by M. D. Massey
I pull away for air, breathing a little ragged. He is, too, still pulling off a half-cocky smirk and a look of amazement. He stares at me.
My stomach flip-flops. I need to go before I do something like jump on him like an animal and hurt him more.
“I have to go meet Reece soon.”
He grumbles. “Wish I could go with you.”
“I don’t want you to get shot again,” I joke.
“No, I know you’ll be great. Hold it steady, and it’ll be fine.” It seems our little moment’s gone for now. I block out other dirty thoughts. It’s been a long time. Too long.
Sitting up next to the bed, I practice removing the magazine with speed, and do a couple rounds of loading it, stopping before my fingers get too sore.
I turn to look at Mac, and he watches me. “Will you still help me with the bow?”
He snorts. “I think I’m proud to say you don’t need it.”
My lips twitch. “Didn’t think you’d turn down a chance to spend time with me.”
“No, sunshine.” He plays with a lock of my hair. “It’s a compliment.”
“I know.” I take a deep breath. “I know you’re getting restless. Maybe you can go out to the targets tomorrow with me. We can bring a blanket so you can lie down.”
He nods as I stand up. “Will you come back here tonight?” he asks as he grabs my hand. I pause. He notices my reluctance and looks elsewhere. Peering at me, he gestures with his hand. “You should talk to Rudy. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I smile, relieved, and lean down to kiss him again.
“Bye,” I whisper on his lips.
24
An hour later, Reece and I sit on a roof watching the sunset. The wind brings a chilly breeze as leaves float down the streets. Sticky tar coats the rooftop. I imagine it being pungent and tacky in the heat of summer. Reece snacks on old and stale Cheetos, crunching after every crinkle of the bag.
I laugh. His eyebrows furrow over his Original KD sunglasses, sunglasses specifically made for wearing with a helmet.
“What?” he asks.
“Somehow you balance eating and smoking a joint at the same time.” True to my conviction, I abstain this time.
He blows a cloud of the pungent smoke and crunches another Cheeto between his teeth at the same time. “Like a real man,” Reece says. We both laugh.
“Can you eat, smoke, and kill zombies at the same time?” I challenge.
“Like a real man,” we both say at the same time and laugh.
“You’ll see,” he promises.
Goosebumps cover Reece’s skin, because he’s wearing only a vest and jeans with holes in the knees. I worry about famished not showing, but Reece says it won’t be a problem. They always show up. In the summertime it’s easier to deal with and catch them. Since the base has been infiltrated, there are fewer famished than normal around the area. He guesses they horde close to the base. Who knows how many of the living are there now?
Getting the hang of the magazines, I can hold both Bersas and release the them at the same time. It’s not a real big trick, but I think it’s cool. Figuring out where to put the other mags so they can slip in and click, is the hard part.
By the time famished show, I can put the butt of the guns in my back pockets and release the mags, letting my pockets catch and hold them while bringing the guns to my front pockets, slipping fresh mags in and clicking them on my thighs.
Reece looks impressed and informs me I can get a shoulder holster to hold my spare magazines, too. The famished wail about, and we’re two buildings away from the community, so we get first dibs. Reece nods at me. Taking a stance, I slide the rail with ease and point toward the moving targets. A wave of grief passes over me before my first shot brings a rush of adrenaline, dissipating the grief. Unfortunately, the bullet strikes the ground in a spray of concrete.
“Hold it steady and pretend the gun is the end of your finger, make like you’re pointing at the famished and shoot,” Reece coaches, his goatee swaying in the wind.
I breathe deep and do as he says, shooting a famished in the chest, slowing it down. Pulling the trigger a few more times, it flops to the ground. I beam at Reece, only to catch a surprised look on his face.
I raise my brows with a smirk before turning back to target practice. “Yee haw!” Reece joins me and we both enjoy a good time shooting the undead. Several times I miss but keep on – I’ll get better with practice.
“Get out the Smith & Wesson,” Reece tells me, watching several famished try to climb the wall to get to us, but a few go in the direction of the courtyard. Shots fire in the distance. Guido’s men at work.
