by Amira Rain
I'd need to get all new hygiene supplies now, since I assumed that my duffel bag and backpack were back in the field. In my duffel bag, I'd had a smaller bag containing soap, shampoo, a washcloth, a small bottle of laundry detergent, tweezers, a compact mirror, a razor, lotion, tampons, a hairbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, and floss, and several other items that I considered hygiene essentials.
For days when I didn't come across any fresh water sources to bathe in, I carried a large package of thick baby wipes that I'd use for quick, all-over cleaning. In my backpack, I'd had a similar grooming kit, though smaller, with travel sizes of everything. The purpose of this mini-kit had been to hold me in an emergency for a few days if I ever became parted from my duffel bag. Being parted from both my bags at once had kind of been my doomsday scenario.
I realized that I was now without a crumb of my own food now, too, which pained me, not least of all because I'd recently stocked up at an abandoned farmhouse that somehow hadn't been pillaged yet, probably because it had been absolutely in the middle of nowhere, and the variety of food available had been nothing short of incredible.
I'd stuffed my duffel bag with canned chicken, albacore tuna, and jars of home-canned peeled grapefruit segments, which were so delicious I'd eaten half a jar right off the bat. I hadn't even yet sampled a small bag of coffee-flavored hard candies I'd found. I'd been saving them for a time when I needed a little extra boost to keep putting one foot in front of the other on my trek.
The only thing I'd found good about the new, ugly, post-apocalyptic world I'd been living in, if anything could really be considered good, had actually been food. With no championships or Olympics to train for, for the first time in my life since about age eight, I'd been able to eat whatever I wanted with reckless abandon – when food was readily available in great quantity, anyway, which wasn't often, but I'd found it in great quantity enough times to enjoy a few really satisfying all-out binges.
One time, after breaking into a boarded up pharmacy, I'd sat in a darkened aisle and ate an entire twelve-count sleeve of only-slightly-stale chocolate sandwich cookies, washing them down with two bottles of cherry cola. I literally hadn't tasted pop or full-sugar cookies in years. Before the apocalypse, I'd allowed myself to bake cookies on occasion, but only ones sweetened with applesauce, banana, and calorie-free stevia sweetener. They were never very good.
Even when food wasn't in plentiful supply and I had to be a bit mindful of rationing, I still ate a little something when I was hungry, which I'd never allowed myself to do before. While in training, which I'd been in pretty much been my entire life, once I'd consumed the fairly meager allotment of calories I'd decided to allow myself that day, based on what the scale had said that morning, that was it. I was done eating for the day, whether I was still hungry or not.
It didn't matter that I was an athlete, working my muscles to exhaustion all day long. I just could never risk losing my extremely willowy figure. I knew the judges loved it and took it into consideration when determining my artistic marks. I'd heard that, among themselves, they often admiringly described my figure as "European."
In the farmhouse with the canned grapefruit, I'd stepped on a dusty scale and had been stunned to see that I'd gained a full twenty pounds in the nearly two years since the Husk virus had first hit. I really shouldn't have been stunned, though. Though still slim, I had breasts and hips now, and fairly full ones. My rear had also become pretty round, I'd noticed when surveying my reflection from the side in a dusty full-length mirror in the farmhouse's bathroom.
As much as I'd been appreciating food as of late, though, the loss of my own wasn't the biggest reason I lamented being parted with my bags. Inside my duffel, I'd had my Olympic bronze medal, and in my backpack, I'd had an envelope of family photos and a few other very sentimental items I'd grabbed before leaving my apartment and hitting the road.
While those items and the pictures were precious to me, I really wasn't even entirely sure why I'd grabbed my medal. It had just seemed like an important, precious item a person should grab, though in my travels, there had been a few times when, while looking at it, I'd been tempted to toss it in a ditch.
For the sake of my pictures and other precious sentimental items, I just hoped that maybe Blaine and Nick had grabbed my bags and thrown them in the bed of the truck or something after whatever had happened back in the field had happened. I realized I could turn around and look right then, but I just didn't want to
for some reason, maybe because I felt like doing so would reveal vulnerability or weakness or something in front of Blaine and Nick, by showing them that I was anxious about my bags and their contents.
In response to what I'd said about being well-groomed because I'd made it a priority to be, Nick said nothing, but gave me a little sidelong glance that made me think that he still believed I'd come directly from some nearby community.
Wanting to disabuse him of this notion, I told him that I hadn't. "I've very briefly stayed in camps here and there, for very short periods of time, but I've never been a part of any community, and I definitely didn't just come from one. I've been on my own. And if you don't believe that, well, I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to tell you."
Again, Nick said nothing, but instead of giving me another little sidelong glance, he just stared straight ahead, which gave me a bit of satisfaction for some reason.
He didn't speak again for maybe a minute. "You been on the road long?"
"How long has it been since the Bloodsucker apocalypse started?"
