“Got it.” Logan reads my body language and jogs over to it, dragging the heavy thing to us.
I scan our spray paint selection a few shelves away. It has a nice dent in it, thanks to Logan, but I find a can of dark red, which will do quite nicely. I shake the can for a minute, knock the cap off on a nearby shelf, then spray the whole head red.
I stand behind her, position my hands over hers where they should be on the grip, then tap her left foot. “Move this one out a bit. You want to be balanced on your feet so you don’t get knocked backwards.” I plant my feet, slap my knees. “See how my knees are slightly bent?”
She gives me a nod, copying me.
“Good job,” Logan says.
“Anywhere on the head, baby, okay?” I say. “That’s what you’re aiming for. Show us how to use that new magic sword of yours.”
She points to herself, a questioning furrow in her brow.
“Yep, it’s yours now. What’s a superhero without her magic sword?”
She smiles, clutches its grip tighter.
“So show us whatcha got, Black Mistress,” Logan says with a wink.
She steadies herself, positioning her feet the way I showed her, a slight bounce to her knees, then she gives the blade a weak swing, barely rocking the figure on its stand.
“That was good,” I say. “Now give it a running start, like I showed you.”
Nervous and shaking, she backs up, then glances to me for approval. I give her a thumbs-up, and she darts through the shadowy aisle toward her prey. When she gets near it, she swings the blade, knocking the mannequin over backwards and giving it a nice ding in its side. She’s short. Aiming for the head is going to be a problem.
“That was awesome.” I clap for her, and Logan joins me.
“Heck, yeah,” Logan says. “Good job, little sister. We need to aim a little higher, though, okay?”
The fires of adrenaline burn in her eyes. I crouch and put my hand over her heart. “You feel that? That’s your magic power. The more you use it, the stronger it gets, okay? But to get to that point, you have to push through the fear. Push away that voice that tells you to cower. Push through it, and you become a warrior.”
I take her by the shoulders and lead her to the same spot on the tile, then I cross the aisle and pick up the target. “Try again. This time, I want you to jump before you strike. You’re short, so to get to the head, you need some air. Think you can try it?”
She swallows hard and grips the blade, holding it to the side, then she takes off toward the faux assailant and leaps, swinging the katana and clearing the plastic head clean from its shoulders. Stunned, she spins around, afraid at first because she broke the thing. But Logan and I rush to her and pick her up, cheering for her quietly.
“That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.” Logan crouches in front of her to check out her new toy. “That’s one badass blade.” She grins again as he kisses her cheek. “And you’re one badass little girl.”
“Yes, you are.” I kiss her forehead. “And you can do this. You’re ready.”
Thirty-Two
Missy freezes up when we get to the window. I wait atop the propane cabinet, the AR-15 Gideon traded Logan strapped to my back. I grip her hand as she trembles on the other side of the windowsill.
“Come on, little sister,” Logan sweet-talks. “You can do this. You’ve gotta hand over the bear, though.”
She gives her head a frantic shake, clutching her bear.
“You can’t use your magic sword if you have her, sweetheart.” I hold out a hand. “We’ll just put her away so she’s safe while we travel, okay? I’ll tuck her into one of my bags. Do you think she’d like to ride in the black-and-red one? That one’s pretty cool, right?”
She doesn’t want to fall for my ploy, but I coax the bear out from under her arm anyway, tucking it into the duffel bag slung on my shoulder.
“You’re so brave.” I give her a hug and inspect the night sky, the city beneath it. When I’m positive we’re in the clear, I give her a gentle tug. She resists at first, but gives in, whimpering as she crawls.
“I’ll go first so I can help you.” I release her hand and hop from the cabinet, scanning the vicinity again. A body stumbles down the street in our direction, and though I know it’s not a direct threat, it’s enough to keep Missy on that propane tank for a few hours, at least.
“Want me to take care of it?” Logan asks.
