Come Whatever Storms

by J. M. Snyder

  Court felt hope surge in his chest. “A chicken? Like, a real one? Cock-a-doodle-do and all that shit? You’re joking.”

  “We’re practically in the country out here,” Adam reminded them. “One good shot and we could be eating fresh meat tomorrow.”

  Bree snickered. “One good shot and you’ll blow out all the best meat.” At the frown Adam gave her, she explained, “You don’t shoot chickens. You strangle them, or cut off their heads, then bleed them out. Farm girl over here, remember?”

  Court saw Adam’s face blanch and laughed. “Good thing you’re sleeping with her and not me.” To Ronnie, he asked, “Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

  Amusement flickered in Ronnie’s eyes, chased by a quick smile that was there one moment and gone the next. “I knew. I’m surprised it took you so long to figure it out.”

  With an off-hand manner, Bree said, “Oh, he didn’t. I had to tell him.”

  “What the hell?” Court looked around at his friends. Was he the last to find out everything? “I’m out a few hours with a damn gunshot wound—”

  “It grazed you,” Bree corrected.

  “And suddenly I’m out of the goddamn loop,” Court finished. “What else don’t I know? Ronnie, who are you sleeping with?”

  Ronnie slapped Court’s good knee. The movement jostled Court’s other leg, though, and a spike of pain shot through him from ankle to thigh. “You, remember?”

  The matter-of-fact way he said it made the flare of pain worthwhile.

  If there was any disturbance in the night, Court slept through it. They had decided to set up a watch while the others slept, with Ronnie first. Little good it would do against another attack, Court knew, but he kept his mouth shut. Maybe whatever had torn apart the convicts’ camp was still full from its meal the previous evening. Or, worse, maybe it had followed the other survivors as they continued their southward trek. Court lay awake for a long time, listening to the faint static on the radio and watching Ronnie’s shadow flicker against the tent, tossed there by the last of their firelight.

  He woke only once, when Ronnie came into the tent to sleep. He heard the tent zipper open and close, then heard his friend undress in the darkness. He stayed on his side, and was already drifting back to sleep when cool hands slid into his sleeping bag. Ronnie snuggled close to him, probably more for warmth than anything else, but Court let himself be pulled back against his friend’s slim body without comment. Spooned together, he felt safer than he had all evening—safer than he had with Ronnie outside the tent, gun in hand. He covered Ronnie’s cold fingers with his own and pressed them flat against his bare stomach, trying to warm them up. The last thing he was aware of before he fell asleep were those chilly fingerprints embossed on his skin and Ronnie’s faint, fluttery breath on the back of his neck.

  In the morning, Court woke to find Ronnie still abed, still curled around him. Court held his breath, unwilling to spoil the moment too soon. Could they maybe stay like this forever? he wondered. Right here, in this spot, without moving. There was no need to find Sumter, no need for anyone—or anything—else. Just these arms around him, this man beside him, and the rest of eternity stretching out ahead…

  He felt Ronnie’s lips press against his bare shoulder, then Ronnie shifted and moved away. “Stop faking it,” Ronnie growled, his voice still thick with sleep. “I know you’re up.”

  Court rolled onto his back. Ronnie was sitting up, elbows resting on his knees, the nubs of his spine standing up starkly along the curve of his bare back. His hair was a disheveled nimbus around his head, and stubble darkened his cheeks and chin. Dressed in nothing but a thin pair of boxer shorts, Ronnie looked so carelessly perfect, he almost took Court’s breath away. Had this been what Melissa woke to every morning during their marriage? This raw sensuality, this naked sexuality?

  Lucky bitch.

  Pushing the thought away, Court ran a hand down Ronnie’s back and paused over each vertebrae. When he reached the waistband of Ronnie’s boxers, Court tucked his fingers into the fabric at the small of Ronnie’s back. It was warm in there, almost hot, still retaining some of the body heat that had kept them comfortable all night long.

  “So, chicken on the menu tonight?” Court asked. He wished he could be the one to go with Ronnie. Finding food had always been his job. It gave him something to do, and kept him busy. The prospect of another long day with Bree standing guard over him wasn’t pretty. He wanted to be with Ronnie, wherever Ronnie would be, and if that meant canvassing empty homes in search of food and supplies, or killing chickens for dinner, then so be it.

