Lost and Found

by Trish Marie Dawson

  "Where am I?" Hearing my voice was startling. The sound came out strained and dry like my vocal chords hadn't been used in months.

  "You're safe. For now," the man answered.

  "And…who are you?"

  "A friend."

  "For now?" I asked, glancing nervously in his direction. He leaned back into the chair, obscuring his face once again in the shadows. After a pause, he laughed and I couldn't decipher if it was meant to calm or frighten me.

  "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

  "How long have I been here," I asked, lifting my hips as far off the mattress as they would go. This was only about half an inch.

  "Three days," he said, standing from the chair fluidly. His form towered over me and I recoiled as a hand reached out to pull the sheet up to my collarbone.

  "And my friends…are they here too?"

  Instead of answering my question, he crossed the room, lifted something off a long dresser, and brought it to the foot of the bed, holding it up for me to see. Kris's pack. I tried to remember the last few moments of our ride. The golf course. The gunshots. The horses. Sunny down in the dirt - bloody and broken.

  He tossed it into the center of the bed and turned to walk away, saying over his shoulder, "I found this but there wasn't time to stick around and hunt through the weeds for bodies."

  I stared at the pack and the bright red stain along one strap, not noticing him walk from the room, leaving me alone in the bedroom with my thoughts and all that was left of them. Kris and Connor. They were right - all of them - I lost the two most important people left in my life before we even reached downtown Los Angeles.

  "I'll find you," I whispered into the silence, "I'll find you and make sure your souls rest. I promise."

  ***

  The surprising thing about losing Connor and Kris is that I accepted it immediately. I cried for one day and then the anger set in. It was the kind of anger that you can taste on your tongue and feel coursing through your body like an untapped electrical current. It was the kind of anger that kept me alive and fighting. For days, it was all I could think about, all I focused on. It festered inside me like a parasite until my need for revenge became stronger than my will to eat. Even despite the chip in my hipbone from a bullet graze and the one that was yanked out of the back of my shoulder after I passed out from the blood loss, the revenge was strong and alive inside me.

  As soon as I could walk, I started doing crunches on the carpeted bedroom floor and push-up's against the wall. Using water glasses and then shampoo bottles, I did bicep curls, and lunges from one side of the wide bedroom to the other. And I disassembled and reassembled the handgun that was stuffed inside Kris's backpack until I could do it with my eyes closed.

  I counted my bullets and touched them every day, making sure my DNA was left along the tip of each shiny point. I did this because one day soon I'd be firing each of those bullets into the heads of the people that took my family from me.

  I was going to empty my clip into their thick skulls until their bodies stopped twitching.

  ***

  "You coming down for food, or staying up here again?" His gravelly voice vibrated through the heavy bedroom door.

  "I'm not hungry, Drake," I said, ignoring the involuntary twitch of my stomach.

  "Liar," he answered placidly.

  I stared hard at the doorknob, expecting him to turn it and enter the room. He didn't, of course. Frozen in a sit-up, I waited for him to retreat down the hallway, but heard nothing but silence.

  Cursing and groaning I rolled onto my side and stood up, ignoring the fuzzy feeling in my head as I stomped over to the door and flung it open. He leaned comfortably against the outer portion of the frame with a knowing smile on his face.

  I didn't trust his hazel eyes just yet, regardless of the fact that he saved my life. There was a darkness hidden there, and his lack of free-flowing information didn't ease my doubt about his intentions. After spending two solid weeks holed up in the two-story house, I knew nothing about my rescuer other than his first name. Though he stood silently before me, the arrogant expression of triumph was spread smoothly across his face like a buttered slice of bread.

  Pushing past him, I sauntered down the hallway and took the stairs slowly, as if I wasn't salivating at the idea of eating. By the time I was half-way down the stairs, I finally heard him descend behind me.