“No, it’s just one. I got it.” I hold my hand up to Missy. “May I borrow your magic sword? It’s quieter than my gun so it won’t attract more of them.”
She’s clenched tight, legs folded up to her chest, with her cloak wrapped around her. Only the cream skin of her face shows. But she wills herself to move and unsheathes it, and I hop up to grab it from her.
“Thank you. I’ll be right back.”
“You sure you got this?” Logan asks me.
I give him a look.
“Okay, you got this.”
I start off into the shadows of the city street toward the living corpse. It was somebody’s grandpa once. Beige, button-down cardigan over white Polo, and tan slacks, gray hair plastered to the portion of his face that’s missing. Missy’s watching, so I approach it the way I taught her, with a running start. I leap and swing, sending the dead old man’s head rolling.
When I follow its path down the street, something catches my eye—a white van, and in the same direction Logan had seen the one travel yesterday. I wonder if it’s the same one . . . Either way, it’s a van, and it has the room we need for our supplies, half of which will be our offering for entrance into the Tunnels.
I jog back to the CVS where Logan crawls through the store window again, returning a few seconds later holding something long and skinny. He sits beside Missy on top of the propane cabinet, M16 held loosely in one hand, and when I get to them, I make out the spear in his other. “Nice work,” he says.
“Thanks. Where’d that come from?”
“I forgot I hid it behind the counter. Made it a few weeks ago from a mop handle.”
“That works. Hey, there’s a white van over there. It may be the same one from yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah?” He drifts to thought for a second before returning his focus to me. “You know, those other two vehicles could’ve been chasing it. Maybe they cornered whoever it was and killed them, or apprehended them.”
I stretch my neck, feeling the tightness in my shoulder and all my muscles now, the achiness in my bones, and burning of my wounds. “We need to go check it out. It has the room we need for supplies. If it works, we can bring it here and spray paint it. Do we have enough dark spray paint?”
“Yeah. Funny you should say that. It’s the exact reason I saved the black, and the other dark colors, for last.”
“Great minds.”
“Tru dat.” He hops down and gives me a pat on the ass. “So let’s hope that bitch drives.”
“Come on, Missy.” I hold my hands up to her, and she shakes her head, points to Logan.
“Okay, little sister.” He takes my place in front of her, and she hesitates for a second before jumping into his open arms. When he tries to put her down, though, she clings to him, and he surprises me by removing her with gentle force.
“No,” he says. “You can’t do this. You have to be brave, and strong, and walk on your own two feet, got it?”
On the verge of tears, she nods.
“You have this, remember?” I hand her the katana, which she pins in two fists and a death-grip. “Good girl. Now let’s move.”
We start off with Missy between us, and I show her how to sheathe her blade. Logan and I hold our firearms at the ready as we move through the darkest parts of the street. Missy strides in time with us, wrapped up in her cloak, and I’m happy I made it for her. She’s a brave girl who just needed some safety and direction . . . and a family. That, I can relate to.
When we get to the end of the block, past the headless old man corpse, Missy shudders
between us. I lay a hand on her shoulder for a moment before noise behind us makes us spin around, weapons raised to shoot. I almost squeeze the trigger, but stop myself in time. A stray, brown dog trots toward us, skin and bones. He wags his tail when he sees us, then picks up his pace.
“Here, boy.” Logan squats to greet him, and he’s met by a lick to the hand and face. “Good boy.”
“He’s part chocolate Lab,” I say.
“Yup.” Logan stands and gives him a once-over. “I used to have a Lab.”
“Well . . . what do we do with him?”
He tugs at his hair before heaving a sigh. “I guess let’s see if he’ll follow us. There’s plenty of dog food at the store. Come on, boy.” He pats his thigh, and the dog follows.
As he trails us, Missy keeps checking to make sure he’s still behind us. As if the whole scary, broken world has disappeared in light of this new, furry traveling companion. My thoughts spin to the many dark ways this could end, but for now, he’s helping us get to where we need to go by keeping her distracted. Now is what’s important.
