by BB Easton
Or anyone’s roof, for that matter. After I was placed in foster care, I bounced from shitty home to shittier home until I finally aged out of the whole shitty system. Now, I bounce from roommate to roommate instead.
The trail runs parallel to the main highway, stopping and restarting at almost every business along the way. A few forks jut off of it here and there, cutting through the woods to nearby neighborhoods. I’m starting to think I might have waited too long. Rain could be anywhere by now. She’s probably inside some perfect little house somewhere, eating a perfect little meal, telling her perfect little family about the asshole who kidnapped her from Burger Palace.
I pop the clutch and shift into second. Then, third. I don’t know if it’s because I think I can still find her or if it’s because I’m so fucking mad at myself for letting her go, but I tear down the trail so fast that I don’t even realize where I am until the woods clear, and I find myself barreling across a huge parking lot, headed toward one very familiar-looking bread truck.
Fuck!
I hit the brakes and skid to a stop beside the truck. I listen for shots, yelling, barking, anything, but my bike is loud as fuck, so I kill the engine and wait. My gun has been a fucking paperweight ever since I used my last bullet saving Rain’s ass at Burger Palace this morning, but I draw it anyway and walk my bike forward until I have a clean view of the main entrance through the driver’s window.
Huckabee Foods looks exactly the way we left it—bloated corpse facedown on the sidewalk, overturned lawn chair, probably a few mauled gangbangers on the other side of the sliding glass doors. But, most importantly, no imminent threats. I breathe out a sigh of relief and holster my gun, wondering how the fuck I could be stupid enough to end up back here. I was being reckless. I don’t do reckless.
But I know somebody who does.
Before I can crank the throttle and get the fuck out of there, something tells me to give the entrance a second look. I do, and that’s when I notice that the dead guy is no longer lying on his stomach. He’s rolled over onto his side. And there, squatting next to him, is the little black-haired bitch who did the rolling.
Rain’s hoodie-covered body is kneeling in front of the corpse, holding one side of him up with her shoulder while she digs through the pockets of his baggy jeans. The guy’s face is fucking horrifying—eyelids half-open, mouth slack, dried puke covering one side of it—but Rain is going through his shit like she’s hunting through a clearance bin at Walmart.
A little fucking survivor. I knew it.
When she finds what she’s looking for, Rain lets the guy’s body fall back down with an unceremonious plop. She focuses all of her attention on something small and orange in her hands. I want to stand up and give her a slow clap for having bigger balls than I do, but I’m pretty damn sure that whatever gang produced Thug-Life Shrek and the meth-head trio, it has plenty more soldiers to spare inside.
Rain shakes a pill into her mouth. Then she caps the bottle and shoves it down the neck of her sweatshirt, tucking it into her bra. I smirk, remembering how that same bottle practically fell out of her hoodie pocket and into my hand when I threw her over my shoulder earlier.
She’s learning.
Shaking my head, I stomp down on the kick-start.
Rain got what she came for. Now, it’s my turn.
I pull out from behind the bread truck, expecting Rain to spin around with a smile on her face at the sound of my approaching engine.
Instead, she spins around, holding homeboy’s Uzi.
It’s still strapped to his massive body, but she keeps the barrel trained on me as she struggles to free it. By the time I pull up to the curb next to her, her cheeks are pink from exertion. I sit and wait with a smug smile under my helmet, knowing good and goddamn well that this girl isn’t going to shoot m—
Br-r-r-r-r-r-ap!
The crescendo of a machine gun sounds at the exact same time that a white-hot pain slashes through my shoulder. I look to Rain in disbelief that the bitch actually pulled the trigger, but she isn’t facing me anymore. She’s facing the main entrance where two more of society’s red bandana rejects are lying on the ground, bleeding all over a bed of broken glass.
Rain’s startled eyes dart over to me before she drops the Uzi and leaps to her feet. She hesitates, then makes a mad dash for my bike, stopping to pick up one of the fallen gangbanger’s pistols along the way.