  Canned vegetables. Canned fruit. Homemade bread with an olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. Lunch never looked so good. My tongue curled and twisted in my mouth as I served myself a humble amount of food and poured a glass of what looked like fresh lemonade before carrying my loot into the next room to sit at the expensive wooden dining table. My meals had mostly consisted of oatmeal, over-ripe fruit and tons and tons of water. It wasn't until a few days before that my appetite came back. Drake could tell but I didn't want to eat around him, or serve myself food that he had scavenged or prepared. It was obvious, even to myself that I had lost a considerable amount of weight since leaving San Diego. This reminded me of the conversation I needed to have with the man that sat quietly opposite of me, eating his lunch as if he was the only person in the room.

  With a soft clank of metal against ceramic, I set my fork down and stared at the sheer curtains that obscured my view of the backyard. Having something to stare at while talking made it so much easier. It was hard to look at Drake. Something about his thick, arched eyebrows unnerved me. And his smile...it tweaked at the corner of his mouth, exposing his canine teeth, reminding me of a cougar.

  "I need to know where the closest department store is," I said.

  His silverware made a similar clanking sound on his plate before he spoke, "Why?"

  I finally looked at him and shrugged nonchalantly. "I need stuff. Especially clothes that fit."

  "Oh. Okay, before dinner we can go then," he said. I watched him shove a large mouthful of oily bread between his lips and chase it with canned pear.

  "No, I can shop by myself. Just need to know where to go, is all."

  With a sigh, he pushed away from the table, gathering up his dishes though he wasn’t finished eating and said over his shoulder on the way into the kitchen. "I'll be ready at sunset. Maybe you should put a bra on or something."

  ***

  My hands stayed shoved into my pockets as we walked. The night was overcast, hiding the early autumn moon from us as we took the sidewalk through the ritzy neighborhoods that bordered the Riverview Golf Course. I quietly followed Drake, irritated as hell at the fact that he wouldn't just point me in the direction I needed to go.

  With no map, I didn't know where we were or what was nearby. But I did know that it wasn't safe to travel through the area during the day, as I found out the hard way after being shot off Foxy a few weeks before. The little information Drake did share was that there were lookouts placed atop the tallest buildings flanking the 22 freeway in an effort to regulate who gained access to the 5. It was smart on behalf of the thugs - placing snipers along the Santa Ana River. The only reason why I hadn't snuck out of Drake's place already was because he knew where the assholes hid out. He had spent the last two months watching them and following them around parts of Orange County. Twice he saw them take down a random survivor. And that was all he told me. I knew he was hiding a lot more information and for some reason, he didn't feel comfortable sharing it yet. So I stayed, waiting for the day when I could pry the info I needed out of him to enact my bloody revenge.

  But first, I needed clothes that stayed on my hips and didn't slide off my bony shoulders. It took less than half an hour to walk to the closest mall. After picking my way through a handful of stores, I changed right there in the aisles while Drake wandered off with a flashlight to find his own supplies. We both hit the sidewalk again with backpacks full of miscellaneous items. Plus a treat or two.

  Halfway back to the house, the clouds parted above us and moon rays hit the sidewalk, lighting the concrete up with a pale blue glow. Most of the streets
were empty but trash blew across the ground everywhere. Papers, plastic bags, cardboard and clothing filled the gutters. Most of the homes that faced the main streets had broken windows and busted doors on account of being pilfered over the last year. There weren't any signs of recent life on the streets, but obviously others had picked the area clean at some point.

  "How long have you been here?" I asked, not looking at Drake.

  A momentary pause went by before he spoke over his shoulder at me, "Long enough to know not to cross the river."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That's where they seem to pass through a lot. I don't get close enough to see what they're doing, just to see where they go." He shrugged and kicked at an empty milk jug that rested on its side in the center of the street.

  "Then why do you stay if you don't care what they're doing?" I asked angrily. His lack of interest pissed me off. I wanted to chuck something at the back of his head. The visual image of my shoe bouncing off his buzzed and brown hair almost made me grin.

