by Boye, Kody
“But—”
“Just do it.”
Rising to his knees, Dakota took a quick breath and readjusted his grip on the gun. When Steve took hold of his pistol with both hands and began to rise, Dakota, too, rose to his feet, training his gun outside of the bus.
Though his doubts had been great, Steve had delivered in his promise—all the men on the floor were dead, sans the one who’d just been speaking. Tall, muscled beyond compare and with a buzzed haircut that reminded Dakota of the military, the guy appeared to be more of a child than he actually was at that very moment. His eyes were puffy and the end of his nose was red. A trail of blood trickled down his one arm, but Dakota couldn’t see any major damage.
You missed. Dakota snickered to himself. You, a pro shooter, actually missed.
“Quit laughing,” Steve chuckled, “because that’s the guy you shot.”
“DON’T SHOOT ANYMORE!” the straggler cried. “PLEASE!”
“We’re not gonna shoot you,” Steve said, stepping out of the bus. “You—get up. Dakota, you stay there and keep your gun on him.”
“Got it,” Dakota said, silently hoping that the situation wouldn’t take a turn for the worse.
The man stumbled to his feet with a grimace and a curse. After untangling his feet from his dead companions’ limbs, he stepped in front of Steve and pressed a hand over his wound, allowing his other arm to remain slack as he stared the shorter man in the eyes. At first, Dakota grimaced, knowing more than well that the man—who stood at least four inches above Steve, if not five or six—could easily lash out and choke his friend if he wanted to.
“So,” Steve said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “If you aren’t with these guys, why were you shooting at us?”
“We just broke out of jail, man. The guys said they’d kill me if I ran.”
“Why were you in jail?”
“I raped a girl,” the big man admitted. “It wasn’t one of my graceful moments.”
Dakota’s grip around his gun loosened for a moment, but he picked up the slack and readjusted his hands, sliding his finger away from the trigger.
“What’s your name?” Steve asked, holstering his gun.
“Ian,” the gangbanger said. “Ian Shaw.”
“Keep your gun on him, Dakota. I’m gonna tie him up.”
“With what?”
Steve glanced around the garage, looked to the storage shelf that had since been shot to hell, then stepped around the bodies and began to rummage through the shelf’s contents. A moment later, he stepped forward with two plastic strips and managed to improvise a pair of faux police handcuffs.
“Y-you’re letting me live?” Ian asked.
“No reason not to,” Steve said, tightening the plastic with a tug from both hands. “You’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Everything good?” Dakota asked.
Steve gestured Dakota out of the bus. “Ian, meet Dakota, my best friend.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ian mumbled, face reddening upon Dakota’s approach.
“You too.” Dakota gave the man a once-over. One look at his tattoos was enough to show that he’d been involved in gang activity before the shit had hit the fan. He looked at Steve, who merely shrugged and gestured Ian away from the bodies.
“What’re you gonna do with me?”
“We—and I mean Dakota and me—are going to finish fixing this bus after I get these bodies out of the garage.”
“Where are we going?”
“Wherever we can,” Steve sighed, hoisting the first corpse into his arms. “Wherever we fucking can.”
“Checklist,” Steve said. “Food.”
“Check,” Dakota replied.
“Water.”
“Check.”
“Ammunition.”
“Seven packs. Check.”
“First aid kit.”
“Check.”
“Emergency supplies—rope, knife, alcohol.”
“Check.”
“What else do we have?”
“Extra clothes,” Dakota said, nodding to the backpack. “More plastic ties, a nail gun and a pack of nails, two or three hammers.”
“What about the uzi and the shotgun?”
“Uzi’s out of ammo and the shotgun only has two shots.”
“Two shots more than we have.”
“All right. Well, other than that… I think we’re good.”
“We sound good,” Steve said, making his way around the bus. He stopped near the hood to check the ornate display of plywood and barbed wire before turning his attention to Ian. “Anything else you want to tell us before we leave?”
“Like what?” the man asked. Hands behind his back, he grimaced as he adjusted his position on the ground. A fresh bead of blood flowed down his arm. “I was in a gang. My arm’s fucking hurting. My last name is Shaw. I’m half-Mexican. Should I continue?”
“Don’t give me any fuckin’ lip,” Steve growled. “Or we might just leave you here.”
“Steve,” Dakota sighed. “Not now. Seriously.”
Steve turned his eyes on Ian. “Look, I believe you when you say that you got roped into this gang, but I don’t trust you one bit, especially since you were shooting at me.
“And me,” Dakota said.
“Right. You were shooting at us, so don’t expect to get any special treatment. Don’t treat me like an asshole and I won’t treat you like one. Got it?”
“Got it,” Ian said.
“Good. As soon as we get the ball rolling, Dakota’ll patch your arm up. I don’t want to stick around here for much longer anyway.”
“The zombies would’ve probably already made it here if they heard anything,” Dakota sighed, rolling the extra supplies into a tool bag.
“I know,” Steve said. “I just don’t trust the ‘probably’ part.”
Neither do I, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to come out of the blue and get us.
