He’d lived in a house, not a trailer, and even though it was more than a little rundown and the yard was overgrown and littered with trash, it had seemed like a castle to Angus. The man, Edgar, had looked down at him with suspicion, his brown eyes sweeping over the fourteen-year-old on his doorstep like he thought the kid was about to deliver a bomb.
He’d scratched his round gut through his stained shirt and asked, “What you want?”
Angus had appraised him for a moment, taking in his disheveled hair, scraggily unkempt beard, and stained teeth, before saying, “You Edgar Douglas?”
“Last time I checked,” his dad had replied.
Angus stuck his hand out. “Angus James.”
Edgar had looked at him like he was a parasite and didn’t make a move to take his hand. “You gonna tell me what you want or what?”
Angus dropped his hand and shifted, suddenly uncertain. The vision he’d had of his father taking him in his arms, hugging him and telling him how excited he was to meet him, had begun to fade.
“You know Mandy James?”
The man’s eyes narrowed, studying him, and Angus had watched as understanding dawned on his father’s face. Edgar had glanced over his shoulder, back into the house, then stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him and forcing Angus to take a step back. He had to take another one when the man leaned down, getting right in his face.
“Listen here,” he began, his voice low and menacing, “I told that bitch I didn’t want nothing to do with her, and that ain’t changed. Never will.”
“You don’t gotta see her,” Angus had said. “She don’t even know I’m here. I just wanted to meet you.”
The guy straightened, sneering down at Angus. “Why?”
“’Cause you’re my dad.”
“Dad?” Edgar snorted. “Just ’cause I stuck it in your momma don’t make me your daddy. I got a wife. Two kids. Don’t need any more. That’s for damn sure.”
He had kids.
Angus hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t thought about someone being willing to look after two of his children while tossing the other one aside. And he was married? Had he been married when Angus’s mom got pregnant? Was that why this man didn’t want anything to do with him?
Angus had felt tears well up in his eyes, and he tried to keep them back. Had blinked and swallowed and done everything he could think of to maintain control, but the disgusted expression on his father’s face had made it impossible. A tear slipped from Angus’s left eye and rolled down his cheek, and Edgar laughed. He’d actually laughed.
“Sissy,” he’d said. “Just like your momma. Shoulda known. She bawled the day I told her to get rid of you. Begged me to leave my wife for her. Like just ’cause she opened her legs for me, she thought we was in love. Dumb bitch.”
Angus had stumbled back, still crying, but angry now. Furious. The tears kept falling, sliding down his cheeks, and he hadn’t been able to stop them. He hated his mom, but that didn’t mean listening to the piece of shit standing in front of him call her names didn’t sting. Angus wanted to punch him. Wanted to break every bone in his body.
Edgar snorted and shook his head. “Get the fuck out of here and don’t come back.”
Angus had turned and started to walk away when the front door of the house opened.
“Who was that, Eddie?” a female voice called.
“None of your fuckin’ business. Now get me a beer.”
The door slammed shut, but not before Angus heard a teenage boy say, “We’re out of beer.”
Angus had stopped walking.
He’d recognized the voice. It was one of his classmates, a chubby kid with a mean sneer named Jeff. He and Angus were the same age.
Later, he could barely remember what happened next. All he knew was he found an old rusty golf club lying somewhere in the grass and grabbed it, then marched across the yard to the truck sitting in the driveway. He’d slammed the club against one headlight, then another, shattering them. He’d pounded it against the hood next, then the windshield, which splintered into a spiderweb pattern. He’d been moving to the driver’s side when Edgar came flying out of the house, screaming at him to stop. Calling him names. Cursing him. Jeff had been right behind him, along with a plump woman in her thirties and a teenage girl who looked vaguely familiar.
Angus hadn’t been crying by then. He’d looked his father right in the eye and swung the golf club. It had smashed into the window, splintering it, and he’d brought it down again, shattering the glass. It tinkled to the ground, catching the sunlight as it fell, and Angus dropped the club. He was still looking at his father, and he continued to hold the older man’s gaze as he took one step back.
“Fuck you,” he said, then he’d turned and walked away.
The cops had shown up at their trailer less than an hour later. It was the first time Angus went to juvie, but not the last. Not by a longshot.
Chapter Fourteen
Two full days Angus spent in bed, only waking long enough to eat and drink and relieve himself. Naya always had a glass waiting on the nightstand, and usually some broth as well. He used a bottle to piss in, which she emptied when he’d once again fallen asleep. The time seemed to drag, but also passed in the blink of an eye, and he woke the third day feeling almost energized. The cuts he could see—the ones on his arms—were healing nicely, and the bite on his shoulder stung less than it had even the day before. When he reached up to touch his cheeks, his fingertips brushing the scabbed cuts on his face, he was relieved to find they were smaller—although still raised. He’d never been a vain man and saw no reason to start worrying about his appearance at this point in his life, and his concern over the cuts had more to do with wanting to get better than what he looked like.
