“Okay then.” Sam turns the engine over, and puts it in gear.
I glance around, my eyes caught by the Cracker Barrel sign again. Maybe it’s a supply depot. Maybe it refers to cracking barrels open. “Where are we?”
“Close to Beaumont, Texas,” Sam says. “The Marked attack set us on a strange trajectory, but we’ve made it to I-10, so we’re back on track.”
Trajectory? I can’t believe I thought he was dumb. “I still can’t figure that out. Two large attacks in twenty-four hours. Bizarre, right?”
“They were looking for something the night they attacked Port Gibson.”
“Really?” I ask. “Any guesses as to what?”
Sam shrugs. “We don’t know exactly.” He glances at me and then looks back at the road. “Fairchild’s going to kill me for bringing you down here unless we return with a cure. I really hope your dad made one, and we can find it.”
“Me too,” I say. “For my aunt and everyone else.”
Sam glares at me. “Just say Wesley.”
My eyes fly wide. “It’s about more than just him.”
“Fairchild’s son is Marked, but if we don’t find the cure. . . this is bad. I should’ve circled back around to Port Gibson.”
Regret. That’s a feeling I understand. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell everyone it was my fault. I take full responsibility, you know. Like you said, you were protecting me.”
Sam snorts. “I feel so much better knowing the minor in my charge will defend me. Thanks, but no thanks.”
I scowl. He’s acting like I’m a baby. “I’ll explain I was out on the road when the Marked attacked, and you had no choice but to keep me safe.”
“After defending you, then what? You held a gun to my head while I drove you in Port Gibson’s emergency truck all the way down to Galveston? Maybe I should claim I couldn’t overpower you.” He shakes his head dismissively. “I don’t need your help. I can handle Fairchild.”
“Will you be in a lot of trouble?”
“I’ll be lucky if they don’t throw me in jail.”
Guilt eats at me. “They won’t do that, right? My uncle told you to protect me.”
“And I hauled you off across Marked territory and down to WPN country. Even if they don’t toss me in jail, I won’t keep my job. I’ll be sent back to the DecaCouncil for a hearing.”
“Your dad’s in charge though, right? So that’s good.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s not good, but it’s also not your problem. I’m a big boy. I make my own decisions, and I can handle the consequences.”
Talking about the repercussions back home doesn’t put either of us in a great mood. Sam’s quiet for the next few hours, rebuffing my every attempt at conversation. I press my nose to the glass, sulkily counting trees.
“Should we stop for lunch?” I ask.
“No. Defense rations are fine. There should be some jerky and crackers in the glove compartment. I don’t want to stop before we reach the island.”
“Ok.”
I fish out the last two granola bars and hand them both to him. Even with Sam in a funk, I marvel at the ease of our simple contact. Our fingers brush as I pass them to him. He doesn’t shy away and he hasn’t bothered putting on gloves. Which is strange.
“Why aren’t we wearing gloves?”
He looks at me, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We’re blending in, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, your hair’s down.”
I even scrunched it this morning, using the rearview mirror from the truck to fix the curls with a little water. He reaches up, pulls on a ringlet, and then lets go. He watches it spring back up before returning his gaze to the road. “It covers your forehead. You could be Marked.”
I hadn’t even really noticed when we woke up that morning, but his hair’s down, not pulled back in a ponytail like usual. I mean, I noticed but I hadn’t thought about why. This Sam’s so different that individual oddities don’t stand out.
“We’re blending in so if a Marked kid sees us, they’ll assume we’re one of them. That’s why you stopped wearing gloves.”
“What did you think?” When he glances my direction, he looks confused.
I feel ridiculous again. Of course he wasn’t leaving his gloves off so he could touch me. I’m such an idiot.
The truck slows down, and I ask “Why are we stopping?”
“Something’s wrong,” Sam says.
I look at the dash. “Yeah, we’re out of gas.”
“Right. Duh.”
He pulls the truck over to the edge of the road and hops out, leaving the door hanging open. I notice it’s much warmer here than in Port Gibson. We should’ve opened the windows and enjoyed the fresh air.