Still staring straight ahead at the open road, he expressed possible slight surprise with a slight widening of his eyes. "Oh...that long. Most of us hit the road about that time, too. Most of us come from different places in the south, though, and I can tell by your accent you're not from around here. So, where did you start out from?"
"That's none of your business."
"Well...maybe, maybe not. But I would like to know. Just curious."
While speaking, Nick had glanced over at me with an expression that for some reason made me feel a bizarre little flash of something like sympathy for him. Or, maybe sympathy wasn't even the exact right word.
Maybe the little flash I'd felt had been something closer to regret about having spoken to him so sharply. I really wasn't sure. But whatever feeling it was that some look in his jewel-green eyes had caused me to feel, it was also making me feel compelled to answer his initial question, though I was going to do so briefly.
"I'm from Detroit."
To my right, Blaine snorted faintly. "Detroit seems too rough-and-tumble for an uptight girl like you."
Shooting daggers from my eyes I was sure, I looked at him. "Well, it wasn't."
He just grunted in response, a little dubiously I thought, and I glared at him even harder.
"I don't deny that Detroit was rough-and-tumble, but it wasn't too rough-and-tumble for an uptight girl like me. I managed just fine."
He grunted again, though this grunt sounded like it might have been a grunt of amusement. "You just admitted you're an uptight girl."
Face immediately warming, I thought about what I'd just said moments earlier and realized he was right. "Well, that was just a slip of the tongue."
"Freudian slip, maybe."
I just looked at Blaine for a long moment. It seemed odd that a "grease monkey" like him would know the meaning of the phrase Freudian slip. Not that knowing the meaning indicated genius-level intellect or anything, but I wondered if he was as much of a Neanderthal as he'd immediately seemed to me. At any rate, I didn't appreciate him pointing out my slip, regardless of what kind it had been, and I once again narrowed my eyes at him.
"I didn't mean to say that. I didn't mean to say uptight girl; I just meant to say I'm a girl. And, actually, I didn't mean to repeat even that part of what you said, because it's not true. I'm not a girl, like I'm twelve years old or something; I'm a woman."
Expression unreadable, Blaine gave me a quick once ove
r, scanning my body from my face to my tennis shoes and back up again. "You can say that again."
Getting his meaning of course, my face warmed for the second time, and I pulled my gaze away from Blaine's gray eyes. Though not before catching just a glimpse of what I thought was a bit of color rising to his own face as well. This struck me as odd, that his comment might have embarrassed even him.
It also made me further embarrassed in a really strange sort of way, which made me feel the need to say something, something that was about anything other than the comment he'd just made. However, I still couldn't look at him while I spoke.
"You may not realize this, but you have five distinct smudges of dirt on your face. At least, I hope it's dirt."
"So?"
Now I looked at him again. "So, you don't even care to wipe them off, now that you've been informed?"
"No."
Snorting, I moved my gaze to the windshield and the open road again. "Figures. Perfectly in keeping with your gross nickname, I suppose. Except they shouldn't call you Grease Monkey; they should call you something even more apt. Something like...well...."
I didn't even know what. I didn't even know why I was still talking. I wanted everyone to just stop talking and just be quiet all of a sudden, but to my left, Nick piped up.
"Something like what? What should we call him?"
Snorting again, I shrugged, still staring straight ahead. "Well, I'm not used to thinking up distasteful nicknames, so I really don't know. Something like...Dirt Face, I guess. Or maybe like...like, something that evokes a grimy, muddy...like, Mud Bucket."
Startling me, Nick suddenly let loose with a fairly loud chuckle. "What do you think, GM? You've now been dubbed Mud Bucket. There's something about the nickname I kind of like."
Blaine just grunted, and Nick continued.
"And how about me, Evangeline? What would you like to nickname me?"
I didn't want to say out loud, because the first nicknames that had popped into my head were Handsome Strong Jaw, and Long, Strong Fingers On Steering Wheel.
Fortunately, I was soon spared from having to think of an alternate response when Nick put his foot on the brake suddenly and fairly hard.
"Trouble."
Being that we'd been rounding a gentle curve, at first I couldn't see what he was referring to, but within a moment, I did. And the sight made me gasp, horrified.
CHAPTER THREE
Around the gentle curve in the road was a sight I'd had the great fortune of never seeing up close before. A horde. That was what I'd heard people call large groups of Huskers, groups ranging in size from ten or twenty of them to hundreds. I'd mostly heard the term used when referencing hundreds, and though this group wasn't that large, it was large enough. Large enough to completely block the road, five or six deep.
The only other horde I'd seen had been a small one of maybe three dozen bloodsuckers, who'd been staggering through a valley dusted with snow, following a group of dogs. I'd been watching from the relative safety of a copse of trees atop a tall hill, but I'd still been plenty afraid. The sound of the horde's collective moaning and hissing, echoing in the quiet valley, had sent chills racing up and down my spine.