Shaking his head, Dakota gathered up the rest of the supplies and loaded them onto the bus. While Steve continued his last-minute maintenance on the vehicle, pounding extra nails here and applying extra barbed wire there, Ian sat idly by, only offering Dakota his attention when he caught the younger man looking at him. Dakota smiled, hoping it would entice a positive response, but frowned when it didn’t. Though the ex-con’s demeanor seemed to lighten, his overall expression didn’t. His ice-blue eyes appeared sharp, angry in the aftermath of their admittance of mercy, and his rough, stubbled jaw looked so set that Dakota thought it would break right off his face. The tip of his strong nose and the lobes of his hooked ears—places that, normally should have been immune to such displays—looked red, as though scarlet with shame or hurt, and his thin lips seemed just on the verge of quivering. The whole spectacle was sad, especially when he himself felt bad for the man.
Do I really feel bad for him, or is it just pity?
He’d never been able to distinguish the two from one another. Pity felt just like any other form of remorse. A man lost his wife and you felt bad for him, even going so far as to ask how things have been and what he planned on doing with his life, but it was never a true emotion. Sure, that feeling was there, and it would stay with you if only briefly, but it didn’t pass the impersonal barrier called your short-term memory. That was called pity.
Disturbed by the notion, Dakota stepped forward and offered a second smile. “You care if I sit by you?”
“Go ahead,” Ian said.
Taking his cue, Dakota seated himself on the floor beside Ian and watched Steve circle the bus a second time. His thoughts in knots and his stomach threatening to do a barrel roll, he tore his eyes away from his friend and looked at the man beside him. “Where’d you get them?”
“What?”
“Your eyes.”
“They’ve always been there, kid.”
“I meant what side of your family.”
“My Dad’s.”
“They’re beautiful.”
>
“Whatever,” Ian grunted, grimacing as another bead of blood flowed down his arm. “Care to do me a favor? Fix my arm up if you’re not doing anything right now.”
“I’m not,” Dakota said, rising to make his way toward the bus. He stopped in midstride. “You need anything else?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. A drink of water, medicine…”
“Water would be nice.”
At least he’s straightforward, he thought, taking a step into the vehicle.
A moment later, after combing through the packs and finding the first aid kit and a bottle of water, Dakota stepped out of the bus kneeled at Ian’s side. He popped the cap off the water, tipped it to the man’s lips, then got to work, first sterilizing, then applying cotton over the wound—which, though not completely severe, would not fare well if left untreated.
“Where did you come from?” Dakota asked, measuring a length of bandage.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, where were you guys?”
“North. In the city.”
“What’s up there?”
“Zombies,” Ian said. “Cars. Some food. A few guns.”
“I’m guessing there’s not much more than that.”
“Nope. Not at all.” Ian paused when Dakota began to wrap his arm up. “You know where you guys are going?”
“Steve said south.”
“Toward the army base?”
“I forgot there was an army base down there,” Dakota said.
“We’re not going to the base,” Steve said, slamming the hood down. “At least, not yet.”
“Your buddy doesn’t have a clue where to go,” Ian whispered. “Does he?”
“No one knows a lot of anything,” Dakota sighed. He pinned the bandage into place and began to reload everything into the kit. “We’re just trying to figure out where to go.”
“You care if I come with?”
“He’s not coming with!” Steve called out. “Not after what he did.”
“He’s not an asshole,” Dakota whispered. “He wouldn’t leave you here.”
Ian snorted.
You may not trust him, Dakota thought, but even you wouldn’t leave behind someone like him.
No. He wouldn’t leave Ian here, especially not after what had happened three years ago, when he came home from the desert with a mark on his heart and his hand to his chest. Three bones had been broken.
A soldier was no use if he couldn’t fire his gun.
“You won’t leave him here,” Dakota whispered. “You won’t.”
Steve looked up from a map on the table. “Bullshit I won’t.”
“His arm’s a mess, Steve. He can’t fend for himself.”
“He’s an ignorant prick who let someone bully him into doing something he didn’t want to do. I’m not taking him with us. Besides, his arm’s fine. It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Just like yours was?”
Steve froze. His eyes rose and his jaw clenched together. “You’re telling me,” he began a moment later, “that my arm was just a flesh wound?”
“It wouldn’t have killed you.”
“My arm was almost amputated because it was so bad.”
“It wouldn’t have killed you though.”
“You’re not getting the point. My humerus was almost snapped in half, and you’re saying it couldn’t’ve killed me? That’s bullshit and you know it. I could’ve bled to death.”
“Steve—”
“I love how you’ve just turned this situation around just to make me look like an asshole.”
“I’m not saying that.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Dakota. It’s bad enough that you want to take an ex con with us, but now you’re belittling my injury? I could’ve died out there.”
“Look,” Dakota said, raising a hand. Steve tried to slap it aside, but Dakota took a steady hold of his friend’s upper arm, sighing when his thumb traced the ugly scar under his shirtsleeve. “I’m just…confused, not sure what to do.”
“We leave him.”
“We can’t just leave him here. That’s like…like what they did to you.”
“My unit thought I was dead.”
“They still would’ve left you behind if you hadn’t called to them.”