Taking the revolver, I open the barrel, knowing it’s loaded, just to make sure. I spin the barrel in place. When I fire this one, it jumps in my hands. “Whoa! You were right about the kick.” Missing the zombie, I take aim again. After several shots and a couple reloads, I get a handle on the kick, shooting a zombie on the right side of its head, but at least it thumps to the ground. “Took me long enough.”
Several rounds of ammunition later, the group of famished are dead forever. A smack echoes our celebratory high five. Rolling my shoulders in relieved tension, I let out, “Whew! Wow.”
Reece laughs, seeming to know the feeling. “Gun therapy,” he says. I nod in agreement and look at myself. The usual gore accompanying a triumph is absent. It’s an excellent advantage. “Our work here’s done. Unless you want to wait for more?” he asks. I want to, to get in practice, but there’s plenty of time for that – I have to be up early to work in the greenhouse before taking a group of car-stealing enthusiasts to a car lot. I need to make money to start stock piling.
“But I didn’t get to see you eat, smoke, and kill.”
“Next time, grasshopper.”
After a couple shots of tequila per Reece, I go to the room and find the lingering scent of pot. Lying in bed with an arm over his eyes, Rudy doesn’t move as I close the door.
“Are you okay, Rudy?”
“My ribs are bruised. Again. My muscles are sore from helping Stanley, but I’ll be fine,” he says, peeking from under his arm. “How was practice?”
I squat beside the bed and smile. “I guess I’m an okay shot. Which side?” After he gestures toward his left side, I gently run my fingers down his ribs, feeling for cracks or broken bones.
“Yeah, I figured you would be. I heard you ‘yee hawing’ all the way in the courtyard.” He laughs but stops, wincing in discomfort. He’s right, they’re bruised, but it makes me feel better to feel for myself. “Kan, I’ve been thinking.”
“I hope it wasn’t too difficult,” I joke, uneasiness setting in my stomach.
He runs a hand through his hair, but stops at his crown, grabbing fists full before letting go. “We might be here a little while longer. I was thinking you might want your own room to give you more privacy. We can arrange it. I’ve already talked –”
Abruptly, I stand, cutting him off. “I’ve come up with something.” Not really, but he doesn’t have to know, or do anything stupid for more than one room, which is what he’ll end up doing. Rudy obviously needs some space, or he wouldn’t suggest it. After watching the man, Mike, get bit while trying to capture a zombie, some part of me would die if the same happens to Rudy.
Looking surprised he says, “Really? What, exactly, might that be?”
I gather a few of my scattered possessions. “Um, Mac offered to let me stay in his room.” I hadn’t planned to tell him that any more than I plan to get bit by a zombie. There are many ways he can interpret one stupid sentence.
“That’s not what I meant,” he blurts, sounding angry. “You won’t get any more privacy than –” His words cut off just as quick. Silence and tension thicken the air in the room. The only other time I’ve heard this tone directed at me, my face was buried in dirt. Lifting my pack, I peek at him.
Staring at the floor, his gaze moves to me. My mouth opens to apologize and tell the truth, but relief shows clear on his face, contra
dicting his heated words. Blinking at the turn of events, I grab my crossbow and holster and smile like everything is okay. “See you tomorrow?”
His arm reaches out to the neck of his guitar, and he brings it to his lap. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, plucking a tune, enticing me to stay. A smile blooms on his face as if he can read my last thought. “See you tomorrow.”
I return the smile before walking out the door. Standing there a few moments, I listen to the tune he’s been perfecting over the past week. It stops, and I make out hurried muffled movement through the door and take my leave. It’s going to be a long, lonely, cold night in the vault of the truck.
The next day, as it turns out, Linnie doesn’t want me harvesting anything. I pack preserve jars full of fruit and vegetables before they can spoil – the smart thing to do, so nothing goes to waste. Good thing I have experience from preserving my own produce. Even though the work is tedious, I leave with a basket full of fresh food.