With the door open, I hear every curse word Sam utters.
“What’s wrong?”
He swears more, and louder.
“Sam?”
“I forgot the gas cans, okay? I hid them last night and didn’t remember to put them back in the truck.” Sam kicks a rock and it flies into the thicket beyond the road.
I rack my brain for a solution. I remember something from our section on cars during Defense training. “Can we siphon some out of other automobile tanks?” I gesture at the cars on the side of the road, and parked in front of businesses around us. I feel pretty good about my idea. I paid attention during that part of Defense. We’re in the middle of someplace with lots of houses. “Where are we? It looks like a city.”
“We’re past Houston proper and into the sprawl beyond. It was a really big city Before.”
“Great, lots of houses, lots of cars. Let’s find some gas.”
“Ruby, I appreciate the idea, I really do, but most of these cars were abandoned after they ran out of gas. Even if we found one with gas in the tank, you can’t siphon gas from any old car. Once it sits for a while, the gas is garbage. Among other issues, since it’s muggy and humid here, water forms on the walls of the gas tank and drips down into the tank. That renders the gas useless inside of a year or two. Ten years later? Forget it. Why do you think there are so few functioning cars left on the roads? The abandoned ones are all trash without weeks worth of work. I drove off and abandoned all the gas for the trip to the island, not to mention our return trip. We’re screwed.” He kicks the tire.
“Well, where are we exactly? I mean like, how far is Galveston from here?”
“I think we’re almost to League City. Everything we’ve passed looks abandoned, but it might not be. We’re technically in WPN territory, which is why these roads have been so good.” He points. “See there? Someone repaired that pothole. If WPN sends maintenance crews out here, I really don’t want to be here longer than I need to.” He clenches and unclenches his fists. “Not that we have a choice. We’re going the rest of the way on foot.”
I unzip my mostly empty backpack and start shifting defense rations into it.
“What are you doing?”
“Offloading,” I say. “What does it look like? Unless you intend to lug three enormous duffel bags full of stuff around for the next few days?” I raise my eyebrows at him. His face may be thunderous, but he doesn’t scare me.
“I don’t have a monopoly on sarcasm, I see.”
After a minute more of pouting, he leans down and starts helping. I’m happy to see him pull a backpack from behind the seat of the truck. It’s much larger than mine, but it’ll still be easier to carry than the cumbersome duffel bags.
It’s hot enough that I peel my coat off and roll it up. The down jacket actually compresses nicely. I tie it to the straps at the top of my backpack.
Sam takes his jacket off, too. He hasn’t packed much in his bag yet when he hands me the gun I used that morning, along with a very heavy box.
“You need these. Make room.” After I take them, he holds out a gun holster. “Put this on so you can reach it quickly, and put the extra bullets in your bag. I know they’re heavy and I’d ca
rry them for you, but you’ll probably only need them if we get split up. Without ammo, that gun’s nothing more than dead weight.”
“I’d rather have tranqs.”
“We only have one tranq. Would you rather I use the real one? I thought you wanted non-lethal force whenever possible.”
“I don’t want to shoot anyone.”
“I don’t want you dying,” he says. “Better you shoot someone than die yourself.”
I shiver and he puts his hand over mine. “I don’t think we’ll get separated, but I plan for contingencies.”
I don’t say anything as I shove the bullets to the bottom of my bag. I try to put the holster on but can’t figure out what goes where. It has a lot of straps and clips.
“Um, that goes under your shirt,” he says, avoiding eye contact.
I clear my throat so he glances my way, and I raise one eyebrow. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m trying to avoid awkwardness, but I’m actually not kidding. See?” He lifts his shirt a few inches to show me some similar black straps. I’m supposed to be looking at the holster and the inch of steel from his gun, but the line of his abs as it disappears into the waistband of his cargo pants eclipses the rest. My breathing becomes shallow, and I want to giggle for some reason, which is stupid. It’s only Sam. I’ve known him for years. Why do two inches of his skin suddenly bother me?
I snap my mouth shut when I realize it’s dangling open.
