“Seven minutes, thirty-two seconds.” He takes the stopwatch from his other pocket and sets it on the table.
“That’s awesome. I suck at solitaire.”
“I got good at it back when . . . when I was younger.” He punches the button on the side of the stopwatch and begins his game.
“When are you gonna tell me?” I yawn.
“Tell you . . . ?”
I close my eyes, drifting off while choosing the right words.
“Everything,” I murmur.
I startle awake when he speaks a moment later. “When it’s time.”
The sound of cans jingling wakes me up as Gideon steals from the room with a rifle. Logan hops up, too, disoriented at first when he sees me, but he snatches his weapon and follows Gideon through the doorway. I take the last rifle, and trail them down the greeting card aisle to the window. Gideon raises his weapon, but lowers it a second later. When the cans jingle again, I see why.
“Pigeons,” he says.
“Yeah, that’s one thing about that top-o-the-line security system we’ve got there,” Logan says. “Those damned birds are always bumping it. Now you see one reason I haven’t slept in weeks?” He yawns, then checks his watch, prompting me to check mine. Five a.m.
“Why don’t you go back to sleep, buddy?” Gideon gives his arm a tap. “I’m good for a couple more hours, at least.”
“I will, yeah. Thanks.”
We head to the breakroom again, but stop when there’s yelling outside. We turn, listening to someone call for help, his pleas silenced a moment later, replaced by the noises of man-sized piranhas as they feast.
Suddenly less tired.
Logan lies down beside Missy, and I curl up on the other paper towel pallet again, but Gideon’s tense, lost in his thoughts. I observe him for a few minutes until he realizes I’m staring at him. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Beat your record?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
Twelve
When I wake up again, I must still be dreaming. I find Gideon hovering over Logan at the sink.
“Mornin’, sunshine.” Gideon waves. “Got your bag from the car.” He points to the side of the room where our belongings sit in a neat pile.
“Hey.” I yawn. “Thank you. What is that delicious smell?”
“Our new friend here can use batteries, wire, a piece of glass, duct tape, and some tinfoil to make a stovetop surface for cooking.”
“Wow. Really?” I sit up, sinking in the middle of the sections of paper towel packages.
“Learned it on Anarchist Cookbook dot org.” Logan flips something over in the sink. “I used a picture frame from the home décor section, but you can use a thin sheet of metal instead of the glass.”
My curiosity draws me from the pallet over to them, where Missy sits perched atop the counter, observing. “What are you making?” I ask Logan.
“Spam. Never dug the stuff before the end, but now . . .” He holds up a browned strip of glistening mystery meat. “Golden.”
My mouth waters. “That looks delicious.”
“I guaran-fucking-tee you it is.”
He puts the piece on a paper plate and passes it to Missy, who touches a finger to it before cramming the whole thing into her mouth.
“Just takes a while to cook,” Logan says.
“How long?”
He slices another hunk off the raw meat loaf and places it on the foil-covered glass. “About ten minutes. It’s an occasional treat.”
“That’s cool, though. That kind of stuff comes in handy.”
“True, but that’s nothing. With the proper tools and ingredients, one can make all kinds of things, legal, or otherwise.” He flips the piece of spam over to heat the other side.
At this point in the End Game, it takes somebody like this to still be alive, to keep another little soul alive. I admire him, and I’m grateful to have gained him on our side.
When I glance at Missy, though, there’s a pinch in my chest. I don’t want to get attached to her, just to say goodbye . . . But that’s Ophelia talking. The Ophelia who blocked out her own deep feelings of her best friend for at least two years, her parents for ten, and her baby brother his entire life. She pushed them all away because she didn’t want to get too close, too hurt when they left her.
In the end, they left anyway. I was always going to hurt when they left, no matter how they were taken from me. They’d leave, eventually, in one way or another, because that’s the way of life. Nothing lasts forever. Fighting that was futile. I wasted all of those years, and I’ll never get them back. But I have now, and now seems like the most important thing.