I ride with a group of people, most from our team, and Glinda, eating my self-earned peach and feeling good about it. Mac even wants to come along for the ride, not that I blame him. The vault seems crowded with Rudy driving and Bunyan keeping him company. I’m not charging Rudy, Mac, and Reece any fees for today’s lesson, figuring I more than owe it to them, Rudy especially, because now I’m camping in his truck. Glinda and I made a trade. I sigh. This isn’t unlike my old life after all.
“Why can’t we go get the keys out of the office?” A guy named Doug asks, his lanky hair falling into his face as the truck jolts us as Rudy hits a pothole. It happens from time to time.
“You can since they are probably available, but this is to show you how. You know, in case you ever need a car on the go?”
He nods like this makes sense to him. I don’t tell him it’s a dumb question.
Mac doesn’t have tact sometimes and has no such qualms. “Stupid question,” he states in his smart-ass tone, laced with irritation. I look at him. This might be a long day.
The car lot is full of used cars. Brush grows in strength between each car. Everyone stands in its tall length, paying rapt attention to me sitting in a car. “Newer cars are harder because of the hidden components. Try to look for older cars and gas-guzzlers. They’re the easiest. There’s also a risk of electrocuting yourself. I’ll show you what to look for in a minute. Also, beware of kill switches. I don’t know which cars have these, but if it’s engaged, the car won’t be able to get started even with the key. I believe it makes a buzzing noise. Buzz noise equals kill switch, equals find another car. This car was made before the mid-nineties so we might be able start it with a screwdriver. Always try it, anyway. You never know which ones will start, if you can avoid messing with the wires, do it.”
Pulling one out of my pack, I jam it into the ignition and twist. The car sputters but starts. Everyone nods their heads accordingly, paying extra attention for services rendered. “If it doesn’t turn over, then you can do what I’m about to show you.”
We move to a newer vehicle, and after trying the screwdriver technique to show it won’t start, I pull a big chunk of plastic from the steering column and locate the wires to hold up for them to see.
“Okay, you see these two red wires? We have to strip them.” After explaining how to tell a starter wire from a battery wire, I strip the battery wires with my teeth and twist them together. “Sometimes there is one starter wire, sometimes there are two. This car, as you can see, has two.” Everyone leans over me, trying to see. I wait for them to get a look. “These are live wires, so you don’t want to touch them with your fingers. At all.” I strip them with my teeth, avoiding an encounter with the live wire. “Now all you have to do is touch the wires together.” I touch a couple of times until it sputter starts. “If you only had one wire, you would touch it to the battery wires.”
Still holding the wires, I say, “The bad thing is you have to drive avoiding the brown wires. It would be good to have tape, so you can tape them up to avoid it. To cut power to the car, pull the red wires apart.” I demonstrate. “Now find a car and try it yourself.
“There is also a way to start it under the hood, if anyone would like me to show you.” A few consider, but walk away to find a car of their own.
Mac hobbles to the nearest one. I have to give him credit, he’s trying, but I’m afraid he will start bleeding.
“Hey Mac,” I whisper, coming close. “Let me see down your pants.”
A gleam appears in his eye. “Right now? We can get in the back of the car,” he whispers, looking into the back seat. I elbow him.
“Not that. I want to make sure you’re not bleeding.”
“Thanks for getting my hopes up, sunshine.” With his back to me, he unbuckles his pants. Looking at his bandage, I’m relieved there’s no blood spot. “I told you, I make no poopie, mommy!” he says in mock, toddler voice.
“You’re good,” I say, laughing. A car starts. At least someone gets it.
“Hey suga’!” Glinda has a car started. A surge of pride forms for my newest gal pal. Her arms are waving at me, blond curls bouncing around her shoulders. But when I approach her, she looks distressed. Confusion heavy on her features, she slaps the steering wheel. “This wheel is stuck.” Her lip plops out in a glossy, pink pout.
