by Tarah Benner
I’m not going to risk losing the one picture of my family in existence. I let the silver chain run through my fingers and pool around the hare resting in the palm of my hand. I want this piece of my mom, too, so I tuck the necklace into my shorts for safekeeping.
Suddenly there’s a loud banging on the back door. I jump, and the box tumbles out of my lap. Army men spill out everywhere, and Harper throws me a panicked look.
The banging outside intensifies, and it sounds as though someone is trying to break the lock on the back door.
“What do we do?”
I don’t answer. I just scoop up the scattered trinkets, replace the box under the bed, and pull Harper into the closet.
A few seconds later, there’s a loud crack as the door slams against the wall, followed by the sound of thunderous footfalls.
“Parker!” yells a voice.
My upper body twitches in response to my name, but the intruders have to be looking for Owen.
“Parker!” the man yells again.
At least two more sets of footsteps join in the search, and the loud whine of floorboards tells me they’ve entered the kitchen. There’s more banging as they follow my search pattern, throwing open cabinets and knocking chairs around in their haste.
The heaviest footsteps pick up speed, and I cringe as they move closer. Harper’s breathing hard and fast against the back of my neck. We’re trapped, but I’ll be damned if they get the jump on me. I draw my handgun and point it at the gap in the accordion doors, waiting for the drifter.
He’s coming toward the bedroom, and I get an idea that could either save our lives or get us killed. I only have a split second to make the decision.
Throwing open the closet door, I step into the room and pull a very reluctant Harper out behind me. She’s giving me a “What the fuck?” sort of look, but I yank the bedsheet down and shove her onto the mattress.
In one motion, I yank off my shirt and toss it carelessly into the corner. Harper’s ponytail is already disheveled from our earlier activities, and she’s splayed on the mattress in shock.
I raise my gun just as the drifter flies around the corner and catch him looking at me like a deer caught in the headlights.
“What the hell?” I shout, sizing up the drifter quickly to see if I recognize him from Jayden’s surveillance pictures.
He’s a couple inches shorter than me — very tan, with light brown hair and a mouth that looks as though it spends most of its time swearing.
It isn’t Malcolm or Jackson. I have no fucking clue who he is. He knows who I am, though — or at least he thinks he does.
From what Harper said and from what I could tell with my own eyes, Owen and I are virtually identical. And someone who doesn’t know us that well might not be able to tell who’s who.
This guy can’t. A look of relief passes over his face, followed swiftly by anger.
“Where the fuck have you been, Parker?”
“Dude . . . do you mind?” I ask, feigning irritation and throwing a pointed glance at Harper.
She’s still sitting on the rumpled bed with a startled expression on her face that’s not inappropriate for the scenario I tried to create. If I’d had a couple more seconds, I could have faked it better, but I think the guy is convinced.
His gaze shifts to Harper, who quickly straightens her tank top and pulls on a bashful expression.
What can I say? The girl can roll with the punches.
The drifter clears his throat. “Oh. Er . . . sorry. I’ll give you a second.”
And just like that, he looks away and backs out of the room.
As soon as he disappears around the corner, Harper throws me a look that says, “Are you out of your mind?”
I shrug and bend down to retrieve my shirt, straining my ears to pick up on the drifters’ conversation in the kitchen.
“Yo, Jay . . . is he here?”
“Oh, he’s here, all right . . . doin’ it with some hot little piece of ass.”
“What the hell? He knows we don’t have time for that shit.”
“You wanna tell him? Be my guest.”
After a few seconds, it occurs to me that they’re waiting for us to emerge, but I haven’t even formulated a real plan yet. These guys clearly don’t know Owen that well, but I’m sure they expect him to know why they’re here.
If we play our cards right, we might get them to lead us to the drifters’ new base. But if they ask too many questions, we’re dead for sure.
I toss Harper one more look, and she nods. I know she’s thinking the exact same thing, but she’s ready to go along with it.
