by Kate L. Mary
“So we’re in agreement?” Deb asked, looking around.
The other three council members nodded, as did I, and just like that we had a unanimous decision. With the nod of our heads, we had chosen to take three lives.
We waited until after the kids were in bed then took the men to the bank of the Stillwater River on the far side of the settlement. Max was sniveling, begging for his life, but we were unaffected. We’d found the bodies of our own men in a pile by what had once been a place to store canoes. They’d been left to rot like they meant nothing, and if I’d had any doubts in mind about what we were doing before seeing it, they’d been erased by the sight.
Devon had been with them.
At the edge of the river, we forced the men to kneel. They were as silent as three men who were about to be put to death could be, which meant sneers and insults from one, crying from Max, and oddly enough, the occasional prayer murmured under his breath from the third. How he’d gotten mixed up in all this was a mystery, but one he wouldn’t be around long enough to help me solve.
When they were down, I raised my pistol and aimed it first at the head of the man who was praying. It was dark, but once again, the moon was bright, and when he looked up, there was fear in his eyes.
“Forgive me,” he said.
“I’m not in the forgiving mood. Hopefully, for your sake, God is more understanding than I am.”
“I’m going to burn in hell,” he said.
“There’s a good possibility we all will,” I replied, and then pulled the trigger.
The other two men jerked at the sound of the gunshot, and by the time I moved my gun to the second man’s head, his sneers had disappeared.
“Do it,” was all he said.
And I did.
This time, Max didn’t flinch at the gunshot, but he did look up when I moved the gun to him.
“What happened to your wife?” I asked.
Max’s mouth scrunched up and I thought he was going to spit, but all he did was shake his head. “Dead. Horde moved in when we were sleeping. She didn’t get away.” His expression hardened. “It happened three days after you kicked us to the curb.”
“She’s better off dead than she was with you.”
His upper lip curled in disgust, but he didn’t reply.
“Did you suggest coming here so you could get revenge? Did all these people die because we wouldn’t sit back and let you beat your wife?”
“Had to earn my keep.” Max looked down. “You had to earn your way in this group and I didn’t have nothing. No useful skills, no supplies to bring. They woulda kicked me out eventually if I hadn’t done something. So I told them about this place. Told them it would be easy.”
“You piece of shit,” Jessie said from behind me.
I didn’t look her way. “Do you have anything to say before you die?”
Max lifted his gaze, and despite his early sniveling, his eyes flashed with fire. “See you in hell.”
“Maybe,” I said, and then pulled the trigger for the final time that night.
Landon was waiting in bed for me when I got back to the RV. He sat up when I walked in, but didn’t say a word as I stripped off my clothes, or when I crawled into bed at his side, or when he wrapped his arms around me. Instead, he just held me, warming me with his body heat, comforting me with his presence.
After a long time, I finally broke the silence. “I feel responsible.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I could have done more. Revealed myself on the road, come back sooner. I don’t know.”
“They’d still be dead and so would you.”
I shifted so my face was pressed against his chest. “I know, but I can’t help feeling like there was another way. A way to save more people.”
“There wasn’t, and we can’t change what happened. Now we just have to look forward. To focus on healing and getting past this. We have to think about the future.”
“No looking back,” I said as I twisted so I could look him in the eye.
“No looking back,” he replied.
Then he leaned down and covered my lips with his. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close, letting the fact that the man I’d thought I’d lost forever was back in my life to comfort me when nothing else could. Landon was here, and this time I would never let him go.
Thanks for reading! If you’ve enjoyed this book, please consider taking the time to leave a review on Amazon.
Acknowledgments
The setting of this book is my hone town, which, West Milton, OH, and the places I described are real. The old white building that’s used to be a restaurant—which sits empty today—has been there for so long that my 83 year old grandma remembers eating there as a child. The grocery store I mentioned that long ago changed its name to West Milton IGA, but will forever be B&B to me, Fox’s Pizza, and even the optometrist’s office—Dr. Poling, who is my eye doctor still today and whose daughter I graduated from high school with. I also graduated with the daughter of the receptionist, and both of them are huge fans of the Broken World series—if you’re reading this Cheryl and Kim, I added Dr. Poling’s office just for you!
I want to set a full-length novel in West Milton and the surrounding area now that I’m home for good—and I’m working on it—but for the time being this novella will have to do. If you’re from West Milton and you’re reading this: I’ll meet you at the West Milton Park when the zombie apocalypse hits for real!
Thanks to Courtnee McGrew who read No Looking Back for me in search of typos, and a very special thank you to Julie Dewey, fellow member of the Milton-Union High School Class of 1998, who also helped me out. I can’t actually remember when I first met Julie—sometime in elementary school—but I’ve known her pretty much as long as I can remember and I’m humbled by what a huge supporter she’s been of my writing from day one. Thanks for all the help and for sharing my work with others. (And when did we get so old?)