The van comes into view, driver’s side door standing wide open. When we get closer and find it empty, keys still dangling from the ignition, I’m careful not to celebrate too soon. If something’s too good to be true, it probably is.
“What if it’s a trap?” I whisper, cold with dread and panic.
Logan stops in his tracks, scopes the area. “You really think that could be a possibility?”
I consider it a moment longer, envisioning the entire scenario in my mind. “I guess not,” I finally say.
“We’ll have to take our chances.” He shines his flashlight in the empty cab and rear space one more time before lifting Missy inside. “Come on, boy.” He pats the seat, and the dog hops up to the floorboard. Logan gives his hindquarters a tap to move him forward, and he takes his place in the space at Missy’s feet. I catch the hint of a smile on her face, and it makes me grin, too.
I climb in and sit next to Missy, then Logan takes the driver’s seat and closes the door. With one turn of the key, the van starts up and the AC comes on, blowing the stench of urine and feces around us.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Logan cringes.
This has to be one of the vans they used to collect children and other survivors. The poor things must’ve been so scared. Who knows how long they were left in here.
I move to the middle of the long seat to allow the dog a spot between Missy and me. He hops up, turns around in the seat once, then sits facing outward like the rest of us.
“He’s ready to ride.” Logan laughs. “I am, too. Point me in the direction of your wreckage.”
We take a left on the next street, follow it down past the SunFresh Market I passed going sixty, then we take another left and there it is, hugging a splintered telephone pole. Beside the totaled Blazer, and even more upsetting, is my shattered CD player. Let’s hope some of the music is okay, at least.
“Sweet baby Jesus, how the fuck are you not dead?” Logan parks beside the Blazer and lets the van idle. “Missy, I’m gonna get out with Grace. Your new friend will be here to keep you company.”
I climb out through the driver’s side door behind Logan, scoping the area, the skies. All clear.
“What are we looking for?” Logan asks, peeking through the busted side window.
“My bag, a katana, a few other weapons.”
“Got it.” He climbs the side of the Blazer that now faces the sky, then yanks up on the door handle, pushing the door until it flops open. He slips into the back seat, and a few seconds later, my bag appears. I take it from him, unzip it, and look inside. Two of the three bottles of wine are nothing but purple liquid and green splinters of glass all over everything else. A couple of the CD cases are cracked . . . I hope my CDs are okay. I can always find another CD player somewhere . . . maybe.
“Heads up.” Logan passes me the ice cream shop shotgun, then an AK, and the two ARs. He hops out with the second katana on his back, then jumps to the ground at my feet. “That was everything I could see. Is that it?”
“Yeah . . . I think so.”
He puts a finger to his lips, then springs into the darkness behind me. A group of them ambles toward us, fast, and Logan takes them out ninja-style, complete with the karate jumps and spins. It makes me giggle, because it was so unexpected. And when the shock of his unsung skills passes, and he’s panting, slipping that katana in its sheath like he’s done it a thousand times, I tremble with desire. Something about watching him and Gideon fight these things turns me on so much and I don’t know why. Maybe I really am that twisted. Or maybe it’s because I know they’ll survive this.
“That was sexy as hell,” I tell him when he returns to me.
“Really?” He wipes sweat from his brow, removes the katana from his back and hands it to me.
“Oh no, that’s yours now. You’ve earned it. I need to see more of that, goddamn.”
He straps the katana on himself again, then leans forward to kiss me. “I’m a third-degree black belt.”
“You are? For real?”
“Yeah. I stopped for a few years, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t all come rushing back to me when the shit hit the fan.”
“I can imagine. And I feel safer already.”
He gives my butt a playful slap. “I won’t let anything happen to this fine ass, I promise.” He moves closer, pressing his groin against me. “I’ll need some more of you real soon.”