Missy peeks over at me, and I smile at her. Eileen’s voice in my head says: Try, Grace. Let her love you. And I will. For her. For Missy. For me.
“Here you go.” Logan hands me a warm piece of Spam. “Not as hot as it could be, but I’m impatient.”
“No, this is perfect.” I take a bite and he’s right—it is delicious. “Yum. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
I sit in Gideon’s lap in one of the folding chairs to finish my Spam, which takes all of two seconds. I could eat five cans, easy.
Gideon nudges me, motions toward the sunbathed linoleum outside of the breakroom.
“Time guess?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, give me a second.”
Gideon glances at his watch while I hide mine. This is one of our “games.” We first consider what time we went to sleep, then gauge how rested we are. I could easily sleep for two to three more hours, but I feel rested, which means I slept at least four hours, but probably closer to five.
Next, I’d usually gauge the position of the sun in the sky, but since we’re indoors . . . I take a whack at it. “Nine-oh-seven.”
“Close. Nine thirty-six.”
“I’m getting better.”
“You are.”
I stretch, yawn, and wipe my watery eyes. “Cool if I grab a couple things off the shelf?” I ask Logan.
“Sure thing.”
Gideon pats my butt as I rise from his lap. “Take a firearm, just in case.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I grab a rifle off the table.
Logan goes to work cooking the third tiny slab of mystery meat, and Missy watches me leave, hugging her bear.
“We’ll be here.” Gideon waves.
I make my way out to the storefront. Four bars of sunlight paint the tiles from the high, narrow windows and the floor by the front door, where the boards aren’t flush in a few spots. It appears to be a nice day, though we may as well be living in the prehistoric era. At least our cave has things like Spam and chocolate, and girly stuff.
From the rows and rows of fingernail polish in the cosmetics department, I choose blue, pink, and green, and some jewel appliqués. I fill up the basket with a bunch of other stuff I may or may not need to win Missy over, and clean her.
When I get to the breakroom lugging the heavy basket, Logan is finishing up his piece of Spam.
“Did you have some?” I ask Gideon.
“Yeah, it was damn good.” He peeks in the basket. “Whatcha got there?”
“Girlie stuff. For Missy.”
At her name, she perks up, trying to see what’s inside.
“Oh?” Gideon exaggerates a peek into it. “Wow, you’ve got some great stuff in there.” He winks at me, grins at her. She’s a stray cat, as curious as she is ready to scamper off at the slightest sudden movement.
“Want me to paint your fingernails?” I pluck the three colors from the basket before setting it onto the counter. I show them to her, and she nods, biting a fingernail.
“Well, if I paint your fingernails, you can’t bite them, okay?”
She nods again, whipping the finger from her mouth and holding it behind her back.
“Good job. Now, pick a color, sweetie.”
After some serious contemplation, she swipes a finger across
the three jars.
“All of them?”
She nods, grinning into her bear’s head.
“So, a pattern?”
Another nod.
“Gotcha. May I see your hand?”
She releases her bear, extending a cautious hand, and when she peers up at me, I notice for the first time she has one green eye and one blue eye.
“Wow, your eyes are beautiful,” I say.
“Aren’t they cool?” Logan packs up his sink-oven gadget and turns around, folding his arms over his chest.
“They really are.” I unscrew the cap from the blue nail polish, and paint her right-hand pointer finger blue, then the middle finger green. “Like your eyes.”
She smiles again, and her face lights up again when I paint the third fingernail pink. I continue the pattern until I’ve colored all ten fingernails, and she’s beaming from ear-to-ear. It’s a sloppy job, but decent, considering I’m out of practice. I finish it up with a dot of nail glue for each “diamond” appliqué, and a glossy topcoat. The final product is shiny and impressive, even to me.
