by J. M. Snyder
“That’s the chicken,” Bree assured him. “Plucked and deboned by yours truly.”
Ronnie smirked. “She must’ve been a butcher before the virus struck. She had the first bird done before it even knew what had happened.”
“There were two birds?” Adam asked.
“There were a half dozen,” Bree said. “We only took what we’d be able to eat right now. No refrigerator, remember? I didn’t want to go through the hassle of taking too many only to have the meat spoil on us.”
The men fell silent as Bree set about cooking the birds. Both had been butterflied beautifully—they looked like they had just come out of the cold case at a Martin’s grocery store and weren’t pecking around at the ground hours earlier. Court watched as she seasoned the meat with salt and pepper, then set each chicken skin-side up in a large pan. There was no butter, but they had cans of Pam cooking spray. The pans were burnt on the underside from being set directly into the fire, but it was better than roughing it completely.
The moment the meat began to sizzle, a wondrous aroma filled the air and Court breathed in deep. He had never thought something as bland as chicken would smell so good. He watched the pans for a long moment, willing the meat to cook faster, but he knew he’d have to wait. The last thing he wanted was to have survived the virus and made it this far only to die from eating raw chicken.
But there were more birds out there, which meant more meals if they stayed where they were. “If you’re right, Adam,” Court said, putting on his new sneaker on his left foot, “and I can’t be moved any time soon, at least we’ll have fresh meat for a while.”
“You can pluck the next one,” Bree told him. “That was a bitch and a half.”
“I helped.” Ronnie watched Court struggle to tie the sneaker; it was difficult to do it with his foot in his lap instead of standing up, and the knot wasn’t centered on the shoe but off to one side. When Court stretched out his leg to study his handiwork, Ronnie caught his foot and pulled it closer. His voice was low and exasperated when he muttered, “Let me do this, will you?”
Quickly he retied the shoelaces properly, then took the second shoe from Court. Ronnie came around, blocking Court’s view of the fire to squat in front of him. His hands were gentle as they guided Court’s other foot into the shoe, careful not to bump or hit the bandage on Court’s leg.
For a moment, Court watched Ronnie’s hands lace up the shoe, then he raised his gaze and stared openly at his friend. Ronnie’s hair stuck up from his scalp in sweaty spikes, and his forehead was creased with worry, but his fingers moved nimbly, without hesitation. I love you, Court thought suddenly. It was so unrehearsed, so out of the blue, that he knew without a doubt it was true.
I love you. Court had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from saying the words out loud. What would happen then? What would Ronnie say?
He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to lose this intimacy between them. He’d take the words to his grave if he had to, anything to keep Ronnie near him.
When the shoe was tied, Ronnie gave Court’s knee a light pat. “How’s that feel?”
“Comfy.” Court set his left foot flat on the ground—his good leg—and pushed against it. The shoe was a perfect fit. “So this is what expensive sneakers feel like. I never paid more than twenty bucks for mine.”
Ronnie sat down beside him again. “Technically, these were free.”
“They used to be expensive, then.” Court liked them, though the pristine black and white design would probably be the first thing to go. Dirt and mud would see to that. “Too bad I can’t really use them any time soon.”
Adam was holding one of the frying pans while Bree turned the chicken over. He glanced at Court, then at the shoes. “You’re healing fast. We probably won’t be stuck here for too long.”
“It’d be nice to reach Sumter before it gets too cold,” Bree added. She glanced at Ronnie.
Something in her look made Court also look at his friend. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ronnie stared into the fire, lost in thought.
“Ronnie?” Court nudged his friend’s leg with the toe of his new sneakers. “What are you not telling us?”
Adam frowned. “Wait, what?”
“That look,” Court explained, talking to Bree now. “I saw it. You two talked about something when you were out there and I want to know what it is.”
Bree shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. We just saw—Ronnie, you tell them. It was your idea.”
Still Ronnie didn’t speak. Sometimes his stubborn silence infuriated Court. He prodded Ronnie again, harder this time, and Ronnie caught his foot in one hand. Pulling it into his lap, he wrapped his arms around Court’s leg and rested his chin on Court’s knee. Finally, just when Court thought he’d burst if he didn’t know what was going on, Ronnie said softly, “One of the houses had a few ATVs in the garage.”
