He pulls on his helmet. “Supply run. Got word that there’s a crashed trailer truck a couple miles from here. It won’t be there long before someone cleans it out. That is if there’s anything in it to begin with.”
“Prez, you ready?” The man flanking Shooter looks over at us. He nods at me and then looks away.
Shooter glances over at him. “Yeah, Gauge. Let’s do this.” Shooter looks back at me. “Get inside. It’s safer that way.” He looks away, but as he goes to pull away he stops himself and looks back. “I won’t worry if I know you’re inside.”
He doesn’t give me any time to argue any more with him, and instead he pulls on his helmet and then he’s moving away from me. The gates are being pulled open and around ten bikes and one truck leave before the gates are closed again.
Amara steps to my side. “What are we doing then?”
I glance sideways at her and know that she already knew what Shooter would say to me, yet I can’t be mad at her.
She blushes and smiles. “He’s the president,” she says with a shrug. “What he says goes.”
“He’s just a man on a bike,” I reply flatly, feeling deflated.
“He’s the president of this club—of the Hell’s Highwaymen—and what he says goes. No one argues with him.” She laughs again. “Apart from you, apparently.”
It’s my turn to laugh now. “I do that a lot. Come on, let’s head back to the cabin. We’ll get anyone that wants to learn in our room. We’ll need to grab a couple of weapons on the way though,” I say. I’m pretty pleased with my decision, because it won’t directly go against Shooter’s wishes and piss him off. And despite everything that I disagree with, I honestly don’t want to piss him off, because I can tell that he has everyone’s best interest at heart.
“You sure about this? Shooter normally knows what’s best for us here,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow in response and she smiles.
“All right, well, I’ll meet you back at the room in ten. Try to stay out of trouble, if you can.” Amara turns and heads away from me, toward the armory, and I go to the cabin.
I pass the hospital and see Michael at the window. I give him a wave but he just scowls at me, and I roll my eyes and shake my head at his obtuseness. In my heart I kinda can’t wait for him to leave. If he can find Mikey without getting himself killed, then great. Mikey will be at peace and I can pass a message along that I’ll follow up in a couple of months, once I feel that these women are strong enough.
It’s strange. I’ve only been here a little over a day, and I’m already beginning to feel like I belong. The women look at me like they look at Shooter—like someone important. And I’d be lying if I said I don’t like it. I feel like I finally have a purpose, and by the way a lot of these women are eager to train with me, they finally feel they have a purpose too.
Most of them are just frightened, and see no other solution than by going along with Shooter. They’re psychologically damaged from what has happened to them, and they know they won’t survive out there on their own, so they stay, and they’re protected.
But the chance to protect themselves is what they want more than anything else. And I can help give them that.
I step into the cool cabin. The only light inside is what’s coming from the windows, so it takes a moment to let my eyes adjust. There are seven women inside, all sitting on their beds talking, or sitting around the small table knitting or whatever.
“All right, ladies, who wants to train?” I say.
They look to one another with uncertainty, but slowly more and more hands lift up. Amara and a blond woman step in behind me and lock the door, barring it from the inside. Amara drops a couple more knives onto my bed and looks at me with a grin while the other woman goes to stand with the others.
“Mary is staying away,” Amara says apologetically. “She said she doesn’t want anything to do with this.”
“That’s no problem, no one is being forced to do anything that they don’t want.” I look around the room, taking in each concerned face. “I won’t think bad of you if you decide not to stay. But everyone that wants to join in, I’d like you to grab a weapon. Anyone who doesn’t want to join in right away, it’s not a problem so don’t worry, but maybe watch. You could learn something that might save your life.”
I learned to survive by my own inner grit and determination and by watching what other people did. Maybe these women can learn that way too.
“Firstly,” I say, “I want to be upfront and honest with you all. I’m not trained in fighting or weapons or, well…anything, really. I survived because I didn’t want to die.” I laugh at the irony of that statement. “Though I’ve nearly died an awful lot.”
The women look horrified by my admission and I realize the lost humor in my joke. I guess when you’ve faced death as much as I have, you have to laugh or you’ll just give up and shoot yourself in the head and be done with it.
“Look, the emphasis is on nearly. I’ve nearly died a lot. But I’m still here, aren’t I. I’m still alive, and I’ve done it by myself—mostly by myself. I’ve met some amazing people along the way. Some have died, some have lived.” I realize that my left hand has curled into a fist and my nails are digging painfully into the palm of my hand. I release my fist and take a breath. “I’m not promising to save your life, I just want to give you some more power. You deserve that much after everything that’s been taken from you. This isn’t a way to live—cowering behind walls and protected by others. You can have more than this.”
I watch as three of the women go and sit down, but five stay. They go and grab a weapon each, and I’m surprised by how comfortable some of them actually look holding them. The blond woman that Amara had come in with looks down at the long knife in her hands.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
She looks up. “Yeah. I just, I’d like something bigger,” she says hesitantly.
“Bigger?” I laugh. “I already like you. What’s your name?” I wink and go to the bed and check to see what we have.
“Theresa. But most people call me T.”
