by R. K. Weir
"We can hang around for a while longer if you need to rest," I say. He waves me off.
"No it's fine. Let's just get moving," he says.
Maisie, unperturbed by the sickly look of him, grabs his hand and begins leading him down the road. Somewhere in that foggy mind of hers she must recognize that he's unwell because she moves at a slower pace to accommodate his sluggish one, like a parent leading a sleepy child to bed. Rocket falls in line behind them and Gale and I bring up the rear.
We walk in a heavy silence, wary of any movements and weighed down by the heat. The sun is overwhelmingly oppressive, as if determined to bake us into the ground. In no time at all I'm drenched in sweat and the bag on my back has grown a million times heavier. It's those damn bottles that have made it so unbearable. I consider taking them out when my eye catches Gale, walking unhindered beside me. I shrug the bag off and hold it out to him.
"Your idea to take the bottles, you carry them," I say.
His eyes widen and he stutters out an "O-of course!" before reaching out and taking the bag.
While I rub the tension from my shoulders, I notice Gale's face growing red. At first I think it's because of the sun, but quickly realize that he's holding his breath. Before I can ask what he's doing, he exhales sharply and words begin tumbling out. "If you n-need help with a-anything else—" He stops talking abruptly, as if someone had cut him off.
"If I need help with anything else?" I press.
His face pinches together and somehow manages to grow redder. I frown at him. Even for Gale this behavior is abnormal. Maybe leaving the safety of the bus has put him more on edge than I thought. If that's the case, then why did he choose to come with us? It's a question I've been putting off for a while, but since it doesn't look like he'll be able to answer it anyway, I'd rather spit it out now than continue to sit on it.
"Why are you here, Gale?"
The blood leaves his face almost at once. He begins to fidget with his glasses, taking them off and then putting them back on again. I think he's chosen to ignore the question altogether when he finally turns to me.
"I . . . I realized that you were right, a-about what you said, back at the school. What you called me—"
"A parasite?"
He winces at the word. "Yes, that. It m-made me realize how useless I've been, a-and how I would never be able to s-survive on my own," he says.
"So you came with us because you didn't think Joey could protect you?" I ask.
"No, I came w-with you because I . . . I. . ."
"Oh, just spit it out!” I exclaim.
"I wanted to learn from you!" he shouts, probably the loudest I've ever heard him speak. He even earns a few looks from Logan and Rocket.
"Learn from me?" I ask, sounding as if I'm repulsed by the idea, when really I've just been thrown off by it. Of all the reasons I'd expected from him, this one never even crossed my mind.
"Yes! Learn how to b-be brave and f-fight! All my life I've been c-called a coward! Well I'm sick of it! I don't want to be a coward anymore!" He finishes his tirade by taking his glasses off and cleaning them with the tail of his shirt. I think he just doesn't want to see our reactions. Logan seems not to have heard but Rocket makes a face at me before turning back around.
"Right," is all I can think to say. He wants me to teach him how to be brave? Is that even something you can teach? And when did it become my responsibility to teach him? With my constant cowering of the bandits lately, I doubt I'm in the best position to be teaching bravery anyway.
Gale has cast his eyes to the ground and seems content on ignoring his little outburst. I follow his lead, more than happy to shove his proposition from my mind for the time being. It isn't until a little while later when we pass a thrift shop and I see a row of knives sitting in the front window that the idea returns to me. Just the sight of the sharp blades has me reaching back instinctively to where one should be resting in my back pocket.
I may not be willing to teach him bravery, but if I can at least get a weapon in his hands then he won't be so useless against the bandits. And then I remember the bandits and how little we have against them. I don't know if they have guns or knives or bats, but it's a safe bet that they probably have one of each. If weapons is the only thing that will level the playing field, even a little bit, then I'm determined to stock up on as much as I can.
Logan isn't too keen on stopping, even though he looks like he might collapse at any minute, but Rocket, like me, is weaponless and insistent that we take a minute to pick out at least a few things.