Taking a fortifying breath, I step out of the bedroom and follow the men’s voices into the kitchen.
Just as I thought, there are two other drifters standing around the small table. One is a tall, flabby guy with a painful-looking sunburn; the other is a scrawny Hispanic man with a goatee.
“You ready?” asks the one called Jay.
“I guess so,” I say, maintaining an irritated tone.
From what I’ve seen of Owen, he gets by on intimidation, so maybe if I keep that up, they won’t ask too many questions.
The big boy shifts uncomfortably and stares at Harper. “She comin’?”
“Is that a problem?”
To my delight, Big Boy backs down. “No.” He lowers his head. “Just . . . you know how Malcolm feels about all that . . .”
By “all that,” I assume he means bringing random-ass girls along on gang field trips, but I doubt Owen would care.
“Well, then he can take it up with me when I see him,” I say, putting an arm around Harper’s shoulders and glaring at the men. “Let’s go.”
eight
Harper
The walk to the base with Owen’s posse is the longest of my life.
My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure Eli can hear it, and I get a sick, slimy feeling in the pit of my stomach every time the men’s eyes pass over me.
Finally, the one called Jay addresses me directly. “So what’s your name?”
“Harper,” I murmur, immediately wishing I’d given a fake name. What the hell is wrong with me?
“That’s a nice name,” he says in a lazy drawl, falling into step beside me. He looks me up and down, his eyes settling on my mask. On the way out, Eli had the good sense not to grab his. Owen never wears a mask, but there was no way I was stepping outside without mine.
“Where you from?”
“Salt Lake City,” I lie. Maybe that will put an end to his line of questioning.
“The radiation real bad there?”
I swallow nervously, afraid of getting caught in a lie. “Isn’t it bad everywhere?”
“Well, it’s a lot better here, I’ll tell you that. But whenever we drive up there, I always see people wearing masks like that.”
I give a noncommittal nod.
“Still, I don’t think it does much. The cities are in real bad shape.”
“Real bad,” echoes the bigger guy.
“Sure are.”
Jay seems to approve of my agreement, but he’s still staring at me curiously. I inch closer to Eli, who glares at Jay until he falls back.
“So where you been hiding, Owen?” he asks.
Is this guy the damn spokesman for the group?
“Around,” says Eli in a tone meant to put an end to the conversation. He’s playing with fire pretending to be Owen, but it’s not as though he had another choice. If the drifters had found us hiding in that closet, bullets would have started flying for sure.
“Malcolm’s not happy with you,” says the skinny guy with mocha skin.
“Well, Malcolm can kiss my ass,” growls Eli. “After all the messes I’ve been cleaning up for him, I deserve a vacation.”
I throw a nervous glance at Eli, silently begging him not to stumble into a conversation involving Owen’s whereabouts.
“Yeah, you tell ’im,” mutters the big guy.
“Don’t give him any ideas
, Tony,” warns Jay. “If I were you, I’d be real apologetic. Malcolm’s pissed that he had to send out a search party to find you.”
I stifle a shudder. Clearly the Desperados’ leader commands quite a bit of fear. It sure doesn’t make me excited to meet him — especially not when I’m posing as Owen’s fake girlfriend from Salt Lake City.
“Why did you run off, anyway?” asks Big Tony.
“I didn’t run off,” snaps Eli. “I just had some other things to take care of.”
“What other things?” asks the third guy.
This man makes me nervous. He’s quieter than the other two, but his eyes are calculating and suspicious.
“None of your goddamn business,” Eli snarls.
I throw Eli a pointed look to tell him to tone it down. I know he’s acting brash to capture Owen’s charming personality and fend off further questions, but I worry that he’s going to push it too far and make the drifters turn against us.
The third man quickens his pace until he’s walking right beside Eli. He tilts his head up in defiance and throws him a menacing look. “If it concerns Malcolm, it is my fucking business.”