There’s another machete on my bed so I switch her weapon with that, and she looks much happier for it. “Better?” I ask.
“Much. I’m not so fond of knives,” she says. She looks down at the machete in her hands, and she looks like she wants to say more, but stops herself. I decide not to press her on the subject.
Amara looks at me and smiles, and her smile gives me strength.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I say. I think about Emily—her smile, her attitude, and the warmth of her hugs—and my nerves start to wash away. “First of all, let me show you what to do if someone tries to grab you.”
*
The roar of motorcycles draws my attention out of what I’m doing, and Anne, a small but feisty little stick of a woman, punches me in the face. She looks immediately apologetic, and as much as I want to call her something horrible and punch her back, I bite my tongue, swallow down the blood in my mouth, and smile. She looks even more horrified, and I’m guessing there’s blood on my teeth.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Nina!” She looks like she wants to cry.
“It’s okay, it was a nice shot,” I say, rubbing my jaw tenderly. “And there’s lesson number what-the-fuck-ever we’re up to… Never get distracted by anything or you could end up getting punched in the face!”
Everyone laughs and Anne looks relieved.
“Sorry,” she says again.
“Don’t be. I should have paid better attention. You have a mean right hook, by the way.” I smile. “Sounds like Shooter’s back. Let’s clear up and we can do some more later on.”
Everyone puts their weapons back on my bed, and Amara looks out the window, making sure that it’s Shooter and his crew before unbarring the door and letting us all out. Everyone proceeds out of the room, glad to be out of the stench of sweat that we’ve created, but I hang back to speak to Amara.
She begins to gather up t
he weapons and I help her, almost dropping one of the machetes onto my foot.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, still trying to word what I want to say in my head.
“Sure.”
“Do you like it here?” I ask. That’s not what I want to ask, but I’m getting there in my own way.
“Of course,” Amara says without any hint of hesitation. She stands up straight and looks at me, her expression serious. “Why do you ask?”
I chew the inside of my cheek in thought before replying. “Do you not find it—stifling?” I ask. “I mean, what Shooter has done is amazing, no doubt, but—” And this was the tricky part, because I actually liked Shooter and I didn’t want to piss him off or upset him, but I couldn’t deny the independent female part of me. “—do you not feel that maybe you’re still trapped? Like, you’re still a prisoner.”
Amara frowns, and I can tell immediately that she doesn’t like my line of thinking—and who can blame her, really? I worry that I’ve perhaps overstepped my bounds, but then her expression softens and she sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Before Shooter rescued me,” she says, looking up to meet my gaze. “Because that’s what he did—he rescued me, Nina. Before that, I wanted to die so badly. I wasn’t alive. I wasn’t even dead. I was somewhere in between both things. The woman I had been before was gone, and the woman I was becoming was someone I didn’t know. It wasn’t any way to live. I was used, abused, I—” She shakes her head and bites her bottom lip to stop its trembling, and I sit down next to her.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” I say, feeling awful.
“No, it’s okay, you should have. You need to know how good we have it, and how bad it used to be. The women here, they didn’t see a way out. All they saw was that day of pain and suffering, and the possibility of death at the end of it. It messes with your head after a while, so that you become grateful and accepting to that way of life. I mean, sure, he was making me do things I didn’t want to do, but he was also keeping me safe, right? Surely I should just be grateful for that!”
“No! God no, you shouldn’t,” I reply angrily. “You deserve more than that. Everyone does.” And again I’m instantly transported back to a time when I was being treated like that. When I was doing whatever I could to survive, to eat, to live. Doing things I didn’t want to do, but felt like I had no choice but to.
Amara smiles. “I know that now, Nina. Shooter made me see that. These women here made me realize that. It may seem wrong the way we do things, but there is only ever our interests at heart in this place.” She reaches out and puts her hand on top of mine. “What you’re doing here to help us just proves to me that there really is a point to living now. It’s not just about surviving.” She smiles. “And Shooter will see that too.”
I smile back, though I still feel confused about it all. But maybe I should be more open-minded. Just because I don’t understand something doesn’t necessarily mean it’s wrong.
“We need to get these weapons back to stores.” Amara stands up and begins to walk toward the cabin door, her hands clasping several of the weapons.
I start to gather up the other ones and place them in a pile on my bed.
“You know, you and Shooter make a great team—if you were ever looking for more than just friendship, that is. And by the way he looks at you, I doubt he’d say no to you.”
I almost choke on a laugh. “Thanks, but I’m not looking for a relationship right now. In fact, I already sort of have one.” I hate saying sort of. It makes it seem so final, when in truth I don’t know anything for certain yet.
“Yeah?” she asks, her curiosity piqued now.
I nod and look down at my hands. They’re rough and hard, with dirt under my broken nails. I still wear my wedding band, though, even if it is bent out of shape and scuffed to hell. It reminds me that I had a life before all of this.
That maybe I can have a life after it too.
“Then where is he?” Amara asks. “And why isn’t he here with you?”
