by Alex Mersey
“Okay…” Chris rubbed his brow with the chilled bottle. “So, how long is this spud turning going to take?”
“Do I look like a farmhand to you?” Bran pulled a bulldog face. “How am I supposed to know that kind of shit? It takes as long as it takes.”
Chris put the bottle to his mouth and took a slow, refreshing drag. How long could it possibly take? A morning? And this way, at least, he felt less shitty about kicking in the guy’s bike.
It wasn’t like he had anything better to do while Williams recuperated.
Williams… Shit. Williams was not going to be happy.
- 17 -
Beth
The utility scissors was right where they’d left them the previous evening. So was the stench. That seemed to permeate deeper now that she wasn’t dehydrated, starved and desperate. Holding her breath, Beth grabbed the scissors from the stainless steel counter and hustled back to the relative fresh air behind the heavy swing doors.
Sean turned from the wall of windows, studying her with a furrowed brow. The same look he’d given when she’d passed through on her way to the kitchen. He had something to say, probably about last night, and she was in no mood to hear it let alone coax it out of him.
She paused at the food table to grab a dry cracker to munch on, a bottle of mineral water to wash it down with, and continued on through the dining room, though the lounge where everyone else still slept sprawled on various sofas. Except for Clint and his men—man. She didn’t remember being introduced to them and hadn’t paid any attention to the conversation floating around last night, but somehow she knew their names, as if she’d absorbed the information through verbal osmosis.
Bisson was the haggard one in the skinny black jeans and velvet jacket, draped over an armchair with a loaded gun resting in his lap. Vince was the dead one. The leader, Clint, watched her from behind the bar counter as he saw in the sunrise shift. They’d taken turns throughout the night, him and Bisson, guarding against trouble from out there and, most likely, from their unexpected guests inside.
He inclined his head at her. “Find what you’re looking for?”
She flashed the scissors at him, her gaze staying on the weathered, hard-faced man as she kept walking.
“Should I ask?”
“You can ask.”
He chuckled to himself. “You’re okay.”
“So are you.”
He chuckled louder.
Beth swung her gaze forward as she reached the steps into the passage. She should probably be afraid of him, and she didn’t completely trust him, but there was something to be appreciated in his no-nonsense attitude. He acted swiftly, did what had to be done without a fuss. She had no grief with that.
The shower room was in a better state than she’d expected. Someone had cleaned the blood from the tiles and the floor. No trace of the violence that had been done. Her and Alli’s clothes were still on the towel rack where they’d been hung to dry.
Beth dropped the scissors on the vanity and quickly changed into her own underwear and cut-off shorts. Her strappy top, too, and then the oversized tee she’d slept in went back on, covering it all. Only once she’d fetched a towel from the trolley to roll out over the vanity, did she look herself in the mirror. Leant in with her palms pressed to the marble top, peered closer, looking for any changes.
Spot the differences.
None that she could see.
She straightened, combing her fingers through her ropy blonde curls. What she saw in the mirror did not disgust her. She wasn’t ugly just because some bastard wanted her to feel that way, ugly and dirty. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She’d pushed that frightened little girl, too terrified to scream or fight, so far down, she would never find her way back.
This splitting probably didn’t say anything good about her mental health, but since she was fully aware of that, she wasn’t totally batshit crazy, right?
To be fair, the split had started showing the cracks before last night. Strong Beth had known that Liam was dead, crushed and buried, but weak Beth heard his heart beating, clawed at the rubble and rocks for useless hours. Strong Beth accepted the alien apocalypse while weak Beth couldn’t quite believe it. It was inevitable, really, this split. The only way to survive, to get home, to keep Alli safe.
“Right.” Beth stared herself in the mirror as she twined her hair into a ponytail and picked up the scissors.
This wasn’t because she needed to change her appearance. She didn’t need to look like someone else before she could look herself in the eye again. She chopped off the ponytail at the base of her skull. With that gone, she used her fingers as a comb to measure and snip, measure and snip, until her hair shaped her skull an (uneven) inch all around.