Angus pushed himself to a sitting position, groaning from the effort even though the pain had eased quite a bit, and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He was wearing nothing but pants—the same ones he’d had on the day he went out to face off with the creature—and they were ripped in places, revealing other mostly healed nicks and scratches he hadn’t noticed before. Gray, wiry hair poked through the holes, and what he could see of his legs looked bony, the skin wrinkled and spotted from age. Most of the time he didn’t feel like he carried the weight of the years he’d spent on this Earth, but at that moment, he could feel them pressing on his shoulders as if trying to pound him to dust, and he found himself wondering if his legs would even be able to hold him. What if he stood and they gave out? What if this injury was the one that finally pushed him over the edge? What would happen to Naya?
He had to admit she’d impressed the hell out of him over the last few days, but the idea of her being all alone still had him terrified. No one should be forced to go through years of solitude the way he had, but especially not a fourteen-year-old girl.
Memories of his daughter and niece and the years they’d spent alone in the CDC threatened to bubble to the surface, but Angus pushed them to the back of his mind. This was no time for sentimentality. Right now, he needed to focus on getting back in the swing of things. He needed to help Naya. Needed to push himself no matter how much it hurt, because this wasn’t a world you could slack off in.
Angus stood, keeping one hand on the bed for support in case his body refused to obey. His legs wobbled, his knees feeling weak, but to his utter relief, they didn’t give out the way he’d feared.
The wood floor was cold beneath his bare feet, and the air chilly, causing goosebumps to pop up on his bare arms and chest. He took one step, then another, having to force the muscles in his legs to carry him to the door. There he paused to take a breath, holding onto the doorframe in case this was the moment his body decided to crumple.
The crackling of the fire filled the air, but otherwise the house was silent. It was light out, but with the windows blocked, it was impossible to guess what time of day it was, and he’d been too in and out of it to guess how long he’d slept.
After he caught his breath,
Angus dragged himself forward one labored step at a time, and the living room came into view. The fire was going strong, and there seemed to be more wood piled next to the fireplace than there had been before. A couple books sat on the coffee table, one of them open as if Naya had been in the middle of reading. Next to them sat an old pencil, the yellow surface marred with small holes as if something—or someone—had gnawed on it. It was only about two inches long, but the graphite had been freshly carved into a sharp point, probably using a knife. There were also a few blankets folded neatly on the arm of the couch, but the girl was nowhere in sight.
Angus hadn’t spoken in two days, and while his minor cuts seemed to have healed a great deal, his throat would need more time. The damage had been too extensive. Too close to taking his life. Even so, he had a feeling talking would be okay.
Angus swallowed, preparing himself, then called, “Naya?”
Her name came out quieter than he’d intended, and his voice was still scratchy, but speaking hurt less than he’d expected. His second try was even better, but still the girl didn’t answer.
She might have been downstairs and unable to hear him, but since Angus didn’t have the stamina to make it down there quite yet, he sank to the couch and grabbed one of the nearby blankets. Unfolding it, he draped it over his bare upper half and stared into the fire. Waiting for Naya and thinking. Always thinking.
Shortly after leaving New Atlanta, Angus and Vivian has spent a few nights in a house similar to this one. It had been bigger, more luxurious, and had featured a huge wood-burning fireplace in the living room. It was nice, and had things been different, they might have been able to stay long term, but after the attacks on Senoia and New Atlanta, they’d known it was only temporary. There had been too many windows, and while they had plenty of space during the day, at night they’d been forced to barricade themselves in the master bedroom’s huge walk-in closet. There was enough space for a mattress, which they’d taken from the bed, but little else, and while they were more than comfortable in each other’s presence, the space felt confining. Especially for Angus, who’d spent too many years locked in a cell.
The second day there, a blustery winter day that was slightly overcast but not dark enough that they needed to worry about the creatures, they’d found themselves curled up on the couch, which they’d moved so it was right in front of the fireplace. They were somewhere in Tennessee—the state he and Axl had grown up in—although neither one of them had known exactly where, and with winter on its way, they’d have to go south sooner rather than later.
“What about west?” Vivian had asked after they’d discussed heading to Florida.
“West?” Angus frowned, his mind automatically going to the journey they’d made over thirty years ago.
Across the country, traveling Route 66, picking people up along the way. Vivian, then Joshua, then Parvarti and Trey. As always, a pang shot through him as the faces of the people they’d lost flashed through his mind. From there they’d gone to California, first to get Vivian’s daughter, Emily, then to San Francisco where they’d joined up with more people. It had been one of those people—a rich asshole—who had led them to the Mojave Desert and the luxury shelter that was supposed to be their safe haven. Not that it had turned out that way.
“Yeah,” Vivian continued. “West. There was supposed to be more of those shelters. Remember?”
Angus had shaken his head. “Don’t know how we’d find ’em.”
“I know.” Vivian let out a long, exhausted sounding sigh. “I just thought it might be worth a shot.”
He’d nodded, thinking, and could tell by the far-away look in her eyes that she was as well.
After a few minutes of silence, she’d turned her brown eyes on him. “When did you stop hating me?”
“What?” he asked, surprised by the question because he’d assumed Vivian was thinking about where they’d go next, not the past.
“You heard me.”