I swallow. My palms are sweaty, but my mouth is as dry as the desert. I don’t know what Eli is going to say next, but whatever it is better be good.
Slowly, he turns his head and glares at the man. “It’s done, okay? Don’t go making trouble where there isn’t any.”
Damn. If I didn’t know him, I’d be terrified by the expression on Eli’s face. It’s the type of look that makes people stop asking questions, and it’s enough to get Malcolm’s biggest fan to back down.
As we approach the next intersection, Eli and I hang back so the others won’t be able to tell that we don’t know where we’re going. They lead us through the nicer downtown area, past the block of buildings that look relatively untouched, and back to the fringes of town.
I recognize some of the businesses over here: a dilapidated mini mart, a Quik Loans place, and a dirty-looking gyro restaurant with a metal cage door secured over the entrance.
We continue walking to the corner of Shell Street toward a shop with a faded yellow exterior and a sign that reads Master Pawn. A few of the windows have cardboard and plywood duct taped over the frames, and several people have tagged the place with spray paint.
Upon closer inspection, I see that the windows aren’t broken; someone just covered them to hide whatever is going on inside.
Instead of entering through the front door, Jay leads us around through the alley to a side door that’s partially hidden by an overflowing dumpster. He bangs on the door several times, and my heart beats a little faster.
What if Malcolm realizes that Eli isn’t Owen? What if he asks the wrong questions? What if he’s so angry with Owen that he hurts Eli?
All these thoughts flash through my mind as I scan the building for an escape route. Unfortunately, the drifters have done a good job securing the place. Thin metal bars cover the windows in the back, and I’d bet money there’s a lookout stationed on the far corner of the block.
As soon as we walk in, we’ll be trapped.
Eli seems to be thinking along the same lines. He keeps glancing up and down the alley, as though he’s annoyed that Malcolm is making him wait. But I can tell he’s looking for exits.
We both still have our handguns, but those will be no match for the number of drifters we’re facing. Blowing our cover isn’t an option.
Finally, a deadbolt scrapes in the lock, and the door creaks open slowly.
A cute burned-looking guy with bleached-blond hair and a lip ring sticks his head out. As soon as he spots Eli, he breaks into a fond smile.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Look who the cat dragged in.”
His voice is hard to place. His accent reminds me of those I’ve heard in old Western movie clips, but it’s a mix of a Southern drawl and a slur.
“Hey, Gunner,” says the third drifter with us.
Gunner flips his long blond bangs out of his eyes and nods slowly. “How’s it goin’, Mouse?”
“Better now that we finally found this son of a bitch.” He jerks his head toward Eli in a way that’s meant to be lighthearted, but I can tell he genuinely resents Eli/Owen.
Eli shifts angrily, which puts me directly in Gunner’s line of sight. As soon as he sees me, his pale green eyes light up in interest.
“Ooh, who is this pretty lady?”
“Parker’s girl from Salt Lake City,” says Jay.
“Mmm,” says Gunner, drawing his lip ring into his mouth and nodding appreciatively. “How you doin’, Mama?”
I raise an eyebrow and scowl, but my heart’s not really in it. I’m too nervous about meeting Malcolm to care about the come-on, and Gunner’s flirting seems pretty harmless — almost as if that’s his way of relating to people.
“How can you even tell she’s hot?” Jay mutters, his gaze bouncing between my fading black eye and my mask.
“I can tell,” says Gunner, drinking me in appreciatively. “Mmm-hmm. Eyes are the windows to the soul.”
Big Tony snorts. “You can cut the crap, man. That shit’s not gonna get you laid out here.”
“I don’ know, Tones. I don’ know. There’s lots of pretty mamas from out of town. They might need a little somethin’-somethin’ to keep them cozy.”
Eli glowers at him and follows the others inside, looking at me in a way I know means to stay close — as if I’d go anywhere.
It’s a little bit dark inside, but as my eyes adjust to the light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, I can tell we’ve stepped behind the counter in the front room of the shop.