  Ronnie pulled his knees up to his chest and crossed his arms above them, then laid his head on top of them to look over at Court. His eyes were clear and bright, all sleepiness gone now. “How’s your leg?”

  Court moved it slightly and winced. “Fine,” he lied.

  Ronnie’s lips pressed together, almost disappearing in a fine white line. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’d try walking on it if I had a pair of shoes.” Court still wasn’t ready to let that go. How was he supposed to go anywhere without something on his feet? Yesterday, when Ronnie had helped him to a tree at the edge of their camp that he could lean against while he relieved himself, Court had only worn his socks. That worked for the moment, but there had been no frost on the ground then, and the path was fairly clear. But he needed shoes. He’d never walk far without a new pair, no matter how fast his leg healed.

  Ronnie dropped his hand onto Court’s sleeping bag. It rested heavily on Court’s hip, the weight welcome through the downy material. “We’ll get you some,” Ronnie promised. “I’ll keep an eye out while we’re going through those houses.”

  “What if you find someone alive out there?” Someone with a gun, Court thought but didn’t add out loud. Someone who shoots when you try to break down their door. Suddenly he didn’t want Ronnie to leave him. What if he never saw his friend again?

  With a comforting squeeze on Court’s sleeping bag, Ronnie pointed out, “Anyone still alive out there would have already killed those chickens to eat, don’t you think?”

  Unwilling to concede defeat so soon, Court suggested, “Maybe whoever’s out there is a vegetarian.”

  Ronnie rolled his eyes. “You can’t be picky about what you eat when you don’t know where your next meal is coming from. If anyone was still alive out in that neighborhood, those chickens wouldn’t be.”

  To Court’s surprise, Ronnie wanted Bree to go with him to see about the chickens. “Why?” Court wanted to know. “Adam can’t shoot the gun.”

  “He can and he will,” Ronnie said.

  But when he held out Bree’s gun, Adam wouldn’t take it. “I can’t. I told you—”

  “You will.” Ronnie thrust the gun at Adam, who fumbled with it.

  Court thought he’d drop it, and probably set it off by accident, too. But at the last moment, he managed to hold onto it, though he was obviously reluctant. His nose wrinkled in distaste, and he held his hands flat, letting the gun rest in his palms. “I can’t,” he said weakly.

  Taking a step closer, Ronnie stared hard at Adam. “You will, if not to protect yourself, then to protect him.” Ronnie pointed at Court, who ducked his head, embarrassed, when Adam glanced his way. “Because if I come back and anything has happened to him, anything at all…”

  He didn’t finish that thought, but the threat was loud and clear. Adam nodded, though he still didn’t grip the gun. It lay in his hands like a dead bird, that unwanted, that reviled. Satisfied he had made his point, Ronnie nodded at Court, then headed out of the camp. “We’ll be back before dark.”

  Bree stepped up to Adam and raised up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered, giving him a tight smile. “Unless you want to be the one to kill the chicken—”

  “Go on,” Adam told her. “Be careful.”

  When it came down to it, Court suspected Bree and Ronnie would see more action than he and Adam would—whatever had
attacked the other night had surely moved on, and he doubted there would even be a reason to fire the gun at all. As the sound their friends’ footsteps made through the fallen leaves faded into the early morning, Adam brought the gun into Court’s tent. Kneeling beside Court, he dropped the gun into Court’s lap. “You keep this,” he said, wiping his hands on his thighs as if to wipe them clean.

  “I’ve never fired it before, either.” Court picked it up by the barrel, keeping his fingers well away from the trigger, and gingerly set it down on Ronnie’s bedroll. “I still don’t see why they can’t just shoot the chicken.”

  “Bree said you have to strangle it.” Adam turned his attention to Court’s leg, stretched out straight with the socked foot sticking out of the tent flap. “Let’s see how this is healing. Does it still hurt much?”