That had been back in Ohio, and I hadn't seen a group of that size since, although I'd frequently come across groups of a half-dozen or so in my travels. When that happened, I usually just hid if there was a hiding spot available, whether that was a cave, a rusted-out car at the side of the road, or an abandoned building or dwelling. I'd even once climbed up into a termite-infested tree house, where I'd spent the night.
Most times, even though they were attracted by human scent, the Bloodsuckers would eventually just pass. I could and would take on groups of a half-dozen or so if I had to, but knowing from experience how easy it was for a person to get hemmed in by such a group, I generally didn't risk it. I was strongly hoping to arrive to my sisters un-zombified, with all my blood still in my body.
While Nick brought the truck to a complete stop, I turned and looked out the back window, catching sight of both my bags in the truck bed, not that they even mattered anymore.
"Hurry! Throw it in reverse!"
Even before I'd finished speaking, I'd seen that it wouldn't be possible to escape the horde simply by reversing and heading back down the way we'd came. Dozens and dozens of Huskers were shuffling out from the woods on either side of the road behind us, some of them blocking the road already. Within seconds they'd be too thick to just simply drive through, if they weren't already.
For the second time that day, I felt pretty close to imminent death. I couldn't believe it. I realized that we might have a chance at survival if we just remained in the truck, but with as many Huskers as were surrounding us and shambling toward us, I thought there was a pretty good chance that eventually they'd break the windows of the truck and pull us out.
A few of them alone couldn't usually do that, but a hundred of them together might be able to, if the scent of blood-filled humans whipped them into enough of a frenzy. If they circled the truck, the pressure of them all might even break the windows right away. I really wasn't sure, but I sure didn't want to find out.
Having all these thoughts seemingly in the span of a second, I whipped my face back toward Nick. "Let me out. I'm going to try to outrun them all through the woods. You two can do whatever you want."
"No." With his expression one of intensity, to say the least, Nick grabbed my arm and held it with a firm grip. "You're staying right here in this truck. Do you understand me? You're not going to move."
"Wrong. I'm leaving. I'm going to live. Now let go of my arm right this-"
"You're going to stay right here in this truck, Evangeline. That's how you're going to live. Is that clear?"
Nick had a look like he definitely wasn't used to having anyone protest his orders.
But still, I protested again anyway. "I said let go of my-"
"Is that clear?"
I finally jerked my arm free from his grasp, figuring that if he felt the need to be so commanding about telling me to stay in the truck, it must mean that he and Blaine were actually going to leave the truck in an attempt to fight the horde, which would give me a chance to escape into the woods. "Fine. I'll stay in the truck."
That was definitely a lie.
Seeming as if he detected some deceit, Nick took my arm again, looking me right in the eyes. "You do not move."
Feeling like a scolded little child or something, I said fine again, and Nick released my arm, grabbed the truck keys from the ignition, presumably so that I couldn't drive off, and jammed them in his jeans pocket, looking over me to Blaine.
"Let's go."
After hastily rolling up the windows, they both all but flew out of the truck, slamming the doors behind them. Immediately, I yanked open the glove box, in search of a weapon I could use when I also flew out of the truck, which I figured I'd do in less than a minute, once the Huskers had swarmed Nick and Blaine, which I was pretty certain they'd do.
Still, though, I couldn't be certain that all of them would swarm, which was why I needed a weapon in case I had to quickly fight my way to the woods. It was tempting to think about grabbing my backpack from the bed of the truck, because I had a spare screwdriver in the front pouch, but I couldn't be certain that Nick and Blaine hadn't taken it for some reason.
I also couldn't be certain that I'd even be able to reach the bed of the truck when I finally got out of it. If a Husker was blocking my path, the only option I'd have being weaponless, would be to try to shove it aside and just hope that it stayed shoved away for a few seconds, and I didn't really like the idea of just hoping and gambling like that.
After pulling out various tools from the glove box, none of them being a screwdriver, unfortunately, I found a medium-sized knife in a leather sheath. Appearing to be some kind of a hunting knife, it would have to do, I supposed, although I really would have preferred a different weapon. Pretty much any other sharp instrument that would stab, be
sides a knife.
I hated knives. Hated them. Not in a way that I hated to cut food with them, but beyond that, I hated handling them and especially fighting with them.
I'd first become averse to knives when something had happened to me at my first Olympics, when I'd been seventeen, even though that something had had nothing to do with a knife. But still, that was when it had started. Then, a few months into my journey south, I'd lost my first trusty screwdriver, and so had to help myself to a knife from an abandoned RV to use temporarily until I could get a new screwdriver.
My first day using the knife, my hand had somehow slipped on the handle while I'd been stabbing a Husker through the eye, and I'd sliced my hand deeply. Always quite squeamish when it came to blood, especially for being the daughter of two doctors, I'd become absolutely panic-stricken when I'd seen the river of blood flowing from my palm.