Adam turned from the fire, the pan forgotten. “ATVs? You mean like dirt bikes? He can’t ride one of those.”
“Not dirt bikes,” Ronnie explained. “More like dune buggies. You know, with four big wheels. There’s room for two riders on the seat.”
Adam frowned. “Side by side?”
“No, silly,” Bree said. “Like on a motorcycle. Haven’t you ever gone mudding before?”
“What? No.” Adam shook his head. “That’s too dangerous. Not just for us, but for Court. His leg needs rest, and bumping around on the road or in the woods on the back of an…of a dune buggy will just open up the wound again. Besides, how’s this thing even going to run? You can’t just fill up the gas tank at the nearest Texaco.”
Ronnie rubbed Court’s leg as he stared into the fire. His touch was firm through Court’s jeans, and when his hands dipped down too low, they came up along Court’s bare skin the next time, ticklish over the downy coat of hair on Court’s calf. “There’s gas in the garage. I could smell it. And the tanks are probably topped up, too. And we don’t have to go mudding, we can take it slow. But it’ll get us down the road a bit, without putting any weight or stress on the wound.”
It all seemed so logical when Ronnie said it. Court nodded in agreement—yes, if Ronnie said they could do it, then he knew they would. “Sounds good to me.”
“No,” Adam said again, his face set. “It’s too risky. I won’t do it. I won’t.”
Bree sighed as she turned the second chicken. The skin sizzled when it hit the hot pan. “Told you he wouldn’t go for it.”
“You don’t even know if the things run,” Adam pointed out. “It’s too late to leave tonight—”
“I didn’t say tonight.” Ronnie’s voice was low but resolute, allowing no room for argument. Court knew they wouldn’t be leaving in the next day or two, but he had no doubt that when they did move on, Ronnie would be driving one of the ATVs, and Court’s arms would be fastened tight around his friend’s waist.
Chapter 9
“You know what I miss most? Taking a shower.” Court spoke loudly, to no one in particular. He was inside his tent with Ronnie, and it was still early enough that Adam and Bree hadn’t come over yet to check on him, so there really was only one person he was speaking to, but Ronnie was busy cleaning the guns and didn’t bother responding. Court kept talking, filling the easy silence between them with the sound of his own familiar voice. “Hot water just raining down, and soapy lather in one of those loofah things Jeanie used to make me use. You know what I mean?”
Ronnie caressed his gun with the chamois cloth, his touch as gentle as a lover’s. “Next house we raid, I’ll see if I can grab one of those loofah things for you.”
“I don’t want one now.” Court lay ensconced in his sleeping bag for warmth. Ronnie sat cross-legged on his own bedroll, wearing boxers and a faded T-shirt, and all along his exposed skin, Court could see goose bumps standing up in the morning chill. Watching Ronnie’s hands glide over the gun, he added, “I also miss television, and the radio, and flushing the toilet. That
’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Missing that? But God, what I wouldn’t give to be able to hear it go whoosh! and watch the water drain away only to fill right back up again. With Jeanie gone, I wouldn’t even have to put the seat down.”
“I miss the peace and quiet.” Ronnie gave him a pointed look that said, Shut up already, will you?
Court tucked the end of the sleeping bag under his chin. It’d been a few days since Ronnie and Bree had killed the two chickens; the cooked meat had lasted longer than Court thought it would, and even though fresh food was hard to find, he had to admit he was glad the chicken was finally gone. He could only eat it so many times before he got tired of it, even now, when he wasn’t even sure when his next meal would be.
Well, no, that wasn’t right—Ronnie and Adam had gone back to the homes set down aways off the other side of the road and brought back enough canned and boxed goods to keep the four of them from getting hungry any time soon. And Bree had really stretched the chicken—at first, they ate the meat roasted with canned vegetables and rice, then it was torn little pieces worked into pasta sauce, then finally she boiled down the bones to make a tasty stock. She really knew her way around food. Court thought it was funny, then, that she was so damn skinny. Beside her, Adam seemed to swell up larger than life. Court hoped she was on top when they had sex, or one of these days, Adam might just squash her by mistake.
