there was one thing his community was dangerously short on, it was medical supplies.
To his absolute relief, the medicine cabinet was full. Cold and flu tablets, cough syrup, pain medication, ace bandages, antibacterial spray…
“Who were these people?” he wondered aloud. He’d never seen such a well-supplied kitchen before. Had certainly never seen a house that looked like it could have doubled as a pharmacy.
Then he found the prescription medication, and with that, the names of the people who had lived here. “George and Sheila Connor,” he said, reading the labels of two different bottles. “What were you doing, Mr. and Mrs. Connor, with so much food and medication? And what happened to you?”
Then he looked at the labels more closely. Penicillin and amoxicillin.
He’d hit the mother lode.
He scooped all of the medical supplies into his bag, noted that he was running out of space, and whirled on his heel, wondering what else he should hit in the house before he left—and whether he should make plans to bring a larger crew back here after all. If this house still had a full larder, there was a chance that the others did too. And he hadn’t seen any sign of anyone else here. Maybe he’d just been paranoid to think that they’d find trouble in this town. The deserted cars, the empty streets, the fact that it smelled like everyone had, for some reason, died in the hardware store and supermarket…
At that bit of logic, he decided that yes, he would bring a bigger crew here tomorrow. They’d get more gas and go through the houses more carefully.
He shoved everything down into his bag and headed for the front door, anxious to get back to Bart and return to Trinity Ranch to start planning a larger
trip. If they were lucky, Las Ramblas would give them enough supplies for the rest of their time in their small town, as well as their trip to Mexico. If they were really lucky, it would give them enough supplies to leave immediately rather than waiting a month.
He strode quickly out of the kitchen and back into the main area of the great room, then got to the foyer and made the light right he needed to get to the front door.
At that point, he came skidding to a halt.
“My name is Evie,” the message scrawled on the back of the door read. “I’m eleven years old. My parents left and never came back, and I don’t know what to do. If you’re in my house, please, please come find me. I’m all alone. I’m scared. Please help me.”
Garrett felt his heart crawling up into his throat, his blood running cold. A little girl, stuck here by herself…
His thoughts immediately returned to the boy he and Alice had found when they were out raiding for General Green. The boy whose parents had been killed, and who had been so badly injured that they didn’t know if they’d be able to save him. The boy who Green’s men had then shot.
Garrett had flown at the man who shot the kid, furious that he’d taken the boy’s life, and that fight had inadvertently brought him into Green’s good graces—which he’d used to design their escape several days later. But that hadn’t healed the wound that had been left behind by watching that boy die. It had been one of the most horrific things he’d ever seen, and he didn’t think he’d ever get over it.
He shook his head, frustrated. This wasn’t the same situation, he told himself. This girl was well enough to be able to write her message on the door—and she was hiding nearby. The answer was clear: find her. Find her and take her with them, to a safe place where she would have food and water and company.
“Evie?” he called out. “Evie, I’ve just read your message. Are you in the house?”
No answer. Not that he was surprised by that; if she was hiding, she wouldn’t be answering him. But if she wanted to be found, she would also be at least somewhat willing to let him know where she was—he hoped.
He started combing through the house, going room by room and looking for any place where a child might hide. Behind couches. Under tables. In closets. Under beds.
He found the rest of the house to be just as clean as the downstairs portion, but saw no sign of a child. And the house wasn’t big enough for her to somehow miss that he was there, searching for her.
By the time he got back to the foyer, he was positive that Evie wasn’t in the house, unless there was some secret hiding place that he couldn’t see.
Spotting a marker on the floor—the same one Evie had used, he imagined—he snatched it up and wrote out a reply to her.
“My name is Garrett. I’m a friend. I’ll be back tomorrow. And I can take you to a safe place.”
He stood back, frowning at the lack of details there, but then nodded to himself. It was enough, and he’d already decided that they would be coming back tomorrow. He’d come right to this house and start looking for her again. Perhaps she would even leave him another message—with more clues about where and how to find her.
He threw the door open before he could rethink that plan and ducked through, closing it softly behind him.
It took him only ten minutes to get back to the parking lot, with how quickly he was walking. He couldn’t wait to show Bart what he’d found and tell him about the message. When he came around the corner into the parking lot, however, he stopped and then ducked back to where he’d come from, heart racing.
He peeked back around the corner, allowing only one eye to emerge into the open space, and stared, barely daring to breathe.
Two men in baseball caps had Bart pressed up against the truck. They were shouting at him, demanding the keys.
So there were people here after all. And they were in fact unfriendly.
Dammit.
He crouched down, his eyes scanning the parking lot for possible cover. There were plenty of cars, and they were packed pretty close together. They also ran all the way to the spot where the guys were attacking Bart. Perfect. He just had to use them to get there.