Supplies, shelter, and self-defense, I recite in my head as Rain wraps her soft little body around mine.
Two down, one to go.
Rain
I just killed a guy.
Two guys. I think I just killed two guys.
As I bounce up and down on the back of Wes’s speeding dirt bike, I replay what just happened in my head. I don’t relive it. I simply watch it, like a bad TV show, while I wait for the hydrocodone to kick in and make it all go away.
I see the reflection of the sliding glass doors opening in Wes’s shiny black helmet. I see red bandanas coming out of that door. I see guns pointed at Wes. Then, I see the men holding those guns fall down as the sliding glass doors explode behind them. It looks like sparkly crystal confetti in the air. Everything is so loud. I can’t believe Wes actually shot those guys. I turn back around and look at him.
But he isn’t holding a gun.
I close my eyes and smoosh my cheek against Wes’s shoulder blade a little harder. Then, I throw that instant replay clip into the fortress of Shit I’m Not Going to Think About Ever Again Because None of This Matters and We’re All Going to Die.
Wes’s body begins to twist and flex in my arms like he’s trying to do something while he drives, so I sit up and peek over his shoulder. He has one hand on the handlebars while the other is messing around with his holster. I wonder if he needs my help, but before I can offer, Wes draws his gun and tosses it into the woods.
I turn my head, following the revolver with my eyes as it disappears into the underbrush. Then, I gasp as the pistol I forgot I was even holding is pulled free from my hand. Wes holsters his new gun—my gun—and I feel his body shake with laughter.
Asshole.
I smack him on the shoulder and hear him yelp, even over the roar of the engine.
When I look down, there’s blood on my hand.
Oh my God.
Wes pulls to a stop on the side of the trail and yanks his helmet off. “What the fuck?”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know!” I slide off the leather seat and reach for the sleeve of Wes’s shirt. The pink flower printed there is now bright red. “Let me look at it.”
Wes glares at me and nods. Once.
He mercilessly chews on the inside of his bottom lip as I carefully pinch the edge of his sleeve. Lifting the fabric, I see a deep gash across his upper arm. It’s nasty—about two inches long and half an inch wide—but not bleeding too badly. It’s as if the heat from the bullet cauterized the wound.
“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news.”
Wes raises an annoyed eyebrow at me.
“The good news is that it’s just a flesh wound. The bad news is that you ruined your pretty shirt.”
Wes pulls his shoulder away from me and yanks his sleeve back down. “I ruined it?”
“Don’t look at me! The only reason those guys came outside and shot at you was because they heard your loud-ass bike!”
“Well, my loud-ass bike wouldn’t have been there if you hadn’t run away.”
“Well, you didn’t have to come get me, did you?”
Wes purses his lips and looks at me the way he would a shelf of canned goods or a rack of tools. Like he’s considering my value. “Yes, I did.”
He props his bike on the kickstand, and my heart begins to pound as he stands up and faces me. The vehicle is in between us, like a line in the sand.
“As much as I hate to admit it”—his face softens, just a little—“you’re pretty useful when you’re not trying to get us both killed.”
I swallow and straighten
my spine, forcing myself to look him in the eye. It’s hard to act tough when you’re looking at something that pretty. Hell, it’s hard to remember what I was about to say.
Wait. What was I about to say? Oh, right.
“What makes you think I wanna help you?”
“What makes you think I give a shit what you want?” Poof. Softness gone.
“Gah, Wes! You don’t have to be such a dick. You could just ask nicely, you know?”
Wes pulls my gun out of his holster and points it at my head with a smirk. “I don’t have to ask nicely. I’m the one with the gun.”
I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest.
“You know what I like about Glocks?” Wes’s smirk widens into a sneer. “The safety is right here.” He taps his index finger against the trigger. Tap, tap, tap. “You don’t even have to cock the hammer back before you shoot. You just … squeeze.”