Broken World
Chapter One
The car sputters when I maneuver it into a space, but it doesn’t die. Not yet, anyway. The small orange light screams at me from the dashboard—check engine. Ten hours, that’s how long I’ve been on the road. I didn’t really believe this piece of shit would make it all the way to California, but I’d hoped it would at least get me halfway there.
I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my forehead on the steering wheel, right between my clenched fists. The orange words dance across the back of my eyelids. Even with my eyes closed I can’t escape them. They taunt me. Check engine. They may as well be you failed. That’s what it feels like.
I jerk the keys out of the ignition and grab my travel papers off the dashboard, shoving them both in my purse. Leaving the papers behind would get my car broken into for sure, plus I’ll need them if I run into a cop. If my papers get stolen, I’ll be stranded.
The diner is the type of place I would normally avoid. It’s nothing more than a truck stop really, probably fifty years old or more. I’m sure the walls are coated in grease, and the bathrooms most likely haven’t been cleaned well since the late eighties. It’s full of truckers and white trash. People who remind me of the life I ran from. But I don’t have a choice. I have to pee, and this is the only route open that leads to California.
The inside is exactly the way I imagined it. Old booths with cracked seats covered in duct tape, the walls brown and grimy. The grease invades my pores and nostrils the second I step in. It goes down into my lungs and coats them in a thick, oily film. I want to get in and out of this place as fast as possible.
I’ve only taken two steps when a man stops me. He’s big and round, and his face is red and sweaty. The pits of his shirt are stained an ugly yellow-brown color that smells as bad as it looks. Even over the grease and cigarettes his pungent odor burns my nostrils. He also has a gun strapped to his chest.
“Papers.” He holds his hand out expectantly. His face is hard.
My heart pounds as I pull the papers ou
t of my purse and hesitantly hand them to the man. Hopefully, he actually works here and he’s not robbing me. I hold my breath while he slowly unfolds them, then exhale when his eyes narrow on the fine print. His mouth is pulled into a tight line when he nods.
He folds the papers in half, snapping his fingers across the crease before handing them back. “Welcome.” It sounds more like a death sentence than a welcome.
I return his tense smile and shove the papers back in my purse. “Where’s the bathroom?”
He tilts his head to the right, but doesn’t say a word. I nod and head in the direction he indicated, keeping my eyes down, trying not to meet anyone’s gaze. I don’t need to look at the people to know what expressions they wear. It’s the same everywhere. Fear, frustration, hopelessness, and loss. It’s how things have been since martial law was declared six weeks ago. And I’m tired of it. I have my own worries. I don’t want to see the despair in other people’s eyes, don’t want to focus on anyone else’s problems.
The bathroom is empty, thankfully, and just as dirty as I imagined it would be. I squat over the toilet, trying my best not to touch the seat. The pressure in my bladder is agonizing. I’d started to think I was going to have to pee on the side of the road.
A sigh of relief whooshes out of me when I’ve finally relieved myself. I pull up my skinny jeans and head out to wash my hands. The mirror hanging above the sink is cracked and filmy. I can’t make anything out other than my tangled blonde hair. I work my fingers through the knots and look away from the mirror. Doesn’t matter how I look. There won’t be anyone to impress on this trip.
I wash my hands and shake them dry before heading back out into the diner. No way am I eating here. It would be a waste of time. Plus, I have no desire to sit and breathe in this grease-filled air. But coffee is a must. I want to make it at least another four hours before pulling over for the night.
A woman in her fifties stands behind the register. She wears the same uniform as the other waitresses: orange dress with short sleeves and an apron that probably used to be white. The entire thing is now splattered with food and grease, old and worn just like she is. Her hair is short and jet black, the kind of color that only comes from a bottle, and the creases on her face are so deep they’re probably just as full of grease as the walls of the diner. Her arms cross over her chest and she shakes her head, frowning at the man in front of her.
“Please, I’m begging you. I was on a business trip when this all started. I’ve been stranded for weeks trying to get home to my family. I’ve spent every last penny I had on my physical and a car. I’m starving.” His voice is desperate, begging. Same story, different person.
“No credit,” the woman says. She won’t budge. Why would she? People like her are making a killing off travelers. A few weeks ago, she probably barely made enough money to live on. And now…well, if this all blows over, she’ll be comfortable.
The man pleads for a bit longer and I shift from foot to foot, waiting for him to get the point. I should have some sympathy for him. I should. But if I felt bad for every person I passed who was desperate and running out of time…if I did that, I wouldn’t be able to keep going. I’d sit down on the floor right here in the middle of this diner and never move again.
The television mounted on the wall catches my eye, and I tune the man out. It’s an old tube TV and the reception is awful, but the news is on. Maybe there will be an update on the virus.
“…travelers are advised to display their papers at all times and to keep to approved routes. Anyone who is found traveling on closed highways or without papers will be arrested immediately and held until martial law has been lifted.
In local news, police are still on the lookout for two men responsible for robbing several convenience stores in the St. Louis area. They are described as two white males in their mid- to late-twenties and were last seen traveling in a dark blue SUV. They are considered armed and dangerous…”
“That’s it,” the woman at the counter says, making me jump. She nods to the armed man at the door, then turns to me. I guess she finally got tired of listening to the desperate man. “What can I get you?”