“Make sure to hold your hands nice and still so we don’t mess them up.” And I help her lie her palms flat on the tabletop, checking out the hair task ahead. Light brown, but possibly dirty-blonde, once it’s washed.
“Missy . . . once your nails are dry, would you let me wash your hair in the sink?” At her reluctance, I add: “It’ll make you feel so much better, I promise.”
After some fidgeting, she nods.
“There’s some stuff down there.” Logan motions to the cabinet beneath the sink.
I open it to a jug of water, travel-sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner, and a myriad of spray paint cans.
“So, spray paint, huh?”
“Yup. A man has to do what a man has to do to survive these days, you know?”
“Huffing spray paint isn’t really what you’d call surviving.”
“That’s what I call it.” He drags hard on his cigarette, blows it out in a burst. “But you call it what you want.”
I forego the shampoo and conditioner for the girly ones in my basket. I pluck them from the rest of the stuff and set them on the counter. “Okay, Missy, come over here and sit down for me.”
She hops over and I help her up, then blow on her nails to speed up the drying process.
“I made her a sink bath a couple weeks ago,” Logan says. “I filled it up with soapy water and left the room so she could get in and do her thing. She didn’t wash her hair very good, but at least her body got clean.”
“True . . .” And after a moment’s thought, I add: “Would you two mind leaving so I can bathe her?”
“No problem.” Gideon snatches his rifle up. “I need to walk anyway.”
“We can discuss plans.” Logan trails him out of the room, closing the door behind them.
I unfold two of the large dish towels and lie them on the counter, considering my plan of action. This would be the first time I’ve ever given anyone a sink bath. I’m in all-new territory, once again. I insert the sink plug, a squirt of body wash, empty a gallon of water in it, then swish it around with my hand.
“It won’t be a lot of water, honey, but it’ll get you clean.”
After checking her nails to make sure they’re dry, I move on to the next phase of the task. From our shopping basket, I remove all the necessities and line them up on the counter. “Now let’s get those filthy clothes off. I’ll get you something clean to change into from my bag.”
I help Missy remove her black T-shirt, which may have come from this store, and her dingy yellow and red plaid pajama pants, which need to be burned. The poor thing is too skinny; her ribs show. I help her step into the sink and sit, and she’s snug, but the displacement makes the soapy water cover her up to her belly, at least. I use a plastic cup to scoop some of the water up and pour it onto her head, to the arch of her spine.
“I’m sorry, I know it’s cold. But being clean and smelling nice will make it all worth it.”
I lather up her hair with shampoo, remembering the times Aislynn washed my hair. How her nails scratching my scalp sent heat waves through my body, and I trembled with young bliss. I see the same now, with Missy, as she melts into the comfort of being cared for, and I get choked up. I get to be her Aislynn.
“Okay, sweetie, close your eyes so I can rinse the soap out.”
She presses her tiny fingers against her eyelids, and I pour water straight from the jug onto her head, working my hand in a circular motion to get the soap out. I set the jug down, still about a fourth full of water, and I lay a towel on the floor.
“You can stand on that while I dry you off.” I help her out of the sink and onto the towel, then dry off her shivering body with the other dish towel. “Hang on a sec.”
I hurry over to my stripper bag and unzip it. Digging through the myriad of colored thongs makes me wish they would’ve had regular underwear. And as that thought leaves my brain, I discover a lone pair of full-bottom, pink bikini underwear. I hold them up to her and she giggles, hops in place.
After an inspection of my inventory, I remove the best possibility—a tiny black T-shirt and some XS black Capri leggings. I return to her shivering body and hold the panties for her to step into. They’re baggy, but they’ll have to work.
“Arms up.”
She raises her arms and I slip the black T-shirt over her head. It swallows her, but it’s clean, and comfortable. I help her into the pants next, and I’m discouraged to see how huge they are on her tiny frame. But I dig through the basket of supplies and find the hair rubber bands I’d tossed in there. “This should work.” I twist one on each side of her pants, then tuck the extra fabric under the waistband, to her glee.