He thought back, recalling all the times they’d butted heads, all the mean things he’d said to her. All the times she’d told him to shut up. It was hard to pinpoint when it had changed, exactly, but probably around the time they’d picked up her mom. It had been a freak encounter in Las Vegas, of all places.
“Guess your momma had somethin’ to do with it,” he said thoughtfully. “Or maybe when you was in the Monte Carlo and I saw how upset Axl was.”
Even after thirty years, Vivian hadn’t been able to hear him mention her time in the Monte Carlo without cringing.
He’d pretended not to notice and went on. “You know I never really hated you, though. Right? I was just pissed that Axl was always takin’ your side.”
“You were afraid I was going to steal him from you.”
“Something like that.”
“It’s sad, you know, thinking back on it and realizing you had no clue someone could love more than one person.”
He snorted even though he’d agreed. “Axl was the only person who gave a shit ’bout me before the zombies, so why would I?”
“I know.” Vivian patted his leg.
The conversation had been short, but it stuck with him. Later, after she was gone and he’d found himself alone, he’d replayed it over and over in his head, which was probably why he’d traveled west instead of going south like they’d planned. Angus hadn’t even given it much thought. He’d just started walking, and before he knew it, he’d found himself on Route 66.
He’d walked for a week before seeing another living, breathing person, although he’d seen lots of signs along the way that there were other survivors somewhere. Boot prints in the snow or mud and animal traps that had been left behind in the hopes of catching game. Other than that, though, there was nothing. Empty cities that were now overgrown, towns burned to the ground, and abandoned cars that had begun to rust. He’d seen that stretch of the country before, first on his way west and then again on the way to Atlanta, but none of it had looked familiar. It had been too wild, too abandoned and empty. Too sad.
He’d talked as he walked, having conversations with people who were long gone but feeling like each one of them was with him just the same. He’d talked to Axl as he fished, reminiscing about trips they’d taken when they were younger. He’d pointed out a rundown diner to Vivian, reminding her of the first time they’d seen each other and chuckling about how repulsed she’d been by him. He’d told Glitter about the way things had been before the virus, about how the crumbling skyscrapers had once towered over the other buildings and how boats had floated down the now vacant rivers.
Mostly, though, he’d talked to Parv. Their conversations had gone on and on, starting as he set out in the morning and continuing after he’d found a safe place for the night. He’d talked to her as he lay down to sleep, picking up where he’d left off the next morning when he woke, and even in between she was with him. She visited his dreams every night, smiling, her eyes shining with love. She’d kissed him, held him, told him everything would be okay. It had all seemed so real that he’d imagined he could feel her warm skin against his, could smell her, taste her kisses on his lips, and most of all, feel the tickle of her fingers as she brushed his tears away.
After more than a week on the road talking to himself, though, he’d begun to feel mad, just like he had back in the CDC. All those years alone with no one but the doctors, nurses, and technicians to talk to. No wonder he’d fallen in love with the very woman who’d tortured him. It had seemed so normal at the time because he’d been desperate for company, desperate to feel another human’s warmth, and Jane had provided that. It wasn’t until Parv that he realized he’d never really loved the woman who’d mothered his child. Not a real love that would have withstood the test of time, anyway.
“I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna hafta stop here in a bit,” Angus was telling Parv as he walked, dragging himself through an overgrown field, the remnants of a city that seemed totally devoid of human life looming in the distance. “Find me someplace to rest.
Maybe get me a rabbit. They got some big ones out here, and I bet they’ll taste mighty good once they’re all cooked up.” He’d paused, smiled. “Remember that opossum I shot the first night after we picked you up? You turned your nose up at that.” A chuckle had burst out of him at the memory, shaking his shoulders. “Was only three or four months later that you shot one yourself. You was mighty proud of it, too.”
He’d still been grinning when the sound of hooves made him stop walking. Angus lifted his hand to shield his eyes and scanned the area around him, and the sight he’d been greeted with had made his mouth fall open. Two people on horses were headed his way.
People!
The bright sun made it difficult to get a good look at them, but even so he’d been able to tell they were armed. Rifles of some kind, and probably other weapons as well. He’d run out of bullets a long time ago, back before he and Vivian had gone to live in New Atlanta, but he still had his knife. Axl’s knife.
Angus pulled his only weapon and waited, his heart pounding, unsure of what to expect. The horses drew closer, and even though the people had their guns out, they didn’t bother aiming the weapons at him. It was a good sign, or so he’d hoped.
The people drew closer, and Angus had been able to get a better look at them. A man and a woman who both appeared to be in their mid-thirties. She was thin, with wavy auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail that bounced with each step the horse took, and sun-kissed cheeks. Her complexion was pale despite that, telling Angus she spent more time indoors than out. Meaning they had a shelter somewhere.
The man at her side was bronzed, his skin overly tan. He was fit, too, with dark hair and eyes that narrowed on Angus as the horses drew nearer. The man clicked his heels against his horse, urging it to move faster so he could pass the woman, putting himself between her and the stranger, but Angus didn’t get the impression he was dangerous. Just protective, which was something he could appreciate.
Broken World | Novel | Angus Page 26