“You really do need to put it on under your shirt or it defeats the whole purpose. Accessible, but hidden.” He leans over and touches my lower back lightly. “The gun should rest here so it’s not immediately obvious you have it.”
“Sure, whatever.” I wad up the holster and stuff it into my backpack with the ammunition.
He grabs my wrist. “I insist you put it on. I’ll turn around while you do, of course.”
“I don’t think I can put it on without seeing how it fastens first.”
He looks at me for a moment. Without warning, he reaches down and peels his shirt up and over his head.
Forget about his abs. He has the most beautiful chest and arms I’ve ever seen, not that I’ve seen many. Almost no hair, and lots and lots of beautiful skin. How does he have such a great tan in February?
“Ruby?” I tear my eyes off his chest and look up at his face. His eyes sparkle, and I’m terribly afraid it wasn’t the first time he said my name.
I blush. “It’s a lot of straps. I can’t figure out how they all fit together.”
Because that’s what distracted me. The holster, not the skin, and the muscles, and the abs. The holster’s confusing, not my feelings.
“It’s not that hard. It goes like this.” He tugs and the black straps crossing his back shift. He has two straps, one crossing from each side. They hold two guns apiece, for a total of four firearms strapped to his torso.
“Mine looks different.” I’m great at stating the obvious today.
“I can put it on for you if you want. It’s hard to buckle if you’re not used to doing it—even the single holster.”
Fine. He’ll put it on for me, huh? I don’t warn him, either. I yank my sweater and shirt off as abruptly he did.
His gasp is very satisfying. He’s as unable to look at my face as I was. The whole thing’s stupid, since we’re not showing any more skin than we would be swimming.
I shake the holster at him. “I thought you were going to help me with this.”
He looks up at my face and nods. “Right, yeah.” He grabs the holster and loops it around my shoulders. He spins me around and hooks it all up from behind. I have to give him credit. He doesn’t touch me a single bit more than necessary and his fingers never linger.
If I’m being honest, it’s a little disappointing. So is the fact that when I turn around, he’s already put his shirt back on. Adding insult to injury, he’s facing away from me, and already back to packing his bag.
I reluctantly pull my shirt back on and yank the light sweater down over my head for good measure. I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to get to my gun easily now, but at least no one will see it. It’s not like I have any intention of using it anyway. I pull on my gloves since we aren’t in Marked territory anymore. Plus, it may be warmer than it was at home, but standing shirtless cooled me down quick.
We finish packing in silence. Sam takes the lion’s share of the food, all of the weapons and almost all of the ammo over my half-hearted protests. I’m glad when he pulls two largish blankets out of somewhere. The temperature’s already dropping and the sun hasn’t even dipped below the horizon yet.
“Where to now?”
He starts walking in the direction we were driving. “We actually made good time, even with the unplanned detour north. We’re almost halfway between Houston and Galveston, about ten miles from League City. See?” He points at a sign that’s almost been swallowed by vegetation. It reads: League City 8.
“So in Defense, eight and ten miles are the same? Seeing a little more why you didn’t choose Science.”
He laughs, which is weird because my joke wasn’t that funny. Somehow that improves my mood.
“Fine.” He snorts. “We’re eight miles away. Better get going.”
“Hey, I’m not a defense prodigy. Two miles is a lot to me.”
His face softens. “We don’t have to go the entire way today. We’ll see how far we can get in the next hour or so before full dark. Keep your eyes open for a good spot to spend the night.” He tosses me a flashlight, and I scurry to keep up.
“I think my size is about to become a real nuisance,” I mutter. I’m pumping my legs as fast as I can, but I’m taking almost two steps to every one of his. It’s not sustainable.
“Don’t worry, sunshine. If it comes to it, I really can carry you.”
“That’s hilarious. You’re gonna carry me, my bag, and your pack?”
He shrugs. “You weigh about the same as my backpack. I’ve carried more.”
He’s kidding. I’m pretty sure he is.