  Court shrugged. “A little,” he admitted. Actually, it hurt like a motherfucker, but he didn’t want to use all their strong pain killers if he could help it. What would happen when they ran out? It wasn’t like they could go to the doctor and get a prescription for more, or call in a refill to the pharmacy. He’d live off stuff they could still replace easily enough, and Bree had slipped him three Tylenol pills before she left. They would have to suffice.

  Curious to see what his leg looked like, Court leaned to one side as Adam unwrapped the wound. The first layer of gauze was clean and white, but there was a spot of blood on the layer beneath that, and more blood farther down. “Is it supposed to bleed that much?” Court asked, concerned.

  “I think it’s fine.” Adam unwrapped the gauze completely. There was a large bandage underneath it, dark with blood. Carefully he pulled that away from Court’s skin. Balling the bandage and gauze up in his fist, he tossed them outside the tent. Then he leaned closer to Court’s leg, inspecting the wound. Court leaned closer, too.

  There was no line of butterflies trailing up his calf. The wound was smaller than he thought it would be—two inches long, tops, the ragged edges of skin red and angry. Four bow-shaped bandages held the sides together, and dried blood rimmed the cut. Then some sort of clear seepage glistened wetly in the spaces between the bandages. Seeing it made it hurt worse. “Why’s it look like that?” Court asked. “All red and shit? Man, that hurts like a bitch.”

  “Most of this is merthiolate.” Adam pointed to the orangey-red stain spreading out from the wound. “That was the best they had in that little first-aid kit of theirs. This looks really good.”

  Court grimaced. “Seriously? It looks like shit.”

  “No infection, though. And that’s good.”

  Adam had the first-aid kit with him; opening it, he coated the wound liberally with an antibacterial cream. Court winced, not because it hurt but because he thought it should hurt. He closed his eyes as Adam placed another large bandage over the wound—now this hurt, and Court sucked in his breath when Adam held down the bandage. No matter how gentle he was, the pressure still hurt. As quickly as he could, he wrapped the bandage with gauze to hold it in place, and once his fingers no longer pinned it down, Court breathed easier. Adam tied off the gauze and taped it down with a strip of medical tape, then patted Court’s knee. “Good as new,” he said as he packed up the first-aid kit.

  “If it was as good as new, I’d be able to walk on it,” Court pointed out.

  Adam crawled out of the tent and tossed the old gauze and bandage into the remains of their morning fire. “You’ll be up and around in no time, I’m sure. I’d like you to stay off it a good two weeks, but I know that’s not what he wants.”

  Court didn’t have to ask who he was—Adam meant Ronnie. “We’ll stay here as long as we have to. If you say two weeks, Ronnie won’t say no. He wants to get to Sumter just like the rest of us, but he won’t leave me behind.”

  Sitting crosslegged just outside Court’s tent, Adam glanced around at the quiet trees and let out a quick bark of a laugh. “Tell me about it. Are you two…?”

  He trailed off, then looked back at Court over his shoulder. Court felt his heart stutter, but hoped his voice didn’t betray his sudden anxiousness when he asked, “Are we what?”

  “Bree says…” Adam shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t—never mind. She said you were married.”

  “Not to Ronnie.” Using his hands and his good leg, Court scooted to the edge of the tent flap so he wouldn’t have to talk loud to be heard. “My wife Jeanie died of the virus.”

  “Oh.” Adam looked surprised—had he really thought Court and Ronnie were a couple?

  Court pressed his lips together to keep from grinning. “Ronnie was married, too. We’ve been friends forever. Like, literally, forever.”

  Picking up a nearby twig, Adam poked at the bandage in the fire. It curled and blacked in the flames, and shot out a little spray of sparks when Adam nudged it. “Did his wife die, too?”

  Court nodded. “She had cancer. She was gone way before all this shit started.” He smoothed down the fringe on the cut leg of his jeans. “What about you? You married?”

  With a laugh, Adam said, “Yeah, no. I was engaged, but we never…things didn’t work out.”

  “Why not?” Court couldn’t imagine Adam not getting along with anyone—his large frame should’ve been intimidating, but instead it made him look like a huge teddy bear, and he was passive to a fault. Bree seemed content with him. Jeanie would’ve loved him, too.