Long hair was a liability, an opportunity for her opponent and whatever it took, now and going forward, that’s the way she had to think. Us or them. Hurt or be harmed. Kill or be violated mind, body and soul.
“Beth! Oh my God!”
The cry of alarm pierced the regimental thoughts marching through Beth’s head. Her gaze flashed to Alli in the doorway. “What?”
“What? What?” Alli’s voice pitched as she stumbled inside, eyes bulging. “Your hair, that’s what!”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, it’s just a little haircut.”
“You hacked it off, everything!”
“Yeah, well…” Beth ran her hands over her closely cropped head. “It’s easier this way, more practical.”
“You’ve totally flipped and it’s all my fault.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I ran off and left you with that man.” Alli’s lower lip quivered, her gaze dropping. “You won’t even talk to me about it and I don’t blame you. He had a gun and I just left you there.”
“You didn’t run off.” She took Alli’s hands in hers. “Alli, look at me. You went to fetch help.”
“Not quick enough.” Alli’s eyes lifted slowly, teary. “I wasted time trying to sneak past that man, Bisson, and then he grabbed me anyway. I should have stayed with you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” Beth said gently. “I’m still here. You’re still here. If you’d done anything differently, one of us could be dead. Maybe both of us. You did everything right.”
Alli sucked in a noisy breath. “And you’re okay? He didn’t…hurt you?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” She smiled to cement the lie. “What about you? Come on, I need to redress that bandage before we set out. I should have done it last night.”
“I hoped you’d forgotten about it,” Alli groused, her world somewhat back to normal.
- 18 -
Sean
“You’re welcome to stay an extra day,” Clint said, talking around a mouthful of beef jerky. “Ain’t much out there for you to hurry off to, except a whole lot of trouble.”
“Like you?” Sean drawled.
No apology for greeting them with a gun yesterday, but Clint did offer, “Can’t be too careful nowadays. Won’t be long before there’s not enough to go around and people ain’t going to ask before they take.”
That’s what Sean had a hard time understanding. “Yesterday you were ready to shoot us for your food store,” he said bluntly. “What’s changed?”
Clint scrubbed his beard, his gaze sliding over Sean to nowhere. “I’ve got a daughter. Sherry. Twenty-three next month.”
Ah, did that explain his murderous rant last night? Had he imagined Vince’s hands and eyes all over his own daughter?
“Where is she?” asked Lynn softly, peering over her bowl of sliced peaches from the far end of the bar counter where they’d congregated.
“Over in South Korea.” Clint looked at her, something that could have been pride softening his tough exterior. “Teaching English at a school outside Jinju. I don’t know the situation there, but I’d like to think someone’s doing the same for her, that’s all, if she’s stuck in a bad spot.”
He seemed sincere. And other than thei
r unpleasant introduction, and that nasty business with Vince…okay, maybe’s that why he still felt on edge. Too many exceptions, too many variables with a man like Clint. He’d rather be on his way, see for himself what was happening out there.
“We should consider it,” Lynn said, as if reading his mind. “One more day for Johnnie to rest his ankle. And we might be able to gather some dry wood for that fire. God, what I wouldn’t do for a baked potato.” Her eyes lit up. “I’ll even volunteer to search the fridge for a tub of butter. It wouldn’t have turned yet, I wouldn’t think.”
“The Scum’s done with this area,” Clint inserted, “and not many people crazy enough to flee into the wastelands. This is the safest place to hole up and wait for the dust to settle.” He grinned to himself. “Pardon the pun.”
“That’s what saved us in Manhattan,” Lynn told him. “Sean led us back into the ruins while everyone else tried to outrun it.”
Sean wasn’t sure he liked the parallel she drew between his gut instincts and those of the volatile Clint. And they weren’t in Manhattan anymore, with nowhere else to run.