He snickered at the thought, and opened his mouth to share it with Ronnie, but the look his friend shot his way sobered him up. He knew he talked too much, but really, what else was there to do?
Still, for Ronnie’s sake, he kept quiet and let his friend finish assembling the gun. As Ronnie set it beside the other one, Court asked, “How can you tell which is yours and which is mine?”
“Yours looks brand new.” Picking up the revolvers, Ronnie held each in one hand and showed Court the grips. “Mine is wearing down a little because I actually use it.”
“You shot it once,” Court replied. “Carrying it in your holster all day hardly counts as using it. Mine’s been fired once, too.”
Ronnie set the guns aside. “Not by you.”
“I don’t like it. It scares me.” Court shivered and burrowed down into his sleeping bag.
“You don’t have to like it,” Ronnie said. “Get up, the day’s getting away.”
Court hunkered down further. “It’s still early enough to sleep in. Besides, I’m injured, remember?”
Unlike Bree, Ronnie didn’t downplay Court’s wound. When he tried to complain about it to her, all he got was an unsympathetic response like, “The bullet grazed you. Get over it.” With Ronnie, though, any mention of the injury was enough to soften him a little, and he’d touch Court tenderly on the shoulder or leg, as if fully aware the bullet might have done more damage and, if it had he may have lost his friend forever. In the quiet dawn, Court would’ve liked a soft hand on his body somewhere, and maybe Ronnie would lie down beside him again, and they could snuggle close together the way they did in sleep, and maybe, just maybe, Court might screw up the courage to do something more…
But he didn’t let himself linger on what that more might entail. He liked things with Ronnie the way they were, and he didn’t want to risk alienating his friend by asking for something Ronnie didn’t want to give him. Still, he was open to the possibility. Sometime, somewhere, maybe someday…
He peeked out from the sleeping bag and was unnerved to find Ronnie staring at him. Just staring, a strange expression on his face. Thinking, obviously, but what?
Of me.
The thought was heady, and Court pressed the sleeping bag to his mouth to hide his smile.
When Ronnie didn’t say anything, Court tucked the sleeping bag down under his chin and asked, “What’re you thinking?”
Ronnie’s reply was the last thing Court could have imagined. “That we stink.”
Court barked out a laugh. “I’m telling you, the worst thing about this whole end of the world thing is no fucking showers. And no washing machines, either. Our clothes smell as bad as we do. Hell, I don’t even smell it anymore.”
“Let me see your leg,” Ronnie said, changing the subject.
Court was used to it—Ronnie might not have been book smart back in school, but he was street smart and Court knew his mind was constantly turning, constantly working. Even now, he probably had a reason for switching gears, but Court knew he’d get back to the original topic eventually. And it probably wasn’t anything Court thought it might be; Ronnie could really be thinking about what to eat for breakfast, or how to kill another chicken, or how to get one of those ATVs he had seen up and running. Everything else was just a drop in the bucket, adding layers of complexity to the thoughts stirring around in Ronnie’s head.
Unzipping his sleeping bag, Court opened it up and shivered as the chilly air bit at his bare chest and arms and legs. The thin boxers he wore were little protection, and he didn’t know how Ronnie could stand the temperature. What would happen in another week or two when it dropped even more? How would they keep warm then?
Court had an idea, and it flared to life when he stretched out his right leg toward Ronnie and his thigh pressed heavily on his dick, trapping it between his legs. He shifted a little to alleviate the throbbing, but it was too late—he was already getting hard. The thought of keeping warm with Ronnie didn’t help, either. And neither did Ronnie’s hand on his lower leg, the firm grip of his friend’s hand, the feathery brush of Ronnie’s fingers over the gauze covering his wound.
To take his mind off his libido, Court watched Ronnie poke at the bandage. For the first time since he’d been shot, the outer gauze was still clean and fresh—no blood, no plasma, no seepage of any kind. He almost dared to think he’d be back on his feet soon, and they could get moving again. Follow the others towards Sumter, hopefully get there before the weather turned too cold.
“How’s it look?” Court asked. He wanted to hear Ronnie agree with him that it seemed to be healing nicely.