14
We haven’t gone far when my right heel begins complaining. Loudly. I tell it to shut up, of course, but it doesn’t listen. I will ignore it, because I don’t want Sam to notice and get frustrated with my ineptitude. I’m proud of how I keep walking exactly the same, in spite of the pain.
“What’s wrong?” Sam glances at my foot.
His observation skills annoy me. “Nothing.”
“Then why are you limping.”
“I’m not.” I bite my lip and keep walking, without a limp.
He stops.
I continue on for a few yards more, then stop and roll my eyes. I huff. He still doesn’t catch up or say a word, so I turn back. “What? My heel hurts, that’s all.”
“That’s all for now. We’ve gone two, maybe three miles. We have more than thirty to go before we reach the bridge to Galveston Island. It’s not a significantly long way, but if you hurt yourself, I really will have to carry you. While you don’t weigh much, we have supplies to consider. I think carrying all of it would put me at a severe disadvantage on a tactical mission.”
“It’s fine.” I scowl. “You won’t need to carry me, okay? I promise.”
Sam pulls his backpack off and looks in a side pocket. He walks over and crouches down to tap my foot. “Sit down so I can look at this.”
“Oh, come on Sam. It’s a blister. What are you going to do for a blister? You’re a medic now?”
He looks up at me with one eyebrow raised, totally undeterred by my barking and snarling. I finally sit. He starts to take my shoe off, but I yank my foot away, glare at him and finish unlacing it myself. I yank off the shoe followed by my not-so-fresh sock. Wonderful. Two-day-old sock smell hits my nose and I want to cry for some reason, which is strange because it’s not like Sam’s socks would smell any different.
I hold out my hand.
“What?” He pulls a ten inch hunting knife out of his boot.
“Just gi
ve me whatever your miracle fix is for a blister.” I point at the reddish spot on my heel. “I’ll put it on myself.”
“You got bristly in a hurry. Note to self. Cranky when injured.”
I slug his shoulder, which hurts my hand and he doesn’t even budge. I want to punch him harder, but I’m guessing the result would be the same.
He puts his knife back in his boot and hands me a sheet of thick, fuzzy pinkish fabric with plastic on the back. “That’s called moleskin. Go ahead, Sunshine. Rip off a hunk with your teeth and slap it on there. Or did you want to try a go with my knife?” He gestures at his boot.
His serrated hunting knife, seriously? I’d slice my hand off. I doubt his magic moleskin would be as helpful for a blood-spurting stump.
I bite at my lip for a minute and then lean over and pull out the scissors I brought, proud I’d thought to bring them. I cut a neat circle out of the fuzzy stuff and start to peel the plastic off the back.
Sam’s hand stops me. “Cut another hole in the center of that one. Moleskin isn’t like a normal bandage. If you put it directly over the blister, it’ll rub more, exacerbating the issue. You need to put a piece or two around the blister so it relieves pressure on the spot that’s rubbing.”
I follow his directions. By the time I finish, he’s put away the rest of his first aid kit, including the remaining moleskin. He waits a few dozen feet up the road, his eyes scanning the horizon. It’s cooled down in the last few minutes, and I put my coat back on before hurrying to catch up. Even moving at a brisk pace, my foot doesn’t smart anymore.
“That feels a lot better, thanks. Sorry I got bristly and hit you.”
Sam frowns. “You hit me? When?”
“On the shoulder, you don’t remember?”
“Oh. Right. Uh-huh.”
He didn’t even notice I hit him. I’m like a tantruming toddler. Ugh. “Well, anyway, thanks.”
Sam responds with a nod. The temperature’s not the only thing that’s gotten chilly.
We walk on and on along a large road with consistent scenery. Brownish brambles cover most everything around, but I can make out old street signs now and then. The ones along our route prominently display the number forty-five. I should be preparing to see our home, thinking about Dad’s office and the safe, or maybe trying to recall details. Instead, I can’t stop staring at the knocked over, rusted, and vine covered signs. The sprawling weeds cover up so much death and devastation on either side of the road. Houses built close together in neighborhood after neighborhood. Stores and stores and stores. Clothing, hair care, repair shops, all empty and abandoned.
Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set Page 13