“Lynn…” He swiveled in his stool to face her.
“Sean,” she countered firmly and left it there.
She didn’t need to say the words. He saw it in the stubborn blue stare. She wanted this for Johnnie, for herself. She was staying one more day. With or without him? Maybe. Dammit all. She was his people, not Clint’s. Her and Johnnie. Beth and Alli. They were practically strangers and at the same time, they were the closest thing he had left to friendship, to family, to anything and anyone, for all he knew.
“One more day,” he said.
She beamed a smile at him. “Johnnie will be thrilled.”
Sean looked around. “Where is Johnnie?”
“On the green, hitting golf balls with his makeshift walking stick.”
Sean jerked to his feet in alarm. “He shouldn’t be outside on his own.”
“Of course he shouldn’t be.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Bisson is out there with him. Relax, it’s good for him to unwind and play a bit…normal.”
There was nothing normal about a hipster rocker with a gun tucked into his belt assigned primary childcare duty, but Sean didn’t get a chance to ponder that.
Beth stormed in, saw them and slammed to a halt. “We have a problem.”
No one moved. They were too busy staring at her hair. Or where her hair had been.
She scowled, waving them to follow as she turned on her heel.
Gun drawn and pointed, Clint beat them to the passage steps.
“Not that kind of problem,” Sean hissed, catching up and slapping the man’s gun hand downward. “She would have warned us, don’t you think?”
Clint lowered the gun, but didn’t put it away.
“Where did all her hair go?” Lynn whispered at their backs.
Assuming it was a rhetorical question, Sean didn’t bother replying. The real question being, “Why did she chop it off?” He fell back in line with Lynn. “She’s traumatized. You should have let me talk to her last night.”
“And how would that have gone, Doctor Platshund?”
He frowned at her. “Doctor who?”
“A show I used to listen to on the radio,” Lynn said. “He was an animal psychologist. The point is, I did talk to her and all she kept saying is she’s fine. So I told her I’m here, anytime she needs to talk, and there’s not much more either of us can do, Sean. We’re not exactly experts in the field of troubled victims.”
They rounded the corner to see Clint disappear into the ladies shower room. A flash of déjà vu got Sean moving a little quicker, his heart skipping beats until he saw Alli seated on the bench, alone, Beth standing to the side. No threat lurking in the corners or trapping innocent girls up against the wall.
Clint went down on folded knee before Alli and cursed. “When was your last tetanus jab?”
“How should I know?”
“Two years ago, remember?” Beth said to her. “I’m pretty sure a tetanus booster was included with your vaccinations in Year 10.”
Sean peered over the man’s shoulder. Shit. The flesh around Alli’s thigh wound was red, puffy, and a thin, yellowish line crusted the seam where the skin had started knitting. “It looks infected.”
“That’s what I thought.” Beth looked at him. “We don’t have any more surgical spirits. Could we use something from the bar? Whiskey or vodka or—”
“I’m afraid not,” Lynn cut in. “It has to be pure and medicinal.” She pressed the back of her hand to Alli’s forehead.
“I already checked,” Beth said. “She doesn’t have a fever.”
Alli pulled her head away from Lynn’s motherly touch. “My leg doesn’t really hurt, it just throbs now and again. Ouch!” she screeched when Clint prodded the tender skin. “Would you not do that?”
Leaving them to it, Sean slipped from the room, his mind on those locked offices he’d meant to explore before Clint and his gun had showed up. A fully stocked medicine cabinet would be good. Now that he thought about it, this was a sports facility. There might even be a nursing station behind one of those doors.
He stopped at the first door and rattled the handle, just in case. No such luck. Little natural light made its way into the passage, but he could see well enough to determine the wood was solid oak. Sean stood back, rubbing his jaw as he contemplated his options sans a pair of sturdy boots or muscle-padded shoulders. This was going to hurt.
Clint joined him with a hearty laugh. “Have you tried ‘open sesame’?”