“Oh yeah, we can fix it. Over here, everyone,” I shout across the lot. Once they all stand in place, Mac waddles near, and I feel bad. I could show him at a different time. “Glinda ran into a problem easily fixed. It’s another security thing you might come across.” I show them how to break the locking pin in the steering column. After my demonstration, the wheel moves freely, Glinda whoops.
Thomas crosses his arms with a scowl. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say his face’s permanently stuck that way.
“Any other security problems?” he asks with sarcastic emphasis.
“No. All cars are different and can be tricky to hotwire. Newer cars have different colored wires, but most of the time you can look in a service manual to see which wires are where and what color. Newer cars also put them in different places, which is why knowing how to start it under the hood would come in handy. Sometimes it takes special tools, like drills, to do it. That’s why I said to stick with old cars and gas-guzzlers. I’m not showing you how to do this so you can take a joyride in a Lamborghini.” I glare at him. “I apologize for not clarifying.”
A snort causes me to glance around, coming to Rudy as he squeezes his lips together. I purse my own. For some reason, my anger amuses him. His hair falls loose today, a rare event, and the black eye isn’t as swollen. “Will you show us how to start it from under the hood?” he asks, eyebrows rising in mock innocence.
After much discussion of coil wires and solenoids, I start the car in a thick cloud of smoke. Fumes permeate the air with burnt oil as I finish up my instructional directions.
I glance at everyone and clap my hands. “Let’s see what you got. Glinda, you can try under the hood if you want.” Everyone disperses.
Rudy winks as he goes back to his car. I walk around for a while, helping where needed. Joking with Ty, who starts a car a few over from me, and laughing at how his gold teeth could be an extra conduit for electricity, I briefly glance at Glinda stretched under a hood, before tripping over something on the ground. I land with a yelp in the thick brush. It’s so tall, it’s over my head. The strands of grass swipe my face as I push it to the ground. A small, dry groan cuts through the small space between cars, and a chill sweeps up my spine. I freeze, looking back to the putrid on the ground with no lower body, only one arm, and a stringy hair or two. Its yellow, rotten mouth bites down on my ankle.
“Shit!” I grab for its head, but my hand goes through like thick, soggy mud – the skull crumples in like hard potato chips. The smell twirls my stomach, and my throat burns from stomach acid. From the impact of my hand, the thing stops moving. Kicking and crawling, violent tremors wrack my body by the time I make it around the car. Rudy’s boots come into my
line of vision as I puke out everything in my stomach, plus some. A gooey substance covers my hand, and an inspection of it brings me back over, spewing again.
A strong hand grabs my chin, making me look at him. Rudy’s calm, but alert when he asks, “What happened?”
My harsh breathing causes my voice to be unsteady. “Putrid...between the cars...bit me.” His own breathing stops before coming out, making his chest rise and fall as his eyes scan my body, landing on my ankle. Glancing down at my pants leg, it has putrid goo all over it. My shaking hands try to lift my jeans to peer at it, but my vision swims.
I gasp for breath as my heart booms in my chest – my new reality dawns on me. I’m going to die. Maybe I should ask someone to go ahead and shoot me, to make it quick. No way I want to be a zombie, trapped in my decomposing body with an uncontrollable urge to eat people. Maybe I should save them all the grief and shoot myself. I can finally be with Malachi again. This thought makes me start dry-heaving. A cacophony of voices drift as I pick out someone saying, “Panic attack.” With my heartbeat pulsing in my ears, I try to take a deep breath.
Lying flat, I will myself to focus on a blade of grass. It’s green, one of the colors in Rudy’s eyes. Being long and going straight up to a point, it’s a blade of grass that’s good for making whistling sounds when placed between the hands.
“Kan! Are you okay?” The words sound far away, whirling to see who it is, I realize people watch me in horror. My boots are removed and then my pants. My pants? Looking, Rudy studies my bare legs. My stomach churns as I put my back in the grass, willing myself to calm down.
Clammy hands touch my face as Mac comes into view. His lips move. “Kan! Can you hear me?” He looks worried, and I take a deep breath. I can breathe through the passing anxiety.
“Yeah, I panicked,” I manage, but my voice still sounds distant.