"Five minutes," Logan says, "and then we move on. Sooner we get out of this place the better."
A quick survey of the shop proves that there are no guns. Probably taken by the owners long ago. So the knives in the window become my priority again, until I spot an even more generous collection hung up on the back wall. They vary drastically in sizes, some meant for camping, some for hunting and even some for combat. I pick out one that comes with its own sheath and belt, a hunting knife with one side wickedly sharp and the other serrated. Something about actually holding the knife in my hand makes me hesitate. For a brief moment, all I can remember is being in the hotel room. Stabbing. Constantly stabbing. It's a tough memory to brush aside, demanding that it be replayed in my mind several times before fading away. Even once it's gone my hand still hesitates around the knife. Eventually though, my fear of the bandits overrules whatever PTSD I'm suffering from, and I wrap it around my waist.
There's another similar knife that comes with a harness. At first I think it's meant to link around your shoulder, but after some tinkering I realize it's meant for your leg. After securing it around my thigh, I pick out one last one. A small switchblade that I slide into my boot.
Three knives should be enough. Considering I usually only carry one, I doubt I'll even use the other two. With myself sorted, I move on to pick something out for Gale. I consider getting him something blunt, like a golf club, but then I size him up. Tall and lanky with less muscle than me, he might be able to bash one skull in, but after that he'll probably be too exhausted to do much else. A knife would be better suited for him as well. I'll just have to hope he's somewhat competent and doesn't end up cutting himself. I pick out a blade that's half the length of his forearm and hand it to him.
"Oh, this is, um," he says, "certainly sharp."
Seeing the uncertainty on his face, I pick out a sheath and a belt for him as well.
"Just keep it in the sheath so you don't cut yourself and I'll show you how to use it later on," I tell him. He looks somewhat pleased by this arrangement.
Once he has it around his waist, we walk back outside to find Rocket swinging a baseball bat. It should be a comforting sight, to see that we now have all these weapons. But all I can think about is how we will inevitably need to use them and what little difference they'll make.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Logan
Maisie's grip on my hand begins to feel more and more like a shackle with every passing second. She, of course, is oblivious to my discomfort. If I try to wriggle my way free her fingers only clamp down tighter, like a vice. In the end I choose not to put up a fight and just let her pull me along. I wouldn't be able to put up a fight if I tried anyway. What little strength I had left that wasn't battered into the ground by this hangover has definitely been sapped away by the heat. It's a miracle I can even walk at all.
Not to mention I can feel Rocket's heated glare on the back of my head, pressing down on me, trying hard to shove me to the ground. I've decided to avoid her gaze altogether, especially now that she has a baseball bat.
There's little I can blame my discomfort on that I'm not directly responsible for, so I'm reduced to cursing out the sun, the only thing that hasn't been brought about by my own stupidity.
"Are we almost there?" I ask, although I don't know why I bother. It's the same answer every time.
"Almost," Maisie chirps, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.
She w
as giving the same answer yesterday, too. Every time she says it, I believe her a little less. It doesn't take two days to walk from one edge of the city to the other. A day at most, maybe even less. So where is she leading us that is taking so long? The urge to demand an answer from her is one I have to suppress. All the cars we pass with their open gas caps and empty tanks just remind me how much we need her. The last thing I want is to frighten her off.
So I swallow my complaints and stumble on. It isn't long before I feel them creeping back up my throat though. When a strikingly familiar restaurant comes into focus down the street, I have no choice but to voice them.
"Wait a second," I say, pulling Maisie to a stop. "We've been here before."
"What?" Maisie squeaks.
"We've passed that restaurant before." I snatch my wrist out of her grasp. "You're leading us in circles!"
"Am I?" Maisie asks, looking round at the other buildings. Stella and Gale are so engrossed in a conversation that they don't seem to notice, but Rocket steps up beside me.
"What's going on?" she asks.