Thirty-Three
Despite the rekindled blaze between Logan and me, we load onto the van again with my salvaged possessions. As we start down the road toward the CVS, I move closer to him, and he caresses my upper thigh. When we arrive in seconds, and I’m disappointed because I don’t want him to stop touching me, I’m reminded of how much faster it is to travel in a vehicle. I’m so used to traveling on foot now . . .
Logan backs the van up to the front door and kills the ignition. “First, we paint. Missy, you can hide out in here with your new buddy with the doors locked until we get the boards off the doors. You’ll be fine, okay?”
She nods.
“He needs a name.” I give the dog a scratch behind the ears. “How about ‘Buddy’?”
“Fine by me,” says Logan, then he glances over at Missy. “What do you think?”
She grins her approval, hugging Buddy’s neck.
“A’ight,” Logan says with a sigh. “Let’s do this. Honk if there’s trouble, Missy.”
He opens his door and lets me out, then locks the doors behind us and pockets the keys. Missy and Buddy watch as we hurry to the propane cabinet, where he lifts me up. I climb through the window and down the shelves on the other side with relative ease—minus the achy shoulder, muscles, and wounds—now that I’ve done it a few times.
Logan jumps from the windowsill and lands on his feet. “Well, that stung.” He winces, grabs a handful of plastic bags from behind the front counter, then trots off toward the spray paint. “We’ll need as many cans as we can get—all the dark colors we have.”
He hands me half of the bags when we get to the spray paint section. We fill them with seven blacks, five navy blues, four midnight blues, three browns, two maroons, an evergreen, a gun metal, and a mahogany. It’ll be the ugliest ride this side of the Pecos, that’s for sure.
“Hopefully this is enough.” Logan ties his five bags together, I tie my four, and we head toward the front. He fishes out an electric drill from behind the front counter and goes to work unscrewing screws. I find a metal mop and use the handle to pry the boards away from the door frame.
Within minutes, we have the doorway cleared. Missy watches through the front window, relieved, I’m sure, that she can see us again. Buddy’s tongue hangs from his mouth, and when we approach, he wags his tail.
Logan and I shake our first cans of paint. We take both sides of the vehicle and start at the fenders. By the time I finish the driver’s side door, I’m on my fourth can, creating a lovely work of art w
ith various colors. Almost like a post-modern-world Van Gogh meets Pimp My Ride. Nearing the rear of the van, my paint supply is running low, so I spread out my strokes to cover more area. This section may be lighter than the rest.
Logan peeks his head around from the rear of the vehicle. “How you doin’?”
“Getting low.” I point to the two remaining bags that carry eight cans between them.
“I have extra.” He disappears and returns a minute later with one bag. “Two more cans.”
“You finished your whole side and the rear already?”
“Yeah. It ain’t as . . . pretty . . . as yours.” He winks.
“Well, fuck, my bad.” I exaggerate sloppy strokes, “accidentally” spraying a line across his arm.
He glances up at me with mischief in his eyes. “I like you.” He tugs me closer. “You’re fun.”
“So, what I’m hearing you say is that you really do have a spray paint fetish?”
He laughs. “Yeah. I guess I do.” He shakes a can and pops the cap, then we finish the last section together. He bumps me with his hip, and steals a nibble to my neck at one point, and I’m in a weird place of fear and . . .
I shake the thought away. No. There’s no way I could love Logan. I care about him, sure, but it’s not possible to love two people that way simultaneously, is it?
Maybe I’m not the right person for these types of relationships. Not to mention the world around us doesn’t exactly favor them, either. Why do I even try?
Because you’re human, a voice of reason says. And I concede; I’m weak. I’ll do anything for human companionship and comfort. I could be dead tomorrow, and so could they. You only live once . . . and these days, that once could be for a very short time. Better enjoy it while I can. Carpe Diem . . .
Justifying my actions level: Expert.
But if I can manage to make it right in my head, isn’t that better than adding the burden of guilt onto a world full of dead, hungry predators?
Murray's Law Page 17
