“No, no. They just want to rent my truck.”
“Rent? That thing would get torn up out there. No way. They’re trying to con you.”
Vincent tenses his jaw, pulling the blanket tighter. “If I were the conniving sort, you think I’d bother asking at all?”
The kid steps up, a couple of inches short, but throwing around a lot more weight. “Hard to say. Can we trust the word of a man parading around naked?”
Maybe I’m defensive of Vincent, but for shit’s sake. The truck is twenty years old. Do rentals really come at that much of a premium during emergencies?
“So I’ll leave collateral.”
“Leave your girlfriend.”
The old woman elbows him in the ribs. “Danny!”
“Well?” The kid gestures wide. “He’d have to come back if he left her.”
“Forget it.” Vincent’s voice takes on an eerie chill. “Plenty of other vehicles here. I’m sure someone’s willing to deal.”
Before the kid can argue, Vincent shoves free of the blanket and stalks toward the debris, offering a respectful nod en route. “Ma’am.”
There is an inhuman level of confidence in that strut, brazenly crossing the parking lot without anything on. Muscles contract, tan lines reveal themselves, and he doesn’t miss a step. Not a single one.
We’re all left staring.
I would’ve stayed here if that meant him finding his family sooner—anything to get that weight off his shoulders—but I get why the proposal set him off. After all we’ve been through, the last thing we need is some punk-ass kid writing me off as collateral. Cerdo machista…
Still, if Vincent thought we needed this particular truck, it had to be for a good reason. Maybe if I reason with the grandmother, take a moment to explain the situation, she’ll come around to our side. Or maybe her grandson will say something that gets him throat punched. Who knows. The point is, I’ve got to try. I’ve got to pull my weight in this partnership somehow.
For the first time in days, I twist my ring in worry.
Danny’s beady eyes catch the movement like a hawk, and his brows crumple. He’s probably still mourning the loss of his delusions of engagement grandeur. If you ask me, ring or not, the answer should be the same either way.
Ring or not…
My eyes widen. “Would you sell it?”
The older woman turns to me with confusion etched into her features. “The truck? I’m really not sure if I’d feel comfortable…”
I tug until my once-perfect, self-funded symbol of love slips free of my finger. A dazzling half-carat diamond in the center, weighted by another carat of glittering accents along the frame and band. Why? Because I deserved it. Because putting up with Brent’s torment for years had at least afforded me that indulgence. But now… now I don’t feel anything when I look at it.
“I’ll give you this,” I tell them, holding it out in my palm. “It’s valued at upwards of six thousand dollars. That should be more than enough for the truck.”
“But…”
“Go ahead. You have more use for it than I do.”
“But your husband…” she trails off again.
“Grandma!” Danny hisses, raising his brows.
Behind them, all I hear are grunts and heaves, scrapes and slams. Bit by bit, Vincent is recovering enough of our stuff for us to travel. I just hope I can hold up my end.
“I don’t have a title or anything,” she warns.
“What about me?” a woman lying out on the pavement yells, clearly strung out on something. “I accidentally left my eight-year-old kid at home when the family left for vacation.”
Is she seriously trying this?
“Now he’s havin’ to protect the house all by himself,” she goes on in a pathetic whine, tiptoeing her fingers across the uneven grade. “Probably has burglars lurkin’ around. And there’s this creepy neighbor who’s always lookin’ up at the house with a shovel…”
“That’s the plot of Home Alone!” I yell, shooing her with the end of the blanket. “Get out of here!”
Desperation is leaking into people’s brains, and I don’t have time for it. “The ring for the truck. I don’t care about the title. Say it was stolen. I just need to know now.”
“Yes,” Danny answers for her.
She gives him a wary side-glance and sighs. “All right, but I think you’re getting the bum end of the deal.”
“I’m used to it,” I assure her, as I trade my engagement ring for a mid-90s Toyota—another thing I never thought I’d do on my vacation. “I hope she says yes.”