But Ronnie just grunted and shrugged. “I’m not the doctor.”
With a slight pout, Court muttered, “Well, I think it looks good.”
Ronnie slapped his thigh. “You’re not a doctor, either. Let me get Adam to take a look—”
“Right this second?” Court pulled his leg back into his sleeping bag and closed the downy material around him like a cocoon. “Don’t wake him up just yet.”
“I’m sure he’s already up,” Ronnie countered. “I could hear them talking in their tent before you started.”
“Well, don’t invite him in.” Court bit his lower lip, watching Ronnie watch him. Quietly, so his voice wouldn’t carry, he murmured, “I like it like this, when it’s just you and me. It almost feels like nothing else matters, you know? No one else is out there. Just us.”
He didn’t know what he expected Ronnie to say, if anything. There was really nothing to say, and Court savored the silence between them, as easy and familiar as an old blanket he could wrap himself up in to keep warm. The way Ronnie looked at him, Court thought maybe his friend felt the same way he did—or rather, he hoped Ronnie felt the same way, and he almost believed he could open up his sleeping bag as an enticement and draw his friend to him. No words spoken. nothing to say to spook the other away, just two men finding solace and comfort in each other’s arms. Court’s heart ached at the possibility. If he were brave enough, and if Ronnie would only take a chance…
Then someone rapped on their tent flap, followed by Bree’s little, “Knock, knock.”
Ronnie crawled over Court to unzip the flap and the moment was lost.
One thing about the weather in Virginia—it didn’t stay one way or the other for long. Fall mornings were cold and frost crusted the grass, but by midday, the sun had burned off the chill and warmed up the air. Even beneath the trees in the woods, it grew hot. The tents turned into ovens when the sun crested the sky, and Court sat as far out of his tent as he could, hoping to find some relief. The campfire didn’t help,
and Bree usually let it burn down after breakfast, only stoking it when darkness fell and the air turned brisk. Lunch was eaten cold—cereal, or cold rice, or some of the cold chicken left over.
What Court wouldn’t give for a hot, thick slice of pepperoni pizza. Any kind, as long as it was delivery, and as long as it tasted oily and cheesy and decadent going down.
Maybe he missed pizza more than he missed showers. Or maybe it was iced tea. Not the Crystal Light powdered stuff they sometimes found while scavenging, but real brewed tea in a pitcher sweating from the chill. Fat ice cubes in it, and the cold clinging to the mouth of the glass, so even his nose would feel icy when he took a sip.
There were so many things to miss. Pizza and iced tea and showers and flushing toilets. Jeanie, and the house they had shared, and watching TV with Ronnie in the living room after dinner.
At least he still had Ronnie.
After lunch, which consisted of tepid soup Bree had cooked earlier in the morning but which had cooled by noon, Ronnie pulled out the messenger bag he had been carrying lately whenever he went in search of food or supplies. Many of the homes nearby were empty, Ronnie had said, but one or two still held the remains of their previous owners, usually bundled up in a bedroom or on the couch. When Adam went with Ronnie, he didn’t like to go into the houses where people were still entombed. He would wait out on the porch while Ronnie broke in through a window and took a look around first. Only after Ronnie unlocked the front door, would Adam enter.
Court thought that was a little stupid. The dead couldn’t hurt anyone any longer. The houses were empty, even if there were bodies inside. They weren’t grave-robbing or stealing; they took only what they needed. If he had been able to walk, then he could have accompanied Ronnie on the trips and they would’ve made quicker work of the neighborhood.
Though he drew the line at killing chickens. Bree was good at that—let Ronnie take her when they wanted more meat.
Sitting just inside their tent, Court watched Ronnie pull some things from the messenger bag he had never seen before. A pair of threadbare bath towels in a bright teal that looked so normal, it hurt his heart. A pair of jeans—”For me?” Court asked when Ronnie laid them across his lap. He checked the tags; they were his size, and would replace the pair that had been bloodied and torn when he was shot. He still wore those, for the moment, because they exposed the bandage for Adam to check frequently, but he couldn’t wait for the day he could ditch them and keep both legs warm at the same time.