"We've been down this street before! She's leading us in circles!" I growl, jutting a finger in Maisie's direction. Anger flushes my face, doubling the intensity of the sun that has just passed over us. My tongue feels swollen in my mouth and I realize I'm so dehydrated that I'm barely sweating. I breathe in slowly, to calm myself down and relieve some of the heat.
"Is that true, Maisie?" Rocket asks, her tone far more controlled than mine.
"No!" Maisie squawks. Her brows furrow as if she's preparing herself for an argument, but then they relax and leave her looking puzzled. "Where are we going again?" she asks.
Our only hope for finding gas, and she doesn't even know where she's taking us. I feel like an idiot. I should have listened to Stella, not this mad girl who sees the world as something it's not. Now, all I've achieved is leading us into the middle of Las Vegas with no gas, little food and even less water. The weight of the moon is back on my shoulders, crushing down on me, a reminder of the mess I've gotten us into. I'm not sure if it's fury or dread that leaves me lightheaded, but I quickly decide that I can't deal with Maisie right now.
I drop down on the side of the road and open my bottle of water. There's hardly any left but I can't imagine when I'll need it more so I finish it off now. It goes down like sand and my thirst multiplies. Before I can even stuff the bottle back into my bag I realize the mistake I've made. In an instant I'm hunched over the curb, vomiting up whatever liquid I had in me.
It's embarrassing to say the least. Every conversation ceases and I can just imagine them all turning to look at me, so I keep my head ducked between my knees.
Everyone is silent for a few seconds, and then I hear Maisie say, "My brother sometimes cries from his mouth too."
Rocket laughs and some of the tension dissolves. Now that I've been sick I don't feel nearly as lightheaded, but I refrain from rejoining the interrogation just yet. Rocket's cool and collected approach seems to be working some answers out of Maisie. Instead I sit quietly, listening intently and trying to ignore the growing smell of my vomit. Maisie has just begun stuttering out frantic apologies when Stella drops down next to me.
"How's the hangover?" she asks, and I remember the first time she asked me that. It was while she was sitting in my Jeep outside a bar, trying to steal it while I was unconscious. I wonder if she remembers that. It feels like a lifetime ago.
"It's a killer," I reply, the same thing I said last time. She smiles and I know that she remembers too.
We sit in silence for a few seconds, simmering in that memory, and then she holds out a half-empty water bottle for me. As incredibly thirsty as I am, my first instinct is to lunge for it, but I hesitate. We divided up all the food and water so that everyone would have an equal share. The last thing I need is to feel like a burden, mooching off everyone else.
"No it's yours, you keep it," I say. I have to lick my lips several times just to get the words out.
"Oh, this isn't mine," Stella says, "this is Gale's. I finished mine ages ago."
My gaze flicks to Gale, sifting through his bag a few feet away. "Why do you have Gale's water?" I ask.
She shrugs. "Figured if he wants me teaching him I may as well get as much out of it as I can."
Of course. My lips begin tugging into a frown, but I quickly realize that I'm far too exhausted to argue about her selfish nature and my guilty one. So I take the bottle from her, have a few sips and then twist around so I can hand it back to Gale. Stella doesn't look too happy but she keeps quiet as he stuffs it back into his bag. Then she huffs out a breath and looks ahead.
"I'm worried we're gonna run into the bandits," she says. I nod. It's on my list of things to worry about too.
"I'm worried there is no Gas Man and we're going to die of starvation," I say. She looks at me, and then her gaze drips to the ground.
"D'you think one day we won't have to worry?" she asks.
With the amount of weight on my shoulders, I can't see that ever happening. But I don't say this. Instead, I grunt out a half-hearted "Maybe" and keep my eyes glued to the road.
I drop my head back down between my knees and keep it there until I hear two sets of footsteps approaching. I look up to find Rocket towering over me, a slightly annoyed look on her face, and a shy looking Maisie hiding behind her.
"So," Rocket says, addressing all of us, "Maisie got a little confused – something I'm pretty sure we all saw coming – but she knows where we are now and she thinks it should only take about an hour to get to the Gas Man."