Danny, visibly caught off guard, rubs the back of his head and looks away. “Thanks…”
While they go to clear out her personal belongings, I pad my way over to Vincent. He’s got his jeans, holster, one sock, and both boots back on. By his feet, I see his wadded up shirt, my bra and panties, and Naveen’s shoes.
I nod toward them, giving up on the whole notion of hiding my Spanx. “Those for me?”
“Yeah, I haven’t come across your…” He trails off as he notices the keys in my hand. “What did you do?”
❇ ❇ ❇
This ride is the closest I’ll ever get to being in a low-speed chase.
We’re only on the road outside of the complex, but we’ve already woven through a dozen abandoned cars and found more stable traction in the grass skirting the pavement. Vincent’s being careful, sure, but he’s got a lot more faith in this old truck than I would my rental—which has gone to live with Ariel under the sea.
Laugh or cry…
“I can’t believe you did that,” Vincent mutters for the hundredth time, strumming his thumbs on the worn steering wheel. “I mean, I know you’re not engaged anymore, but that was…”
“Let’s just focus on getting to Por—glass!”
He swerves to avoid a fallen light, barely misses a downed power line, and zigzags across the intersection. It’s hard to see anymore. With all of the fires burning everywhere, a sort of apocalyptic fog has descended over the area. “Better than walking, right?”
I nod but don’t dare speak, because little does he know, my concentration is helping him drive. As shotgun, it’s my job to white-knuckle the “oh shit” handlebar and watch for obstacles.
“I used to have a Tacoma,” he declares after a few minutes of maneuvering over grassy banks and broken curbs, his nose twitching at the lingering scent of essential oils. “These things are workhorses.”
Well, that explains why he didn’t set up an impromptu chop shop. “Think it can get us downtown?”
“Only if you find us some monster truck tires to go over pileups on the outskirts.”
I make a face and tug at my borrowed t-shirt. My palms itch like crazy. I’m hoping that means they’re healing under the bandages, but who knows. Given our luck, they’re probably infected with some kind of zombie virus.
We found my jacket, but my shirt and leggings had the misfortune of breaking a huge antenna’s fall. He fit my unholstered revolver in the bag, but the clothes were a loss. It was either leave them there or cut them free. I chose the option that left Vincent shirtless.
“Hear that?” he asks, interrupting the start of what could’ve been a great daydream.
“What?”
He cranks his window down, and the hum of voices is more apparent.
“Another gathering point?” I crane my neck, trying to spot tents and blankets amidst the upcoming storefronts.
“Tanasbourne Town Center. We’re going to have to cut through here. Make sure your door is locked.”
Great. Now I’m really picturing zombies.
We slowly navigate the bumps and dips in the intersection, and then swing a wide right by a pizza place I’d consider breaking into if we were on foot. Just the thought of food—a warm, honest-to-goodness meal—would be enough to send me over the edge. I can almost smell it. My brain tricks my mouth into watering.
The gnawing pain in my stomach has been a constant for the p
ast couple of days, but now that we’re between life-threatening distractions, it’s all I can concentrate on. You’d think I’d have enough reserves to go without for a while, but no. I’m too weak to manage even a little fasting.
Vincent tilts his head toward the crowd pushing and shoving outside of a mattress store with broken windows. “Look at those dipshits.”
Says the man driving over cracked sidewalks. “Desperate times.”
“Heh.”
The cars sitting at a standstill are thicker here, and without much grass, it’s harder to find ways around. Yet, somehow, we manage another turn without blowing a tire or hitting anything—unless you count the Neon that Vincent “tapped” to make room.
Of course, the food smell is stronger here. It keeps wafting in with tendrils of smoke through our cracked window, taunting us to abandon the truck in primal search of meat.
“That’s awful,” he mutters, wiping at his nose with the back of his arm before cranking the window back up. “Sorry, I’d go around it if I could, but we can’t afford detours.”
