“Take them.” He uses one foot to push the back of his other sneaker off. “That way, I can say… I was with you guys every step of the way.”
I smile and thank him. Maybe we are friends, after all.
❇ ❇ ❇
Hours pass—I’m not sure how many—before we finally get word that the helicopter is minutes out.
Naveen holds Gizmo against his uninjured side, wrapped beneath layers of blankets, and gives a weak grin. I’m more than a little concerned about the lack of pain he’s been showing. There has got to be some kind of nerve damage going on there. But at least it’s spared him the agony of waiting.
Vincent scoops up his friend once more and tries to maneuver around all the people lying between them and the door. “Make a hole!”
They comply with the order with exhausted profanity and confusion, rolling just enough so he can get through. I would have said something about his tone, but I know there are others behind us. Gina, the ham radio operator, said the helicopter could accommodate twenty-four stretchers. That seems like a lot to me, but what do I know? Vincent said it’s probably a Chinook.
Whatever that means.
We make it outside, and I’m instantly hit with a spike of adrenaline. It’s like day and night between the chaos out here and the relative calm of inside—speaking of which, it does look like the sun is trying to rise behind the trees. Did we make it through the whole night?
“They’re clearing out the cul de sac so the helicopter can land there,” Susan, Gina’s wife, tells us. “They wanted to land on top of Providence, but it’s too damaged.”
I can hear it now, the heavy throp-throp-throp-throp overpowering the rushing water below. It just might be the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, because it tells us we’re not entirely isolated out here. People know what’s going on. We’re not on our own, no matter how unreachable we are to most of the world.
A flashing light pierces through the twilight, and the silhouette of a massive helicopter breaks through the clouds. The thing is a beast. It has two propellers on it! I lean in toward Vincent. “Is that the Canuck?”
“Is it a Canadian hockey team coming to save us? No, it is not.”
I blink for a second, before shaking my head so hard I swear it rattles. “I mean Chinook. Is that Naveen’s ride?”
He mutters under his breath. “Yeah, hold back a second while they land.”
The helicopter descends with a beam of light illuminating the end of the road. Trees and bushes sway in awe as it touches down with ill-fitting grace, teetering for just a second before it comes to a halt on the ground.
Behind us, a man does a terrible Schwarzenegger impression that kills the moment.
A crewmember gets out and opens a hatch in the back before giving us a thumbs-up to proceed. Seeing them move alongside it really brings the scale into focus. That chopper is as big as a freakin’ bus. No wonder they can move so many injured.
We make our way toward the helicopter as a group, but others are already there, banging on the sides like a zombie horde. They’re begging the crew for rescue—and really, I get that—but they’re being selfish. The people who ended up in the house, sans their companions, are in bad shape. I saw a guy with a bar coming out of his leg. He needs treatment more than the shouting woman with scrapes all over her arms.
As we near, the wind hits me like a brick in the face. I can barely keep my eyes open, but it’s doing wonders for drying my soggy triage blanket. The crew meets us halfway with stretchers, bless their hearts, and two of them get Naveen ready for transport.
“I’m sorry, sir, we can’t have animals on this flight.”
Naveen’s eyes widen, and he shoots a look at me before turning to the woman addressing him. “But this is my… service dog.”
“For anxiety,” Vincent fills in, giving them a serious stare. “Please. Gizmo needs to stay with him.”
The woman hesitates for a second before nodding. “All right. We need to move.”
I mouth a thank-you at Naveen as I give him a quick hug, mindful of his injuries, and step back. The wind blows my dark curls in every direction.
Vincent squeezes Naveen’s good shoulder, and says something I can’t make out over the wind—before turning to threaten the miscreants trying to stowaway and take up valuable space. A twinge of pride slips past my defenses. I bat it down along with my hair.
“Bye, Gizmo!” I call out as they’re taken away. “I’ll come see you two soon!”
She straightens to look at me with kind, understanding eyes, and then nestles against Naveen’s arm. Sweet little thing.
Vincent loops my arm and turns me around before the emotional crash can ensue, guiding me away from the helicopter. “They’ll be fine. From this point forward, they’re far better off than we are.”
“Equal parts comforting and foreboding…”
“C’mon,” he says, ignoring me. “I bet they still have food from last night. We need to stock up before we head out this morning.”
This morning? We’re starting this soon?
Dread stirs my change-resistant soul, but I know better than to question him. Our alliance is shaky, as is. The last thing I want to do right now is give him a reason to leave me behind. So, I buck up and force a smile, trying to match his long strides. “Great.”
So it begins.
CHAPTER 11
Vincent made me pocket an extra banana at breakfast.
That’s right. Less than twenty-four hours after being robbed—I mean, pickpocketed—I’m taking advice from a thief. This is what catastrophe does to people. Now we’re wandering through the landslide-ridden forest, trying to stay high enough to skirt the death water below.
“Not to doubt you,” I begin, “but is this an actual path to somewhere?”
“It was a logging road,” he tells me over his shoulder, using a stick to fight back the foliage. “This way, I figure it’ll only take us three hours to grab my stuff and make it down to 26.”
He has stuff? Where would he keep it out here?