Steve remained silent. Head bowed and eyes closed, he reached up to grip Dakota’s arm. He took hold of his wrist and gently pried it away, careful not to apply any unneeded pressure.
“It still hurts,” Dakota said, “doesn’t it?”
“It always hurts,” Steve muttered. “It’s always gonna hurt.”
“I’m just glad you’re ok.”
“I am too, bud.” He paused, then smiled and said, “I ever tell you you were the first thing I thought of when the bomb went off?”
“No.”
“Well, you were.” Steve chuckled, though the sound held no amount of joy. “I thought I was gonna die. The only thing I could think about was how you’d take the news.”
“I’m alive because of you, Steve.”
“I know, little brother. I know.” Steve wrapped an arm around Dakota’s side and pulled him into his chest. “You listening to me? We’ll take him with us. Just promise me you’ll watch him.”
“I promise,” Dakota whispered.
He bowed his head into Steve’s chest and closed his eyes.
Such moments were to be treasured. They were so easily lost.
“We’re gonna take you with us,” Steve said, “but you have to agree to a few things.”
Ian waited. Dakota thought the man would nod, but he didn’t; he simply stared at Steve with the same cold eyes he’d had since he’d been tied up.
“You listening?” Steve asked.
“I am,” Ian said.
“You stay put,” Steve began, “and you stayed tied up, at least for now. You listen to whatever either of us tells you. No talking back, no bullshit. If you try to run, we’re shooting you in the back.”
“I’m not going nowhere.”
“Good. If and when we decide to untie you, we’ll talk about it then. For now though, just listen to what we say and do what we tell you to do. Dakota may think you’re worth saving, but I don’t trust you, not one bit. You’re gonna have to prove yourself to change my opinion.”
“Sounds right. What’s your plan?”
“The moon’s going to be out tonight, so we’re going to take full advantage of it. We’ll take the highway for three-hundred miles toward Arcburrow. We should have enough fuel to make it there. I siphoned the gas out of the rest of the buses.”
“What if we don’t have enough?” Dakota asked.
“There’s stops along the way. We can make it.”
“What happens if we get stranded in the middle of nowhere?” Ian asked. “What then?”
“We won’t get stranded. It’s a one-way shot.”
“And the zombies?”
“Won’t be able to keep up with us,” Steve finished.
“All right then,” Ian smiled. “When we leavin’?”
“Just before the sun sets.”
Night washed over the horizon like a fresh tide to a sparkling beach, along with a sense of dread unlike anything Dakota had ever felt. While Steve helped Ian onto the bus, struggling with his broad shoulders and his equally muscled weight, Dakota stared out of the garage and tried to imagine what life would be like away from the town he had grown up in his entire life.
This is it, he thought. You’re leaving.
Settling down at the foot of the open garage door, he crossed his legs and set his gun in his lap, taking slow breaths to try to fight off an oncoming headache that threatened to bloom at the base of his skull. He heard something fall behind him, then one of the two men swear, but chose to ignore it. He couldn’t help them—not now, especially if he couldn’t even help himself.
“It’s ok,” he whispered. “What was ever here for you anyway?”
Home.
If it c
ould even be called that—the adoption center was never really home. Home wasn’t supposed to be a place where a dozen children ran amok, asking a woman who was not their mother if they could go somewhere. Home wasn’t meant to isolate twelve boys into one designated room, then make them sleep together up until the day they turned eighteen. Home wasn’t supposed to strip away dreams and inspire fears. No. Home wasn’t supposed to be anything but good, a happy place in which you could feel comfortable regardless of everything else going on around you.
The adoption center was never home.
He hadn’t been home for nearly seven years now.
“How you holding up?” Steve asked, setting a hand on his shoulder.
Dakota tensed, fingers tightening around the gun in his hand. “Kinda,” he said. “Sorta.”
“Worried about leaving?”
“Worried about how I’m supposed to feel is more like it.”
“Think of it this way,” Steve said, crouching down beside him. “We’re leaving to go somewhere safer.”
“I’m worried about leaving...”
“Leaving what?”
“Home.”
Steve remained silent.
As the sun began to fall and the night began to lay it to rest, Dakota felt the last shreds of his old life dying.
He’d been holding onto the past for so long.
Now…he had to let it go.
The sun passed by in a flicker of brief moments. First like light divided by plastic curtains, then like a glowing object slowly sinking in the sea, it crested the horizon until it eventually fell into nothing. Its light, however, did not wane. For at least an hour after the sun disappeared, its presence could still be seen in the sky by the halo pulsing in the far distance and the tones of pink and purple bleeding from its existence.
When the sun finally disappeared—when the world finally went dark—all that was left was the road, the bus, the men inside it and an endless, rolling plain.
Seated in the frontmost seat on the right side of the bus, Dakota watched the plains roll by with a dead sense of wonder, body slack and eyes slowly willing themselves to close. At his side, Steve navigated the stretch of road with a stunted yet fluid ease. It was obvious from the way he drove that he’d never handled a bus, let alone a vehicle bigger than the standard moving truck or something similar. He’d speed up, stop, then speed up again, much to Ian’s displeasure, who almost always slid about in his seat whenever Steve adjusted their speed.