  He whirled around to face me so quickly that I bumped into his chest. "I've seen them kill. I know what they can do, and I know they run all over this City like they own it. I'm adapting, just like you. Why is that any different than what you've done this year?" His eyes were dark and squinted as he glared at me.

  With an uplifted tilt of my chin, I steadied my breath despite how close he stood to me. "It's not the same thing at all. You're hiding from them and from anyone else you could find out there," I threw my arm out beside me and gestured down the street. "If you aren't here to bring them down, then what's the point of staying and watching?"

  Only an inch of space separated his nose from mine as he leaned forward and said in a low voice, "I never said there wasn't a point."

  I gawked at his back as he spun away and continued down the street as if the conversation never happened. Fidgeting with the strap of my pack, I walked quietly behind him, lost in my thoughts.

  What was he planning? And why wouldn't he tell me what it was?

  CHAPTER seventeen

  The wind howled like a dying wolf outside the windows and rattled the solar panels on the roof. It had a ferocity so intense I figured it was only a matter of time before they slid off the top of the terracotta tiles and landed with a crash on the driveway and back patio. They were what kept the house running, just as if the power had never been lost. Except for those few days where a storm ripped through California with one goal only - destroy anything and everything in its path.

  I turned away from the moisture-clouded glass and readjusted my feet beneath me as I pushed deeper into the chair. Drake was lounged on the sectional, his feet propped on a pair of matching cushions with Swarovski crystals sewn delicately onto the silk fabric. I think he used the lavish throw pillows as foot props on purpose as a way to spite the previous owners who spent money on things that had no true worth. The house was full of valuable items from all around the world that meant absolutely nothing anymore. Value had a different meaning. Fresh water and food had become our gold and silver.

  "How long are you going to stare at me?" he asked without looking up from his book.

  I inwardly chastised myself for blushing but since he had yet to glance up at me, the embarrassment faded quickly. "I'm not staring. I was thinking," I said a bit too rough.

  "Thinking…and staring." Again, he didn't look up but I thought I caught a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  With an exasperated sigh, I glanced back outside at the cold wind that had the tropical plants in the backyard thrashing around wildly. Even after hearing the sound of paper rustle and the hardcover book snap shut, I didn't look at Drake. The feel of his eyes burned into the back of my neck and I wiped at the sensation on my skin nervously.

  Eventually he spoke, "What's wrong? You're more pouty than usual."

  "And you're just as rude, I see."

  "You think I'm rude?" he laughed.

  "Unpleasantly rude and not very thoughtful," I grumbled under my breath, finally looking at him.

  His smile fell immediately. "If I was either of those things, I would have just left you bleeding out in the mud."

  "Then why didn't you?" I snapped.

  Drake's hands flew up in front of his face like he wanted to strangle something. "I'm not as much of an ass as you think. Have I proved otherwise?"

  "Yes!" I nearly shouted the answer. "You seem to want to keep me here but won't tell me why! I know nothing about you, your story, or how you got here. You just expect me to sit here like some weak woman and eat the food that you provide and treat you like the master. That's not how I work!"

  He kicked the crystal pillows to the ground and stood from the couch, crossing the sitting room in four strides, tugging at his shirt as he walked. I flinched away from him as he pulled the black top over his head and threw it into my face, standing before me bare-chested. The shirt smelled subtly of soap but it wasn't the clean smell that had me distracted, or by Drake's sudden and aggressive approach. It was the scars that streaked across his chest like an amateur landscape drawing.

  With a yank, he snatched my hand and pulled me out of the chair so roughly I came up on my toes. Slowly, and almost as if he thought the touch might be painful, he placed my palm on one of the scars just between his pectoral muscles. His gaze settled on something over my head and he began to talk in a hushed voice, like he didn't want the walls of the house to hear his words.