I shrug. “It’s not like it smells bad.”
He shoots me a look across his shoulder. “Are you serious?”
“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers.”
Disgust carves deep, twisted lines into his expression. “Do you know what that is?”
When I shake my head no, too tired to muster a defense, he mutters something about the ignorance of innocence. “Elena, that’s burnt flesh.”
“What?”
“Look.” He gestures hard through the windshield, toward blackened buildings and lingering smoke. “We’re coming up on a scorch zone.”
But I thought…”Pull over!”
CHAPTER 19
When I first laid eyes on Vincent, I never thought he’d end up holding my hair while I dry heaved.
A man runs past on the twisted sidewalk, part of the ambient chaos we’ve wandered into, but his steps slow to a trot. He backtracks. “You guys need help?”
I look up to wave him off. “No, sorry. I just got a little nauseated.”
He nods, and the braided beads at his neck clank together. “Where ya headed?”
“Portland.” I wipe my mouth, and brace myself on the truck as I stand.
His lips tug down at that. “I just came from that direction. You don’t wanna be near the city right now.”
I give him a weak smile. “We don’t have much of a choice. We’re looking for someone there.”
“Well, first thing you ought to do is find a BEECN.”
“A what?”
“A Basic Earthquake Emergency Communication Node. PBEM’s got like forty-eight radio hubs set up.”
Huh?
“PBEM is Portland’s Bureau of Emergency Management,” he goes on. “Once you find yourselves a red and white tent, you’ll be able to get help from city employees or a NET.”
“Who’s Annette?”
“No. I’m sayin’ N-E-T. Neighborhood Emergency Team.”
I draw in a deep breath through my nose and hold out a hand. “Look, I appreciate the help, but I’m about to LMS-double-I-H-double-A.”
“Say what now?”
“Lose my shit if I hear another acronym.”
He blinks, and for a moment, I regret my exhaustion-fueled attempt at humor. Then he cracks a grin and claps his hands together. “Oh, shoot! You went there. I was like, ‘What’s she sayin’?’ Hah! That is what they’re called, though. Last one I saw was Hamilton Park.”
“What about you?” Vincent asks, his shoulders relaxed from their usual starch rigidity. “Can we help you get somewhere? We’ve got wheels as far as they can take us.”
“Nah, man.” The guy shakes his head. “Headin’ the opposite direction. Appreciated, though. You two be careful.”
“You too.”
They clasp hands and give a quick shake before parting ways. Meanwhile, I’m tearing up and waving like a moron, because it’s been that long since we’ve had a nice, genuine conversation with someone. How sad is that?
Vincent presses a quick kiss to my forehead and makes his way back around the truck. “Told you we’d end up cannibals.”
“Too soon!” I shout back as I get in, slamming the door behind me. The fact that I got to such a deliriously starving state is concerning in and of itself. But to let that need override my senses… ugh.
Life settles back into the slow lane after that, moving about the same pace as if we were walking. My grateful legs stretch out and bump the backpack someone had second thoughts about leaving. Apparently, engaging with Danny and his grandmother compromised our little hidey-hole. I think he’s just reluctant to give up his sleepy juice.
As we creep through the shopping district, the scent turns vile, burrowing its way in through the vents. I cover my face with his t-shirt, afraid to look anywhere but forward. Once I get an image in my head, it stays there. Forever. That’s why I get so mad at horror movie commercials.
“I’ve heard about those communication hubs,” Vincent admits in a low voice, breaking the silence. “I didn’t know the tent colors, though. That helps.”
“Yeah.”
We’re supposed to have a similar setup in Seattle. They talked about it after that massive drill last summer, but I wrote it off as an inconvenience to my commute. I wouldn’t know the first thing about where to go or what to do, even if I’d been in the comfort of my own home.
I’m such a mess.
Vincent clears his throat. “So, uh, you anxious to get a decent night’s sleep?”