I was right in thinking this place had been badly looted in the aftermath of Death Storm. All the electronics and weapons are gone, leaving the far wall nearly bare. All that’s left is a hodgepodge of used movies, a busted guitar, some tarnished jewelry in a glass case, and a few other odds and ends.
Jay, Tony, and Gunner lead the way through a beaded curtain to the back room, which is much more spacious. I take off my mask, but it does little to cool me down. It’s dark and sweltering hot behind the curtain, and as soon as I look around, I see why.
All the computers and equipment that went missing from the restaurant basement are arranged in the back room. A handful of drifters are plugged in to whatever they’re watching on the monitors, headphones in place and completely oblivious to their surroundings.
The sight reminds me so vividly of Celdon that I get a pang of homesickness. I have an urge to step around the mound of cords to see what they’re working on, but I force myself to stay right at Eli’s side.
“Holy shit!” calls a voice from the shadows.
The drifters’ body language changes instantly, and I know the voice must belong to Malcolm.
“The prodigal son returns!”
Eli’s fists clench and unclench nervously at his sides. Every muscle in his forearm is tightly flexed. I place a covert hand on the small of his back to calm him down, but when the man emerges from the shadows, Eli stiffens as though he plans to launch himself straight at Malcolm.
The man standing in front of us is definitely the guy from the surveillance photos. The Desperados’ leader is tall and wiry — about Eli’s height but much scrawnier. His face is pointed like a rat’s, and he’s got heavy black eyebrows that are furrowed in constant suspicion.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asks.
“Well, hello to you, too,” says Eli, feigning offense.
“Hello?” Malcolm’s face falls. “Hello? Don’t fuckin’ ‘hello’ me. I’ve had search parties out hunting you for days, Parker. You strut in here after god knows how long, looking like you fucking own the place, and all you have to say to me is ‘hello’?”
I can’t breathe.
For a moment, Eli and Malcolm just stare at each other, and the mood in the room becomes very tense.
Even though Eli and Malcolm have never met, there’s a deep sense of history and resentment b
etween them. Clearly Owen had a habit of challenging Malcolm, and Eli came equipped with that same boldness.
Then Malcolm’s furious expression slips, and he falls into an easy — if somewhat off-putting — smile. “I’m just fuckin’ with you,” he says, flashing a pair of pronounced canines and extending a sideways handshake to Eli.
Eli lets out a stiff chuckle that does little to convince anyone, but he takes his hand anyway.
I release a slow sigh of relief, and Malcolm’s heavy gaze shifts to me.
“And you brought a friend.” He pronounces the word with clear double meaning.
“This is Harper,” says Eli.
“Nice to meet you,” says Malcolm, extending a hand.
“Likewise.”
His palm is surprisingly cold. He envelopes my hand with both of his, and when we shake, I feel Eli shift a tiny bit closer.
I glance around the room, trying to keep my nerdiness in check. “You’ve got an impressive setup here,” I say in an attempt to be gracious.
“It’s coming along,” says Malcolm. “We’re able to keep pretty close tabs on the compound rats . . . not that it’s done much good.”
“Oh, no?”
Malcolm shakes his head. “We’ve lost a lot of men recently.”
I nod, fighting the bile rising up in my throat. I think back to the men at the body shop — the man I killed — and the trail of dead bodies we’ve left in our wake since.
To distract myself, I wander over to the wall behind the computers, where they’ve tacked up a map of the town and the surrounding desert. Several routes are hand drawn over the terrain in blue marker, and I recognize one as the path Eli and I took last time.
To the left of that map, there are eight grainy photographs that look like mug shots — six men and two women staring blankly at the camera. I don’t know any of them personally, but I recognize their photos from the compound news feeds. They’re the AWOL Recon operatives.
I drag in a shallow breath and try to focus on something else. My hands are shaking so badly that I have to shove them in my pockets to avoid attracting attention.