“Ugh! Fine! I’ll help you!” I throw my arms in the air. “You don’t have to be so dramatic about it.”
Wes chuckles as he shoves the gun back into his holster. It reminds me of how he looked at the playground. Dark eyelashes fanned across his cheeks. Perfect smile. Rusty laugh. Only this time, it doesn’t hurt to look at him.
Because this time, he wants me to stay.
“I need gas,” Wes announces, giving his gunshot wound another quick glance. It must hurt like a bitch.
“Gas stations around here are all dry. Only way to get gas now is to siphon it.”
“Cool.” Wes climbs back onto the bike and looks over at me. “Know where we can find a hose?”
“And a bandage?” I glance down at the ruined sleeve of his Hawaiian shirt.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah”—I swallow, trying to push the tightness out of my throat—“I do.”
Wes
Rain leads me down the trail, back through the park, and all the way to a library across from good ole Burger Palace.
“I can’t believe that car is still on fire,” she shouts over the growl of the engine as we pass a smoking sedan in the parking lot. “It’s been burnin’ all day!”
She directs me to go around to the back of the library and points to the spot in the trees where the trail continues. I head toward it but notice movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head and reach for my gun but relax when I see that it’s just a dude … giving another dude a blow job.
“Sorry!” Rain shouts to the startled men with a giggle as we dive back into the pines.
This part of the trail isn’t as well traveled, so I slow down, and for the first time all day, I don’t feel like I’m running to or from anything. I suck in a deep breath, wishing I could smell the pines through my helmet, and feel Rain’s warm body shuddering against mine as she continues to laugh.
Then a sapling branch whips across my mangled shoulder, and I debate burning the entire fucking forest to the ground.
“There!” Rain’s finger shoots out in the direction of a clearing up ahead. “That’s my house!”
Her house? This should be interesting. I’m sure her parents are gonna be real excited about their precious Rainbow bringing a gun-toting homeless guy with a weeping flesh wound home for dinner.
The trail ends in the backyard of a small wooden two-story that looks like it hasn’t been painted since the South lost the Civil War. At one point, it might have been blue. Now, it’s just a weathered gray, spotted with mildew and peppered with woodpecker holes.
I pull around to the front of the house and park in the driveway next to a rust-colored ’90s-era Chevy pickup truck.
Any minute, I’m expecting a middle-aged guy with a beer gut and a shotgun to come bursting out the front door, chewing on tobacco and yelling at me to, Go on now! Git!
Maybe I should keep my helmet on a little longer …
Rain hops off the back of my bike and runs over to a spigot on the side of the house. She cranks the handle and lifts the end of a green garden hose to her mouth. Her eyes close in ecstasy as she drinks, making me realize how thirsty I am. I don’t know if I’ve had anything to drink all day.
I stride over and wait my turn, noticing that one side of her hair is getting wet. I want to reach out and tuck it behind her ear, but I don’t. That’s a boyfriend move, and the last thing I need is for this chick to get the wrong idea about us.
I don’t do us. All us does is get you hurt or killed, so I throw an E on the end of that bitch, and I use.
My foster parents used me to get money from the state. I used them to get food, water, and shelter. The girls at school used me to fill their needy little attention buckets and make each other jealous. I used them as a nice warm place to put my dick. The guys used me to score them drugs or guns or cool points or the answers to next week’s history exam. I charged them a shitload to do it. This is the way the world works, and watching Rain clutching that hose in her fist—sucking from the stream with her little pink tongue at the edge of her slightly open mouth—makes me think of a few new ways I could use her, too.
As if she could hear my inappropriate thoughts, Rain lifts her big blue eyes to mine.
I smirk down at her. “There something wrong with your sinks?”
Rain jerks the hose away from her mouth and coughs.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just …” She hacks some more, wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve. “I lost my keys, remember? I can’t get in.”
“Whose truck is that? Can’t they let you in?” I jerk my thumb in the direction of the rust bucket on wheels.