  "I came through this area with another survivor, hiking on the same trail you used. He went down after the first series of shots but I ran and I would have made it if my fucking boot laces didn't get tangled in a stray piece of wire fencing." As he talked, he moved my hand gently along the scars but didn't seem to feel it; his eyes were detached and hollow. "They were on me in seconds. Three men, all with guns," he paused and blinked slowly before looking down at me, "I think it's obvious one of them likes to use a knife."

  When he let go of my hand, it lingered on his skin until he stepped back. I sucked my lower lip in before inhaling. The severe arch of his eyebrows relaxed slightly and for the first time, I saw him as a regular person just like me - a survivor.

  "How did you live through that?" I tried not to stare at the series of scars that broke apart the fine spattering of his chest hair.

  "Well, there wasn't anyone there to drag me out of the mud, if that's what you mean." He walked away, leaving me standing alone in the open sitting area, clutching his still warm shirt, stunned into a humble silence.

  ***

  For the rest of that evening Drake stayed upstairs, locked away in his room, just two doors down from mine. No movement came from the end of the hall. There was no sound. A few times I found myself stepping out onto the highly polished wood to check on him, but my bare feet never made it more than two steps from my door frame.

  As the brutal wind picked up speed and the storm drenched the house from all possible angles, my time was spent propped on the bed in positions that didn't aggravate my wounds. Wood logs popped and sizzled in the fireplace that took up most of the lower part of the wall separating the sleeping room from the bathroom. The smell of the burning wood filled the entire upper level. Any other circumstances and I would have loved the home, especially after roughing it through town on horseback with Connor and Kris for almost a week. But a house with a glass and marble fireplace in the master suite didn't bring joy or happiness or even excitement - only sadness that I couldn't share it with them.

  Every time the house creaked I would peek into the hall, expecting to see Drake passing by my room on his way to the stairs but he never appeared. It was clear he only told me how he ended up in that part of town because he was angry and not because he suddenly felt comfortable speaking with me openly. Guilt plagued me for doubting his intentions but a question nagged inside my head like a leech - refusing to let go until it was sated with an answer.

  Where could I find this man with the knife?

  ***

  Dra
ke hovered over his cereal bowl like he was afraid someone would snatch it out from under his mouth. After having skipped dinner the night before, he was working on his second serving of cinnamon oatmeal. He stirred a spoonful of raisins into the slop until I couldn't see them anymore.

  "Hungry?" I asked, sipping orange juice.

  Pulp settled at the bottom of the glass while I watched Drake eat. Our supply of fresh oranges was almost gone after making juice every morning that week. The great thing about Southern California wis that every neighborhood had a fruit tree of some kind. The trick was finding the ripe ones.

  He didn't answer, only continued to eat as if I wasn't there. It had rained off and on throughout the night and even with all four fireplaces in the house lit and roaring, it was still chilly inside. I thought I had heard Drake walk down the hall twice sometime before dawn, but I was too tired to slip out from under the blankets to see what he was doing.

  "What time did you get up this morning?" I figured small talk would warm him up a bit.

  He licked brown sugar off his spoon and set it aside before gulping down half a cup of juice. "When you did. I heard your door. Why?"

  I set the glass down and looked at him curiously. "You didn't get up early this morning?"

  "No, I was passed out." He looked at me clearly annoyed. "What?"

  "Nothing. I thought I heard you walk down the hall a few hours ago. Must have been the house settling…or something." I stared at the orange pulp and picked a small seed out of my cup before glancing back up at Drake. He was watching me carefully.

  "Or something," he repeated.

  "Can I ask you a question?" I didn't pause to wait for his reply, "I'm just curious if this place was empty before you…you know…moved in." I met his eyes and stared at him.

  "No."

  Lifting an eyebrow, I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't, I tilted my head and raised a hand in a gesture that meant I was eager for more information. My hand stayed suspended in the space between us, propped up by my elbow, until he finally gave in and exhaled an irritated sigh.