“What? In the truck?”
He nods from the corner of my eye. “Yeah, at least we can lock ourselves in. Then we can hoof it the rest of the way in the morning.”
“I thought you wanted to get there by tonight?”
“It’s not like a few hours’ delay is going to change anything. Either he’s there or he’s not.”
“You don’t think you’re putting it off because you’re nervous?”
A few days ago, that would’ve earned me a death stare and the silent treatment, but we’re both too out of it to guard our boundaries. For the most part.
“Where’d you get your degree again?” he asks. “The Frasier Crane School of Psychiatry?”
“Was that a jab at Seattle or my analysis?”
“Both.”
I grumble under my breath until it dawns on me what he’s doing. This distraction is the only thing keeping me from…
I look out the window. Why did I look out the window?
The buildings along his side of the street have been reduced to scorched frames with soot tracked onto the asphalt. Charred corpses have been laid in parking lots still packed with cars. Five days after the quake, enough people have been through here to at least cover the victims, but most newspapers and tarps have blown off. They’re all lying tattered in the street.
My tear ducts burn, barren of tears, leaving nothing but a trembling swell in my chest.
Indistinguishable bits of bloodied flesh, once vital and whole, have been plastered to the passing scene. Thrown atop a dumpster, hanging from a fence. My breath hitches and returns in sharp gasps.
I’ll never unsee this.
Ever.
Vincent reaches over, blindly pressing a hand to my racing heart. “Don’t look. Put your head between your knees and draw deep breaths.”
“But this… how did an earthquake… ?”
“Damaged pipes leak gas.”
“So this is blast damage?”
He nods and moves his hand to the back of my head, gently urging me down. “Come on.”
“I-I never thought it would be this… graphic,” I admit, bending over.
“Things like this always are.”
“Should you be seeing it?” I ask. “I mean, isn’t it a trigger?”
Silence—on his part, at least. The engine keeps an irregular hum above the tires’ struggle.
I’m about to change the subject when he whispers, “We have to keep going to
get past it.”
So we do.
Another hour or two finds us at the end of the line, by a school in Beaverton and not nearly as far along as I’d hoped.
Traffic, though statuesque, is just too dense to get around, and the banks are lined with too much brush to plow through. He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans forward, eyeing the dusky sunset through a fresh layer of grit. “We’ll have to hoof it from here. Want to catch some shut-eye first?”
I shake my head. My nerves are still frayed. There’s no way I’m sleeping until my body gives up and shuts down on me. “If we start walking, we can at least make it to one of those BEECNs before nightfall, right?”
Vincent gives me a once-over and not in the way he did in the bushes. “You sure you can make it?”
“Are you?”
He snorts under his breath and cracks the door. “Point taken. Let’s load up.”
We make sure to grab the essentials this time. The cash goes in his pocket, along with some medical supplies, and a few spare rounds. Since I’m lacking in pockets, sans pants, I stuff a couple of bandages in my shoes and stash the flashlight with some wadded up toilet paper in my bra.
On my wrist, the jumbo roll of duct tape becomes summer’s latest fashion accessory. According to Vincent, you can make slings and ropes and pretty much anything you could ever need out of it. Everything else is getting hidden. Where, I don’t know, but it’s getting hidden.
Vincent takes a peek under the truck and whistles. “We did a number on the undercarriage.”
I don’t want to hear it. My own undercarriage is aching after hours of bumping along cragged terrain, trying to avoid power lines. Again, with no pants. I’m as sore as if we’d ridden bareback. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Fine,” he grunts, hefting the pack. “How about PBEM isn’t an acronym; it’s just an abbreviation.”
“Huh?”
“You said you were going to lose your shit if you heard another acronym, which made sense with NET and BEECN, but PBEM can’t be pronounced like a word.”
“Are you serious right now?”
He crosses his arms in a tight flex over his chest, defensive. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
As We Know It Page 17