My silence must relay my musings, because he answers, “It’s a bug-out bag. I stash it in a hollow tree beyond where they’ve been working.”
“But aren’t those things pricey? Not that having one isn’t a good idea. It’s just… aren’t you… without money?” I pull my hair back at my temples. “I mean, the homelessness thing. Aren’t you broken? Broke! I meant broke. You’re not broken. There are all kinds of help for things like—”
Word vomit, stop—stop!
He hesitates a good fifteen feet ahead and turns to stare me down. “Sounds like Naveen had a lot to say when I wasn’t around.”
“Don’t blame him.” I cross the distance between us, reaching for his arm. My lungs are nagging me again, aching like that time I had pleurisy for two weeks. “Please. He wanted to make sure I understood where you were coming from, acting the way you sometimes do…”
He snorts and keeps moving. “Yes, don’t blame Vincent for his actions. His brain got fucked up in the war.”
“That’s not what he said at all!” I insist, scrambling to catch up. “He mentioned you had served—thank you for that, by the way—and had a tough time when you came back. That’s all.”
“And yet, somehow my financial status came up?”
“I’d describe that as a—pheh!” A branch hits me in the face.
Vincent turns around long enough to see what stopped me, but says nothing.
“I’d describe that as a hard time,” I finish, slapping the leaves away. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I did bring some things with me,” he goes on, as if I haven’t spoken. “I wasn’t always the bum you’re picturing. The rest I just had to acquire over time.”
“You mean steal?”
“I mean do work under the table for,” he grits out. “I only take things when I need to get by, and it’s only from rich pricks who won’t notice, anyway.”
“Like me?”
“I told you, I screwe
d up.”
Well, hell. This isn’t the way to start off a long journey. I drag in a deep breath and let it out slowly, pulling serenity from my surroundings. Oregon really is beautiful. It’s lush, fertile, and even smells fresh as we get further from the water.
“I’m sorry,” I say, without ceremony. “I don’t know how to navigate sensitive subjects, apparently.”
At least, not when I’m exhausted. Thank God I don’t do this at work.
“Just don’t pussyfoot around things,” he tells me, trotting down the bank to the road we’ve been trailing. “If you want to ask something, ask.”
“Anything?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Normally, I’d say no, but you seem like someone who needs to fill the silence.”
My chin cocks to the side in reflexive attitude, but I let it go. If we’re making assumptions, he seems gruff, but obviously clueless. He probably didn’t even mean anything by it. Then again, I always said that about Brent, too…
“So, where do you stay?” I ask, testing the waters. If he’d meant it as a jab, he wouldn’t follow through with his almost-offer.
“Here, abouts.”
Here abouts looks like every other square inch of green we’ve covered. Is he messing with me? I can’t imagine Vincent seeking out this specific place to sleep every night.
“I considered the other trail up and around,” he says, disappearing into the dense trees’ shadows. “But there’s a vista up there, and I figured underwater Seaside is the last thing you need to see right now.”
Okay, so he isn’t exactly inconsiderate.
“What about you?” I do my best to follow, thankful for Naveen’s shoes and socks, as we pick over fallen trees. “This is your home.”
“Home is where your shit is.”
I scrunch up my face. “Home is a nasty communal bucket in those ladies’ backyard?”
That earns me a grin, fleeting though it may be. “Hey, I don’t want to hear anything about that experience. You’ve never had to burn and bury the contents of such a bucket.”
“Ew. Are you serious?”
“Part of the job.”
Oh man. That is all kinds of gross. “Were you specialized in janitorial work or something?”
“I was a combat custodian.”
Blood rushes to my face in a dizzying wave. I didn’t just mock his work, did I? I guess someone would have to—
“You are easily the most gullible person I have ever met in my life. We took turns stirring the shit drum, Elena. Nobody wants to do that.”
“Oh.” My face burns even more intensely. “That is not cool!”
Vincent clicks his tongue and shakes his head, muttering combat custodian under his breath, distracted by whatever he’s looking for under the brush. Somehow, I get the feeling it’s going to be a longer trip than I realized. “Here we go.”
He pushes a mess of leafy vines aside at the base of a massive tree to reveal an olive-green backpack. A big one.
“You’re telling me you come back to this same spot every night?”
“I don’t recall saying that, no.” He rifles through the pack to check everything before hiking it up on his shoulders. “I did say I stay here—just not every night. Sometimes I crash at one of the so-called homeless camps the media are so fond of highlighting. ‘Course that’s all underwater now.”
“Don’t you guys have shelters down here?”
“Used to.”
“What about, like, community events?” I scramble to come up with an option he might’ve overlooked. “Or churches, or organizations, or—”
“Elena, I’m fine.”
Yeah, and Brent said he was fine with a lot of things, too… until he wasn’t. “You said no pussyfooting, so I’m just going to lay it out there. Are you too proud to get help, or what?”
“Why would I actively avoid getting my life together?”
“Why would you answer my question with a question?”
He pulls out his water bottle from breakfast and takes a long swig. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“C’mon…” I nudge him as we edge back toward the trail. “What does it matter out here? Who am I going to tell?”