  But maybe that was Adam’s problem—he was too easy-going. “We just fell apart,” Adam said. “Cathy was my vet tech, and she was damn good at her job, too. At first, things were great. We went out, had a good time, eventually moved in together…”

  “Too much too soon?” Court asked, sympathizing.

  Adam shrugged. “No, it wasn’t that. I mean, we were engaged for eight years—”

  “What?” Court cried with a laugh. “No wonder she left! Eight years, man? Some marriages don’t even last that long! What were you waiting for?”

  Adam gave him a small smile. “I don’t know. Things were good between us, you know? Why rock the boat?”

  Court shook his head. “Yeah, that doesn’t sit well with women.”

  “Now you tell me.” Adam tossed the twig into the fire and sat back. “Earlier this year, she got a job at the emergency clinic downtown. I don’t know if she applied or if they offered her a position, or what. But when she told me, she said she’d only stay if I married her. I didn’t know what to say—”

  “Uh-oh,” Court muttered.

  Adam nodded. “Yeah. Apparently I took too long to answer because she left without another word. When I went home that evening, she had already moved out all her stuff. That’s the last time I saw her.”

  Court winced in sympathy. “Ouch. So you don’t know if she survived the virus or not?”

  “Nope.” Adam stared into the flames for a moment, lost in thought. When he spoke again, he said, “At least I don’t have to worry about Bree pressuring me to get married. I mean, what for? Who cares now?”

  The day passed slowly, much as it had with Bree, but the problem with Adam was that he wanted to check Court’s wound every couple hours or so, and kept asking if it hurt. “I’m fine,” Court assured him, once or twice, but after noon when the sun began to dip in the sky, he snapped, “Just stop asking me already, will you? Jeez. There’s nothing you can do about it, anyway.”

  Adam pouted sullenly as he built up their fire. When he spoke again, it was on a different vein. “I wonder what’s taking them so long.”

  “Maybe there’s a long line at the register,” Court joked.

  Adam started to sit down on the log he’d pulled a little closer to the fire but froze halfway down, one hand on the log, knees bent, butt in the air. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.

  “Hear what?” Court asked.

  Then he heard it, too, a crunching underfoot somewhere out of sight. He turned but could only see the inside of his tent behind him. With his good leg, he nudged Adam’s foot. “Go see what it is,” he suggested.

&nbs
p; Adam gave him a wild look. “Are you crazy?”

  Court said, “Take the gun—”

  “Where is the gun?” Ronnie asked as he came out from behind their tent.

  Relief coursed through Court. “Jesus, Ronnie. Are you trying to fucking scare us? We could’ve shot you.”

  “Yeah, right,” Ronnie snorted. He wore a large messenger bag draped across his chest. “Where’s the gun?”

  Court nodded into the tent. “It’s right here…” He leaned back but couldn’t quite reach it.

  “What the hell good is it in there?” Ronnie asked.

  Before Court could answer, Bree appeared from the other side of the tent and wearily took a seat beside Adam. She carried a brown paper bag with the top rolled down to hide whatever was inside. “You’re supposed to keep the gun on you,” she said with a shake of her head. She set the bag next to her but made no move to open it. “What if something had attacked?”

  Court stretched a little farther and his fingertips brushed over the gun’s barrel. “We’d ask it to wait a minute…I’ve almost…got…it…”

  Something heavy landed on his crotch. Snagging the gun, Court pulled it to him and sat up to find a pair of brand new Air Jordan sneakers in his lap. The gun was forgotten as Court picked up one of the shoes and checked the size—his, perfect. “Where’d you get these?”

  Ronnie had pulled the shoes out of his bag; now he took it off over his head and tossed it into the tent behind Court, and grabbed the gun as he sat on the ground beside his friend. “They had a sale at Macy’s. You should see the lingerie Bree picked up.”

  All eyes turned to Bree’s paper bag. Adam’s face reddened and he quickly turned back to the fire. His voice was anxious when he asked, “Linger—um, lingerie? Really?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Bree said, opening the bag. Inside were two plastic grocery bags wrapped firmly around what looked like nothing so much as two whole chickens ready to eat.

  Court felt himself salivate. “God, they look perfect. That’s the chicken, right?”