I think about Mikey for a few seconds, imagining him driving the winding road up to Ben’s parents’ cabin, his brow furrowed in concentration and wishing that I were with him. He might even be there by now, loading the small rowboat with supplies and taking Joan and Adam across the lake to the little island where the house is. I can’t help but wonder if Ben’s parents will still be alive, still waiting for their son and daughter-in-law to turn up, as if by some miracle. Ben’s parents had been real life preppers, canning and jarring enough food to last them years, setting up safe havens to escape any catastrophic events and hoarding weapons and supplies for that just-in-case scenario. Ben and I had laughed at the time, but it seems that they had been right all along.
I bet the thought that Ben might be alive somewhere is what has kept them going all these years. What would they do without that hope to cling onto? What purpose would their life serve them?
And me, what do I say to them—when I tell them the truth of how he died saving me?
If I don’t go there, they can never know, and maybe their hope will stay alive a little longer because they won’t know Ben’s fate. They never really liked me anyway, so that’s inconsequential. But when Mikey turns up with Joan and Alex they’ll be taken in, because his parents are good people. If I were there, if I were to tell them their son is dead because of me…no, everyone is much safer without me.
“He thinks I’m dead,” I finally say, still staring at my hands, my words choking me. “And I think that’s for the best.”
I look up and see that Amara has already gone, and I’m sitting talking to myself now. I roll my eyes and stand up and turn around to pick up the remaining weapons.
“Pretty sure that I said no fighting.” Shooter’s rough voice pierces the silence and I turn around to face him, my hands holding onto several machetes and a long-ass knife, and my expression filled with guilt.
His large frame fills the doorway, his blue-eyed stare, piercing the darkness, and his expression? Pissed off.
Chapter Eleven
“Pretty sure you’re not my boss,” I reply after a moment’s hesitation.
I can’t look him in the eye and I can feel my cheeks growing hot in case he heard my admission about Mikey. Not that I care what Shooter or anyone else thinks. I just don’t want to start a discussion on my life. It’s no one’s business but mine.
Shooter doesn’t look impressed by my response, but I’m hard-headed and stubborn so I walk forward, closing the gap between us so I can take the weapons back to the stores.
“Seriously?” I ask when he doesn’t move out of my way.
“Those are my weapons, woman,” he says, putting his arm across the doorway and stopping me from leaving.
“They are?” I say, my tone laced with sarcasm.
Shooter nods, his expression staying tight, and it takes everything I have not to kick him in the nuts and push him out of my way. Saying that, he’s more stubborn than me and would probably still refuse to move. His face is dirty, grime lodged in between the soft creases around his eyes. His hair is windswept and knotty, and the whole look just makes me want to tell him to go take a bath.
“Well here then, Shooter,” I say, handing over the weapons to him.
He takes them without thinking.
“Perhaps you can go put them away for me…I mean, they are your weapons, after all.” And then I push past him and go outside.
I have no idea why I’m being so hard on him, especially after speaking to Amara. She basically soothed all the issues I had with this place, and made me see that things aren’t always as black and white as you think. I even, to some degree, understand his caveman ways, even if I don’t agree with them. But I feel too raw and painful to be nice or kind right now. Today was a good day: I taught some of the women some basic moves, and they lapped it up, eager for more. Yet I feel in a shitty mood regardless.
I stalk to the front of the camp, not sure what to do with my day ye
t. Mentally, I’m starting to feel like I belong here, like perhaps I’ve always belonged here but I just had to find it. But physically I still don’t know what my responsibilities really are—what to do with my day other than a few classes on self-defense.
I’m still an outsider even though I’m where I belong, and I hate that.
I walk with no direction in mind but end up at the front of the camp. Some of the men are unloading supplies that they’ve picked up on their run, one of them being a woman of around my age. She looks frightened—numb, almost—her wide-eyed stare taking everything in. Mary is with her and she begins to lead the other woman away with Gunner walking behind, his shoulders hunched over as normal but his eyes so very aware of everything going on around him.
Mary and the woman pass me, and though Mary keeps her eyes trained forwards, the woman doesn’t. She looks right at me, her stare burning into mine, and I see something else inside her, something I can’t describe. They pass and I turn to watch them go, but neither the woman nor Mary turn to look at me.
One of the men, a big guy with black afro hair yet whiter-than-white skin, drops some things on the ground. They land with a loud clatter and he curses under his breath. I head over and start to help him pick them up.
“I’ve got it,” he says, sounding out of breath as he leans over to grab a box of bullets that has opened up and scattered in all directions. His stomach is huge and his shirt comes untucked as he bends over.
I continue to pick things up regardless of what he says, and he curses and mutters something under his breath again. I have no idea what he says, but I take it that it’s aimed at me.
“My mom used to say ‘if you don’t have the balls to say it out loud and directly at someone—” I stand up and hand over a handful of bullets. “—then you probably shouldn’t say it at all.’”
He looks shocked, his eyes going wide and his eyebrows pulling in, shortly before he breaks out in laughter. “Lady, did you just say I had no balls?”
“Sure did,” I smart, trying not to laugh, but it’s hard—his laugh is contagious. “Also, I never said I was a lady,” I say with a wink.
The Dead Saga (Book 5): Odium V Page 9