He dashed toward the first one, covering the largest open area he’d have to cover, and without stopping, ducked around it and made his way to another. He stood and peeked through the windows of this car—tinted enough that he didn’t think the guys would see him—and bit his lip. The men had progressed to beating Bart over the head, and the kid still hadn’t given up the keys. God bless him.
Three more dashes to three more cars and Garrett was within fifty feet of the guys. He ran for a car much closer to them, and glanced around the bumper. About ten feet now and he’d be on top of them. One more car between them, and that one was right behind them. If he got it just right…
He ran for the car, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible, and crouched down, trying to ready himself. He could hear the men more clearly now, and hear what exactly they were threatening Bart with. Good on the kid for holding on.
Before he could think too much about it, Garrett slid around the bumper of the car, hand going to the waistband of his jeans and yanking out the Glock there. Within three steps he was right behind the strangers, his gun reversed and at the ready. A sharp knock to the head with the heel of the gun sent one of the men slumping to the ground, out cold.
The other whirled around, a knife in his hand. He glanced at the man on the ground and then back up at Garrett, eyes blazing. Then he spat on the ground.
“Got me outnumbered,” he said roughly. “But that won’t always be the case. Don’t come back here, mister. This is our patch, and the next time you come around you won’t be so lucky. I’ll make sure of it.”
He turned and dashed toward what looked to be a vintage motorcycle, which he mounted and started. He skidded out, hitting the gas too quickly, but held the bike until the back tire found purchase on the tired concrete. Then he sped out of sight.
“Let’s get out of here,” Garrett said, gazing after the kid. “I don’t want to be here to find out what he means by him not being outnumbered next time.”
He’d thought he could bring a larger team back to this town. Now he thought he and Bart were probably lucky to be getting out of here alive.
Chapter 10
That night Garrett lay in his bed, completely incapable of sleep. He and Bart had made incredibly quick time getting back to Trinity Ranch, thanks in large part to the full tank of gas in the truck. Garrett’s lead foot on the gas pedal hadn’t hurt, though. He’d torn out of Las Ramblas at fifty and doubled his speed the moment they hit the highway. Bart had held onto his seatbelt and leaned forward, mouth in a grim line, bruises already forming on his face, as if his position in the seat could help the truck to move even faster.
Garrett had been worried about pushing the truck that hard, but he’d been even more concerned about being caught from behind. All his plans for returning to Las Ramblas had been thrown right out the window. The place might have months and months of food left in it, but there was also a chance that it was crawling with enemies—and that was a chance he wasn’t willing to take. There would be other towns. They weren’t out of choices yet.
When they arrived back in Trinity Ranch, he and Bart had called an immediate town meeting and relayed what they’d seen, and how they’d been attacked. Garrett had told the members of his community that he had no intention of going back to Las Ramblas—or allowing anyone else to do so—and they’d quickly agreed. One look at Bart’s face had convinced them that the town was a bad idea.
Garrett had left immediately afterward to come back to his house, clean up, lay down, and collect his thoughts. Cleaning up and falling into bed had been relatively easy. Marshaling his thoughts and getting them organized was something entirely different.
He knew in his heart that crossing Las Ramblas off the list was the right thing to do. He’d known it halfway through the raid, and he’d been even more sure after Bart was attacke
d. Whoever those men were, they might have friends, and those friends might be armed. Maybe even better armed than Garrett and his team. They couldn’t risk that. And it wasn’t worth risking it, not when there were still some other towns in the area to hit.
But that didn’t make him feel much better. Because he couldn’t get one other aspect of Las Ramblas out of his mind: the little girl called Evie. By deciding that they weren’t going to go back he was sentencing her to a continued existence in the midst of that madness. She’d asked for help, and he’d left her a message that promised her that very thing! What if she’d seen his message and was anxiously waiting for him to come back? What if she was, this very minute, counting the seconds until he returned for her, packing her things, making plans for the future…
He had to stop himself. He knew that. That kind of thinking was only going to make this whole situation more difficult for him. But knowing that with his brain and forcing his heart to obey were two very different things.
At that moment a knock sounded on the front door. Frowning, he got up from his bed and walked quickly toward the door. Was something wrong? If so, why hadn’t he heard any shouting?
When the door opened, Alice was standing on the other side, leaning up against one of the posts that lined the porch. She took in his dressed-down state—sweatpants and a T-shirt—and lifted an eyebrow.
“Going to bed already?” she asked, shouldering past him and entering the house.
“It’s been a pretty intense day,” Garrett said with the ghost of a laugh. “I don’t much feel like staying awake and seeing any more of it, to be honest. Not that sleep is coming quickly for me. Do you need something?”
She lifted the bottle he now realized she held in her hand and tipped it back and forth. “Came to invite you to a party, as it were,” she said with her characteristic half-smile. “But if you’re more interested in sleeping, I’m guessing your answer is going to be no.”