Her gaze holds mine. Both of us avoid looking at the man as he’s dragged from the diner. Neither one of us bats an eye when he screams for mercy. Begs for help. My throat constricts, burning a little at his cries. But I can’t give in.
“Coffee,” I say. “To go.”
She nods and turns away, not even bothering to ask me if I have cash. She shouldn’t have to. Not with the giant sign over the register that says Cash Only, and not after the screaming man was ripped from the building.
I lean against the counter and close my eyes for a second. My shoulders slump and my limbs feel weighed down, like they’re made of lead. I feel a hundred years old, not twenty.
When I open my eyes, my gaze locks with a man a few booths away. Everything about him screams redneck. From his flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal his wifebeater and beer belly, to the bulge in his lower lip. His upper lip curls and his eyes go over my pin-up body. He nods in approval and raises an eyebrow. He’s in his thirties, probably getting close to forty, and he’s hard. Like he’s been dealt a rough life and didn’t have an issue giving some back. I’ve known men like him. Hell, I’ve dated men like him.
There’s another man sitting at the table with him, but his back is to me so I can’t tell what he looks like. Probably more of the same. The first man grins and picks up a soda can, spitting into it. My stomach churns. He gives me the creeps.
I turn away when the waitress comes back carrying a cup of coffee. “That’ll be five bucks.”
I dig my nails into my palms. “Five dollars? What do you think this is, Starbucks?”
She purses her lips and both her penciled-on eyebrows pull together. “I know this ain’t Starbucks, but I also know there ain’t another place to get a cup of coffee for ‘bout fifty miles. And that’s if you’re goin’ east. If you’re headin’ west, it’s further.”
I’m going west, of course.
I rip the cup out of her hand as violently as I can without spilling it and slam a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Don’t expect a tip.”
I turn on my heel and walk out of the diner, keeping my eyes straight ahead so I don’t have to look at the redneck again. His eyes bore into me as I go.
I make it three more hours before the car sputters and starts to slow. That’s all. My foot slams on the gas pedal, but nothing happens. The wheel is stiff as I turn it hard to the right and pull to the shoulder. A car blares its horn when it flies by. I probably got the finger, but my vision is too clouded by tears to know for sure. It’s over. This is it.
The entire car jerks when the engine sputters, then dies completely. I don’t even bother putting it in park. There’s no point. It’s never moving again. I stare straight ahead. What do I do now? There’s a sign about fifteen feet in front of me, announcing that the next check point is twenty miles away. I can walk or I can try to hitch a ride. Both are a risk. But then again, so is sitting here.
I grab my purse and pull out the photo, clutching it so tight the paper crinkles. Her blue eyes stare up at me, big and round. Innocent. Squeezing my heart and making my throat constrict. I just wanted to see her one time before it all ended. Just once.
A horn honks and I jump, almost dropping the picture. A car has pulled to the side of the road less than six feet behind me. My heart pounds and every muscle in my body tightens. Good or bad? I don’t know. No one gets out of the car, and I can’t see in.
My purse is still in my lap.
I put the picture back and pull out my gun.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, then open the door and step out. It’s a dark blue Nissan Armada. A monster of a vehicle. The windows are tinted so dark there’s no way it can be legal. The outline of two men is barely visible through the dark windows, but I can’t tell who they are or what they look like. And I have no idea what they’re doing.
; I take two small steps toward the car and the driver’s side door opens. The redneck from the diner steps out.
“Well, hello there!” he drawls. His accent isn’t southern exactly, more low-class than anything else. He keeps the door open as he steps away from the car, his own gun clutched in his right hand. “What a surprise. Thought I’d never see you again.” He winks.
I tighten my grip on the gun and raise it to chest level. Steadying it with both hands. Aiming at the center of his chest. I’m a good shot.
He puts his hands up, but doesn’t release the gun. “Hold on now, no need to point that thing at me. I just stopped to see if you was havin’ car trouble.”
The passenger door opens, and the other man steps out. He stays behind the open door but points another gun at me through the gap between the door and the car.
“I think you should put that down,” he calls. He sounds younger than the first man, but their voices are similar. Same low-class accent.
“Just a precaution.” I keep my gun up and my arm steady. “I’ve had lots of target practice, so don’t think I don’t know what I’m doing.”
The first man nods and slowly bends down, lowering the hand with the gun toward the ground. “I’m just gonna put this down, and my brother is gonna put his down, and we’re gonna have a nice chat. That sound good?”
His tone is condescending. Warm and fuzzy, but in a fake way. It puts me on edge. I shouldn’t trust this man. I know it.
“Lower your gun, Axl. Come on out where she can see ya.”
The man behind the door pulls his gun back and walks forward. He is younger than his brother, and taller. Where the first man is stocky with a beer belly, Axl is broad. His muscles strain against his flannel shirt. He’s average-looking. Not unattractive and hard like his brother, more unassuming. Probably why his brother called him out. So I’d let my guard down.