Not amused, Sean tipped a scowling look at him. “I suppose you’re an old hand at kicking in doors.”
“When necessary.” Clint shrugged, no big deal, and pulled a single flat key from an inner breast pocket of his leather jacket. “Open sesame.”
“Where did you find that?”
“On the desk.” He inserted the key and turned. “The manager must have been in his office when the shit hit the fan and he had to wag his tail out of here. Don’t go getting your hopes up,” he said, pushing the door open. “Not much here worth anything.”
Sean’s gaze swept the spacious office as he stepped inside. An imposing desk with an executive chair behind, a pair of visitor chairs angled in front. The wall display unit held brass plaques, framed photos and certificates, a row of trophies and absolutely nothing of interest.
“The girl needs antibiotics,” Clint said. “Ain’t going to find that just lying around.”
“I’m aware of that.” Sean veered toward the bulky canvas tog bag against the wall.
“That’s ours, stowed it here when we first arrived.” Clint threw out an arm to block his path. “Would have already offered if I had medicine in there.”
“What do you have in there?” Sean eyed the oblong bag as he walked around the desk. “A couple of semi-automatics? A flame thrower?”
He’d been joking, but he noticed that Clint didn’t deny or laugh off the excessive firepower. Deciding he didn’t want to know, Sean flipped open the laptop on the desk. He hadn’t really expected it to power on, and it didn’t. Out of juice or fried by the EMP, assuming Clint hadn’t been full of bullshit in his revelations. But if there’d been a working car left in the state, Clint would have been the man to find a way to steal it.
Sean sat to rummage through the drawers, which yielded a box of Tylenol, so not a complete waste. He eased back into the chair, watching Clint stand guard over his bag of goodies. “What’s in the other office?”
“Let’s go take a peek.”
“You haven’t already?”
“Open sesame doesn’t work on that one.”
“Great, I was hoping we’d get to kick at least one door in today.” Sean pushed to his feet, swiping the box of Tylenol from the desk on his way out. “And by we, I mean you.”
Clint locked the door behind them before moving on to study the next one. He rapped his knuckles up and down the wood—looking for a weak spot, he informe
d Sean. “Pay attention, I won’t always be around to do your dirty work.”
Thank God. Still, Sean took mental notes. The weakest spot was just below the knob. Instead of backing up and charging the door with a boot or shoulder, Clint just bent one knee up and delivered a series of hard, shuddering kicks that eventually shattered the wood from the doorframe.
Another kick, and the door swung inward to reveal a storeroom. Mostly junk, junk and more junk, and a green cross box on top of the filing cabinet in the corner. Sean’s hopes dived when he checked inside. Bandages, some pain and fever meds, a tube of itch ointment that, on closer inspection, had some antiseptic ingredients.
Clint rifled through a lost-and-found plastic bin with dismal contents, if his running commentary was any indication.
Wandering over to see for himself, Sean sighed. Discarded sweaters and t-shirts. Mismatched socks. Lots of golfing gloves. A single sneaker that he took a closer look at, that’s how desperate he was, and he was almost glad it was two sizes too small to tempt him.
Clint saw him inspecting the scruffy sneaker and snorted. “You can still change your mind about Vince’s boots. Plain dumb, if you ask me, to get all prissy about wearing a dead man’s shoes.”
“No one asked you.” Sean tossed the sneaker back in the bin. He wasn’t being prissy about walking in a dead man’s shoes. He was being prissy about walking in the shoes of a dead man who’d been halfway on his way to raping Beth. “I’d rather walk barefoot over burning coals.”
“It’s your grave.”
“No one’s dying today,” Sean said grimly. They had another decision to make. An easy one for him, but Lynn may see it differently.
He grabbed the green cross box and turned to Clint. “Any idea how far the wasteland stretches?”
Clint gave that some thought. “Livingston was still standing when we passed through, that’s about four miles due west. The landscape didn’t look too bad until we crossed Pleasant Valley Way.”