“It’s not some big secret.” He sidesteps my chummy gesture. “I just don’t belong in places like that.”
“Because… ?
“Because I’m just… out here. I’m not reduced to begging lest I starve to death tomorrow. I just don’t have a lot of material shit anymore.”
“Ohhh, so this was an intentional move. You wanted to become a nomadic pickpocket. Got it.” I can dish sarcasm right back at ya, pal.
Vincent stops again and jerks his head back and forth. “Is this an intervention? Are people about to drop out of the trees with heartfelt letters? Because it’s starting to feel that way.”
I open my mouth to fire a comeback, but think better of it. This is his life we’re talking about. He doesn’t deserve to get lectured by some woman he met yesterday. “Sorry…”
We keep going, and the conversation fades into uneasy silence. It feels like I’m always in situations like this, trying to take back too many words. I may as well try to cram toothpaste back in its tube. It never works.
Maybe I am a nag.
And melodramatic.
And needy.
And fa—
“You enjoy picking scabs, don’t you?” Vincent startles me.
“What?”
“You mean well—you want to check on the wound—but you end up exposing it again.” He wipes his brow with his shirt, revealing the slightest glimpse of skin. “It’s not a bad quality, per se. You just don’t know how to harness all of that… enthusiasm.”
Half of me wants to scoff at his know-it-all assessment, but the other half is ready to jump him romcom style. When was the last time someone gave me the benefit of the doubt? Hell, when was the last time I believed it?
He keeps walking like he didn’t just shift my whole worldview with an observation.
“So, where to now?” I ask, eager for a subject change.
“A klick south of here, I’ve got a weapon cache in a hollow. Then it’s on down to 26.”
A cache? I scramble to match his pace. That sounds like serious business. “Are there wild animals around here?”
“Yeah,” he tilts his chin down the road, “humans.”
I let that soak in for a moment before I attempt a reply. “Okay, just to be clear, the weapons are for defense, right? We’re not going to mug people or turn into cannibals or—”
“Yes, Elena, my ultimate goal is for us to become cannibals.”
I recognize that tone now. His sarcasm won’t go under my radar. “Har, har, har.”
“To answer your questions,” he goes on, “yes, we should be able to defend ourselves. Like I said back at the house, people are going to get desperate. As for animals, we’ve got typical forest dwellers. Mountain lions, black bears, deer, coyotes, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, that sort of thing.” No biggie. Just things that could eat my face off… minus the deer. “Anything else?”
“Elk? Owls?” He pauses for a second to think. “Raccoons? I don’t know.”
Maybe I should’ve given the decision to trek across the wilderness for thirty hours more thought. In my mind, we would just be hiking alongside the highway, keeping an eye out for surviving structures. Speaking of which, do they let people sleep at rest stops? It seems a bit outside of their descriptive nature, but hey, desperate times. I could make do with a bench.
We walk in companionable silence for a while, though I note Vincent sneaks a glance at me every now and then. Probably to make sure I’m still breathing, since I’ve done my best to keep from babbling for the past fifteen minutes. My gift to him.
He shouldn’t get used to it.
Once we finally reach the hollow, it’s not as impressive as I pictured. When someone says weapon cache, I picture an armory. What he has squirreled away in this tree comprises a sem
iautomatic, a revolver, and a few knives of varying sizes. “Dibs on the Taurus.”
Vincent freezes, bent halfway into the tree, and turns to give me the eye. “Dibs on nothing. You can hold a knife.”
“Aww, come on. I know how to use it.”
“It’s not like video games,” he lectures me as he pulls out the revolver. “You don’t just point it and, bang bang, the bad guy’s dead.”
You gorgeous, cheeky bastard.
“I don’t know about that,” I say, taking it from his hands. “It’s a shrouded hammer, so it’s not like I have to pull anything back.”
I pop the cylinder open, careful to keep it pointed in a safe direction, and push the plunger back. “And look at that, you’re not even using compensator rounds.”
His brows lower. “Compensator rounds?”
“Most guys I know would go with the .357 rounds for the longer casing. You know, compensating for something.”
Vincent facepalms. He actually smacks himself in the forehead. I wish I had my phone to record it. Sadly, it’s with the fishies now.
“That’s sexist,” he informs me as he reaches back into the hollow. “That’d be like me offering you pink grips.”
“You tried to make me hold the knife!” I exclaim, half caught in a smile. “Try again.”
He hands me a kydex clip-on holster and drags out a leather one with a belt loop for his Sig. “Excuse me for being cautious, Ms. I-Explode-and-Yell-Scary-Sounding-Things-in-Spanish. What’d you say back there, anyway? I caught something about milk.”
My cheeks flame as I push the cylinder back into place and clip the gun behind my hip. “I was upset at the time…”
“Oh, it’s that bad?” He straps on his arsenal of knives. “Now I really want to know.”
“Something like… you know what, male goat? Which passes for bastard. I shit in the milk of the whore mother who breastfed you. Get… effed… by a swordfish.”
He blinks.
I study the tree trunk.
“Are you serious?”
“They’re more common in Spain.”
Another pause.
“That is the single greatest thing I’ve heard all day. You have to teach me those sometime.”
As We Know It Page 9