“How’s that?”
She throws her arms around me.
“Aww.” I hug her in return. “I’m glad you’re happy. May I brush your hair now?”
With her nod of consent, I take a hairbrush and work it through her shoulder-length hair. “Missy, will you please tell me what your real name is?”
She looks away.
“Okay . . . what about your age? Can you show me on your fingers how old you are?”
She’s hesitant at first, but then she tucks three fingers and a thumb back on her right hand and holds the rest up.
“You’re six?”
She nods.
“Wow, honey . . . It’s a wonder you’re alive. You must’ve been so scared out there.”
My words draw tears, and she bites her quivering bottom lip. Mine water, too, and I open my arms. She falls into them and I hold her tight, feeling her relief at being held after so long.
“I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, Missy. We all will. And we will love you and be your new family, okay?”
She nods, tears slipping down her smile lines like tiny waterslides. She’s overjoyed at the invitation to be a part of a family again. And somewhere deep inside me—or maybe there, on the surface—I’m as terrified as I am overjoyed, too.
Thirteen
Logan holds a cigarette between his lips while he goes to work on some other kind of contraption. He hasn’t said a word for at least an hour, consumed by whatever it is. He’s taken apart various gadgets, including the fire alarm, and now has rows of mechanical parts lined up on the countertop.
“What are you making?” I ask him from the folding chair by Gideon.
“Transistor radio,” he says, cigarette still between his lips. The ash falls to the floor. “Now that I’ve had some actual fucking sleep and can rub two goddamned braincells together, I can put them to use.” He faces us. “Thanks, by the way. I needed that sleep.”
“No problem.” Gideon yawns from the paper-towel bed. “We made one of those in science one year in high school. But I wouldn’t be able to tell you now how to do it.”
“Photographic memory.” Logan plucks the cigarette from his lips, taps his temple, and drops the butt in the can in front of him. “I remember sh
it.” He holds up a shiny penny, then sets it carefully into place on his “radio.”
“Well, we’re lucky to have you on our side.” Gideon curls up and his eyelids fall. “Things like that are priceless these days.”
“Well, that’s good, because God knows they were worthless before it became a permanent motherfucking opposite day.” He holds up a wire and proceeds to explain to us, in detail, exactly how a transistor radio works, down to the ground wire he wraps around the sink pipe. I’m mesmerized by him, his knowledge and intelligence, and that smooth, bad boy thing he does so well.
When I catch myself thinking about Logan in that way, there’s immediate guilt. But is it normal to just notice another person’s attractiveness? It’s not like I’m thinking about fucking him or anything . . .
Of course, now, I am.
“Whatcha coloring?” I ask Missy to distract myself.
She sits on her bed, board in her lap, and a coloring book on top of it. Beside her is her bear and a bowl of about five million crayons. She holds up her book.
“Easter bunnies, cool.”
She shows me a picture of an egg she’s coloring, pointing to the spots she’s colored.
“Oh, they’re blue, green, and pink patterned, just like your fingernails, huh?”
She gives a proud nod.
“That’s really nice coloring, Missy.”
When I look up from her book, I’m startled to find Logan leaning against the wall, facing me. His gaze intensifies when I tumble into it—it traps me—and we’re locked in a silent conversation of which I want out of as much as I want more of.
“So, what are your plans?” I ask to mask my nervousness.
“For?”
“The radio?”
“Whatever we can find, any sort of broadcast coming from anywhere would be helpful.”
Just as quickly as his heated attention came on, it fades to a chill when he goes back to work on the radio. I’m left with Gideon’s soft snores, and the sound of Crayola on paper. And as always, the noise of my thoughts, the innermost dwelling place of my demons. Now, they tell me what a whore I am for having these thoughts about someone I just met, and about anyone other than Gideon, for that matter.
Murray's Law: Urban Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (The Night Blind Saga Book 2) Page 7