The girl wasn’t cheerful this morning—who the hell would be, after all that? But at least she seemed…well, maybe she’d be okay. With some help, and a whole lot of therapy.
If there were any therapists left in the area, they were probably doing a land-office business.
She stole a few glances at Lee. He hunched over his heavy brown plastic tray, eating mechanically. His cheeks were freshly shaved and he had his yellow stare on, thankfully not directed at her but at some arbitrary point across the cafeteria’s noise. He was still in yesterday’s clothes, too.
It was strange to be in a crowd again, even a small one that rattled inside the cafeteria’s empty space without quite filling it. Everyone here walked purposefully; the people who weren’t armed were in the minority. There was talk of “patrols” and “clear zones” and “night raids.”
Upturn the hive and the ants scurried to rebuild. Her dire prognostications of the end of civilization were bleakly amusing now; of course humanity was going to reorganize, one way or another. The trouble was, she decided, a sense of proportion underwent radical changes during a zombie apocalypse.
Lee finally pushed his plate away, still mostly loaded. He took a long hit off his coffee—a thick, acrid military brew he probably loved. Ginny played with the paper Lipton tag. It wasn’t much, but it was tea.
Hot water. An actual breakfast. She’d about eaten herself sick on hothouse tomatoes a few hours ago, and could go for more. Probably would, when lunchtime rolled around.
Only a few inches of space separated her shoulder from Lee’s. He still said nothing. Just sat there on an uncomfortable plastic chair, everything bottled up, tucked away.
She studied his profile. The circles around his eyes were so dark they almost looked painted on, and he was thinner than he had been in the Crossing. Worry stamped itself around his eyes, at the corners of his mouth.
He’d probably bleed to death internally before saying a peep. And he was always telling her to talk.
Ginny almost flinched when someone dropped a tray with a clatter; her tea sloshed but avoided spillage by a thin margin. She decided she had to say something, since he wouldn’t. “Dr Nguyen says they need people to organize things.” Neither of them would lack for work, and medical training was a high-value commodity now. You’ll get an entire residency in a month, she’d said, sighing and rubbing at her temples. I could use a pair of steady hands.
Lee took a gulp of coffee. From the look on his face, it was entirely too hot, but he swallowed anyway. The corners of his eyes glittered—a reflex reaction to a swallow-scorch, of course. That’s probably what he’d say if asked.
“Organizin.” He needed clean clothes, a few solid meals, and some good sleep. “You’re, uh, good at that.” He darted her a quick, shy, sideways glance, as if she was too bright to look at.
“So are you.” Hopefully it didn’t sound like she was damning him with faint praise.
Lee raised his coffee, visibly remembered it was still boiling, and set it down with a click. “You still mad?”
Ginny set her tea-mug—thick white industrial china, warm and solid—down, too. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she grabbed his right hand with both of hers.
He should have said something, true. But there were good reasons for what he had done. And Ginny had been so determined to get to her parents—once she knew Atlanta was even an option, she should have insisted they all go, posthaste.
The old Ginny would still be furious at him. Who was she now?
Nobody was going to make good choices in an apocalypse, or on a secret mission to carry what might have been a cure while there was no way of knowing if the destination was overrun by hordes of chewing, groaning, shuffling corpses.
“A little,” she admitted, and rubbed his scarred knuckles with her fingertips. He hadn’t even taken a change of clothes along, just hopped in the helicopter, determined to do his duty. He was handy, certainly, but he needed someone looking out for him. “We’ll talk about it later.” She squeezed his hand, very gently.
He squeezed back. Scars on his knuckles flexed. He had quite a collection there, and some of them probably had stories to tell.
There was enough time later for that, too.
Ginny scooted her chair closer, wincing at the venomous screech its legs made against mopped linoleum, and laid her head on his shoulder. It felt nice, and she closed her eyes. “I’ve got your suitcase from the truck,” she said. “You probably want clean clothes. There’s laundry here, imagine that.”
“Yeah.” A hoarse, hollow word. “Imagine that.” Holding himself tense, braced. Ready for another disaster. The next few words tumbled out, the trickle over the top of a dam. “Ginny, darlin, I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” She decided against trying to move her chair closer still, and settled her head more firmly. “We’ll get you settled once you’re finished with breakfast. Just, for a minute, could you…could we just sit here?”
He moved a little—a nod, she could tell even with her eyes closed. Then his other hand closed over hers, and all the tension spilled out of her with a sigh. His shoulder softened, and he leaned into her. The murmur of several people eating, drinking coffee, chatting, swirled around their tiny isle.
“Long as you want, darlin,” Lee finally said. “Be right happy to.”
Ginny swallowed tears, and let out another sigh.
“Good,” she said.
* * *
FINIS
Acknowledgments
And it’s a wrap on the fourth and final season of Roadtrip Z, my friends. The next serial will be out soon, so I thought I’d take a moment to thank the people that made this one such an amazing ride.
Thanks are due to Mel Sanders, who was always ready to sigh over Lee’s competence, and Skyla Dawn Cameron, who never blinks when I wave my arms and say, “Just make it pretty?” A huge shout-out to Miriam Kriss, as well, who believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself.
Last (but certainly greatest), a huge and resounding thank you for the patrons and subscribers who kept this serial going for four staggering, shambling, zombie-infested seasons.
You guys are the best. Come in, get a beverage, and lean close. Because I like to thank you in the way we both like best: by telling you yet another story…
About the Author
Lilith Saintcrow lives in Vancouver, WA, with her two children, two dogs, two cats, and various other strays. Including the books, dear gods, the BOOKS…
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Also by Lilith Saintcrow
A Saint City Novel
Selene
Essays on Writing
The Quill and the Crow
Roadtrip Z
Cotton Crossing
In the Ruins
Atlanta Bound
Pocalypse Road
The Complete Roadtrip Z (Coming Soon)
The Marked
The Marked
The Steelflower Chronicles
Steelflower at Sea
Steelflower
Standalone
Rose & Thunder
SquirrelTerror
FISH
Desires, Known
Beast of Wonder
Jozzie & Sugar Belle
Watch for more at Lilith Saintcrow’s site.
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Atlanta Bound Page 19