“That’s my dad’s, but …” Her face goes white as her eyes dart left and right, looking for a lie. “He’s deaf. And he hangs out in his man cave upstairs all day, so he won’t hear me knocking.”
“Or see you knocking,” I add.
“Right.” Rain shrugs dramatically.
“Where’s your mom?” I take the hose from her and drink while I wait for her to make up another bullshit story.
“She’s at work.”
I take a breath between gulps. “Nobody’s at work.”
“No, for real!” The pitch of her voice shoots up along with her eyebrows. “She’s an ER nurse. The hospital is still open.”
I give her a doubtful glare. “How does she get there?”
“Motorcycle.”
“What kind of motorcycle?”
Rain’s face reddens. “I don’t know! A black one!”
I laugh and shut off the water. There are a dozen smart-ass responses on the tip of my tongue, but I decide to keep my mouth shut. If this girl doesn’t want me to know that she lives alone—which is pretty fucking obvious from her bullshit responses—then that’s what I’m gonna let her think.
Besides, I can’t say that I blame her. I’m sure Invite a strange man into your house after he pulls a gun on you is in the top ten list of shit single girls are taught not to do.
Invite a strange man into your house after he pulls a gun on you twice is probably in the top five.
Rain turns her flustered head toward the Chevy. “You can siphon the gas out of my dad’s truck since the roads are too trashed to drive it anyway. I guess just use the”—her eyes dart back to me as I flick open my new pocketknife and slice off about five feet of hose—“hose.”
“Thanks.” I smirk. Walking over to the rust bucket, I cut the length of hose in my hand into two pieces—a long one and a short one. Then, I pop open the gas cap and stick both inside the opening. “Hold these, okay?”
Rain hops over like her ass is on fire. I find it interesting that she’s completely incapable of following directions unless I’m asking her for help.
She probably would have been a nurse, like her mom, I think. If her mom even is a nurse.
I pull off my holster, making sure not to graze my shoulder wound with it, and set it on the ground. I see the way Rain is eyeing it, so I push it further away with my foot. “Uh-uh-uh.”
“That’s my gun.” Rain pretends to pout as I take off my Hawaii
an shirt and stuff it into the openings around the hoses.
I move her hands so that she’s holding the shirt and the hoses in place.
“Can’t you just, like, stick a tube in there and suck on it?” Rain asks as I walk my bike closer to the truck.
“Sure, if I wanted to get a mouthful of gasoline.”
Rain rolls her eyes, and the expression makes her seem so young. That giant Twenty One Pilots hoodie doesn’t help.
“How old are you?” I ask, tilting my bike sideways so that the gas tank will be lower than the truck’s.
“Nineteen.”
Bullshit.
“How old are you?” she asks as I stick the end of the long hose into my gas tank.
“Twenty-two.”
Keeping my bike tilted at just the right angle, I lean over to where Rain is holding everything in place and blow into the short tube. She gasps a moment later when we hear the sound of liquid splashing against the bottom of my gas tank.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” Rain’s eyes are wide, her voice is breathy, and her mouth has fallen open in a little O.
I begin to think of a few other ways I could put that look on her face when I remember that she asked me a question. “YouTube.”
“Oh, right.” She laughs. “The internet’s been down for a week, and I already forgot about YouTube.”
An awkward silence stretches between us as we’re forced to stand there, each holding our own end of the hose.
Rain breaks it and manages to make things even more awkward. “I can’t believe we only have three days left.”
“Speak for yourself,” I snap.
“Oh, right.” Rain furrows her brow, considering my statement. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
I shrug. “You’re going to anyway.”
“If whatever’s coming is as bad as everyone thinks it is, then why are you trying so hard to survive it? I mean, what if you end up being the last person on Earth?”
“Then, I’d be king of the fucking world,” I deadpan. The tank is almost full, so I stand the bike upright to stop the flow.
Rain lets out a sad laugh as I pull out the hose and screw the gas cap back on. “Yeah, you’d be king of the whole busted, ruined planet.”