Maisie shuffles forward, her eyes trained on the ground. "I just don't remember things so well sometimes," she says.
Maybe if I weren't so tired I would feel bad for shouting at her earlier, but all I am is irritated. Before I have the chance to snap at her or anyone else, I lift myself up, wait for the wave of dizziness to pass, and then gesture down the road.
"Right, let's go then," I say. Maisie breaks out into a smile and before I have the chance to pull away, she's grabbed hold of my hand and is tugging me down the street again. I wrangle her back to a speed that doesn't make me feel nauseous and glance back to see everyone picking up their things and moving to follow us.
We'll get there within the hour, huh? I think sarcastically, wondering if that isn't another lie her muddled mind has fed her. As it turns out, this time she wasn't lying. In fact, our destination was practically right around the corner. Under the intense gaze of the sun, the trek felt like an eternity, but its placement in the sky tells me it's been less than half an hour. We come to a stop at the top of the road and Maisie lets go of my hand so she can point to the building at the end of a three-way junction.
"That's his house," she says.
The Las Vegas Natural History Museum.
A rectangular, sandstone block of a building that stretches wide and takes up the majority of the street. Maisie doesn't take my hand this time as she skips over to the middle of the road and starts walking down its length. Instead she uses both hands to squeeze the lamp closer to her chest. Does that reaction stem from fear? Even her steps have faltered to a slower trudge.
The closer we get to the museum, the more imposing it becomes. Massive parking lots flatten the ground on either side, leaving it as the only building to conquer the street. Grand pillars sculpted in a uniform row stand proudly across the entrance and conjoin together to form arches, like a Greek temple. Banners hang down its walls, showcasing a new exhibition: Treasures of Egypt. I vaguely remember taking Anna here when she was little. The stuffed lions had scared her, but when she found the penguins she fell in love with the place.
We hike up the small stone steps and pass under one of the arches when Maisie stops before the large oak doors and twirls around to make sure we're ready. I wait until I've caught my breath, glance at the others for confirmation, and then stand up straight. Releasing a final breath, I reach round to make sure the pistol is still secured in my waistline, and give
a curt nod to Maisie.
She almost looks reluctant to proceed, but she doesn't hesitate. Turning back to the door, she furls her hand into a fist and places three loud knocks on the dark wood. A few moments pass. Then, as if by magic, the doors swings open on their own.
Maisie looks back at us, smiles, and then steps inside. I follow after her. As soon as I step over the threshold my attention is torn between three things.
Lights. At first I think it's just sunlight, seeping in through the windows, but a glance up proves this wrong. Row upon row of ceiling lights bathe the room in a white glow, light bulbs brimming with electricity in every socket. Electricity! Another thing I wasn't sure I'd get to experience again. If you hold your breath you can hear the gentle hum of it coursing through the building.
The second thing to steal my attention is a colossal poster of a pharaoh's sarcophagus, strung up on the wall behind an information desk. It reaches all the way up to the roof, its size almost as imposing as the building itself.
Lastly, my gaze settles on the dark-skinned man standing behind the information desk. A broad smile stretches the creases of his skin, white teeth flashing at us. He sports a shaved head and a brown leather trench coat. It looks heavy on his shoulders. I can't imagine how he can stand wearing it in this heat. Just looking at it makes me sweat.
After a moment of us appraising each other he lifts his arms out at his sides.
"Welcome to the museum!" he says, his voice deep and booming. It seems to echo off the walls. "What brings you here?"
My eyes dart around the room before responding. There's no one else around. He's alone. Or at least, it appears that way.
"We're looking for gas," I say, the words scratching my throat. He eyes me for a second, his smile unfaltering.
"You, sir, look absolutely horrendous. Why don't you help yourself to a drink?" He reaches under his desk and pulls out a couple of water bottles that he spreads out on the edge nearest to us. "Please, help yourself."
