by Easton, BB
I wake up with a gasp, my eyes darting left and right, looking for signs of danger faster than my foggy brain can process what they’re seeing.
I’m sitting on the ground inside the mall. My back is against Wes’s chest. His arms are around my shoulders. In front of me, I can see the broken-out windows of the main entrance. It must have rained while we were asleep. There’s a puddle creeping toward us from the door.
And one of my hiking boots is already soaked.
We’re tucked inside of the same store entrance we hid in last night. The metal gate is down and locked, but I know without even peeking through the slats which shop it used to be. I can practically smell the Hello Kitty bath bombs and body sprays clustered around the checkout stand.
Wes tightens his grip around my body and grinds his teeth in his sleep. I want to let him hold me a little longer, but I can tell that whatever he’s dreaming about is about as fun as being set on fire by Bonys.
“Wes.” I tap his thigh, which is about all I can do with the death grip he has on me. “Wake up, babe. It’s morning.”
Wes swallows and yawns and rubs my upper arms with his hands as he comes to. “Hmm?”
“It’s morning. We made it.”
Wes shifts his weight and sits up straighter behind me. Then, he lets his forehead drop to my shoulder with a groan. “You woke me up for that?”
I laugh. “I thought you were having a nightmare. Did you see the horsemen?”
He grumbles something into my hoodie that sounds like a no.
“Really? Me either! I saw the banners, but the horsemen never came.” I frown, thinking about how the Bonys were about to light me on fire, but at least it was something new. After spending a year dreaming about the four horsemen of the apocalypse killing everyone on April 23, getting burned alive by a deranged motorcycle gang feels like an improvement.
“Yeah, I saw the banners too.” Wes yawns and lifts his head. “But then everybody turned into zombies and tried to eat us. I got to hack your boyfriend up with a machete though, so it wasn’t all bad.”
“Wes!” I turn sideways in his lap, ready to snap at him for using the B-word again, but the sight of him hits me like a ton of bricks.
His soft green eyes are rimmed with red. His jaw is peppered with stubble. His face is covered in dirt and ash, and the collar of his blue Hawaiian shirt has Quint’s blood on it. The reality of what we’ve been through comes crashing down around me as I gaze into Wes’s beautiful, battle-worn face.
It happened. All of it. The eighteen-wheeler explosion. The overdose. The house fire. The shoot-out at Fuckabee Foods. My parents …
Wes gets blurry as my eyes fill with tears. I squeeze them shut, trying to block out the images of my daddy in his armchair and my mama in her bed. Their faces … oh my God.
They’re really gone, and the apocalypse never came to make it all go away.
I cover my mouth with the sleeves of my hoodie and look up at Wes. “What are we gonna do now?” My voice breaks along with the dam holding back my tears.
Wes pulls me against his chest and wraps his arms around me as an ocean of grief drags me under. “Don’t you remember what I told you?” he asks, rocking my jerking, trembling body from side to side.
I burrow my face into the side of his neck and shake my head, gasping between sobs.
How can I remember what to do? I’ve never lost my entire family in one day before.
But Wes has.
“We say fuck ’em and survive anyway.”
“Right.” I nod, remembering his pep talk from two days ago.
“So, what do we need to survive today?”
I sniffle and lift my head. “You’re asking me?”
“Yep. In order to say fuck ’em and survive anyway, the first thing you have to do is say fuck ’em, and the second thing you have to do is figure out what you need to survive. So, figure it out. What do we need?”
“Uh …” I wipe the snot and tears from my face with my hoodie sleeve and sit up. “Food?”
“Good.” Wes’s tone is surprisingly not sarcastic. “Do we have any?”
“Um …” I look around until I spot my backpack in the opposite corner of the entryway. “Yes. And water but not much.”
“What else do we need?”
I look at the puddle inching closer to us. “A better place to sleep.”
“Okay. What else?”
My eyes drop to the torn, bloodstained spot on Wes’s sleeve. “You need to take your medicine. You need a new bandage too, but my hands aren’t clean enough to do it.”
“So, we’ll add find soap to the list.”
I nod again, surprised at how relieved I feel. Empowered almost.
“So we need supplies and shelter …” he summarizes. “What else?”
“Hmm …” I pull my eyebrows together and look around, hoping to find some clue in the dank, dusty, cobweb-covered hallway.
Wes clears his throat and taps the handle of the gun sticking out of his holster.
“My daddy’s gun?”
“Self-defense.” He smirks. “Supplies. Shelter. Self-defense. Every day, when you wake up, I want you to ask yourself what you need to survive that day, and then your job is to go find it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Okay.” I nod once, like a soldier accepting a mission. “So today, we need soap and water and a better place to sleep.”
I like this—having a goal again. Taking direction. It feels like it did back when we were searching for the bomb shelter. When it was just me and Wes against the world. It was almost fun.
Wes smiles, but his tired green eyes don’t even crease at the corners. There’s a sadness in them that feels new. He usually looks so determined, so focused. Now he just looks … resigned.
“See?” he says, letting his fake grin fall as two miserable mossy eyes bore through me. “You got this.”
“We got this,” I correct.
“Yeah.” Wes swats me on the side of my butt and waits for me to climb off his lap. “Well, we have to take a piss, so … time to get up.”
We both stand, and I watch as he stretches and cracks his neck from side to side. He’s gone—I can feel it. The fiery, passionate Wes that I was just beginning to get to know has become the Ice King again. Cold. Hard. Good at slipping through my fingers.
The air temperature seems to drop ten degrees as he breezes past me and over to the main entrance. When he doesn’t hear anything outside, he pushes it open with his gun drawn and disappears into the foggy morning.
Wes said my job was to figure out what I need to survive and go get it.
But I already let it walk out the front door.
Wes
I’ve got my dick in one hand and my gun in the other as I piss on a dead bush outside of Pritchard Park Mall. No sign of the Bonys yet. I have a feeling they’re not exactly morning people.
Fuck knows I’m not.
I zip my shit up, wishing like hell that I had a cigarette.
Rain’s dad probably had a whole stash in their house somewhere.
I look past the parking lot, through the chain-link fence, and up the ramp to the overpass. The eighteen-wheeler wreckage is maybe a hundred feet before the exit, hidden from view by the woods—just like Rain’s mom’s perfectly good motorcycle. I feel the weight of the key in my pocket, calling to me.
Leave before you get left, it says.
I chew on my bottom lip. Then, I reach into my pocket and pull out the key.
Leave before you get left.
I look down at the keychain in my palm for the first time since grabbing it last night. Attached to the metal ring is a frayed strip of leather, knotted on both ends and strung with a dozen mismatched plastic beads. The ones in the middle spell out I ♥ MOM.
Leave, dumbass—
“Wes? Are you still out here?”
“Yeah.” I spin around as Rain peeks her head out of one of the broken entrance doors.
&
nbsp; Her big, round, puffy eyes lock on to me, and a giant smile spreads across her tear-streaked face. “One down, two to go.”
I pull my eyebrows together, but before I can ask what she’s talking about, Rain pushes the door open with her boot and holds her sparkling clean hands up so that I can see them.
“I found soap!”
I pocket the keychain and follow Rain back to the tux rental place where Quint and Lamar spent the night. Quint is still behind the counter, unconscious. His neck is bandaged, but the shard of glass is still there, poking out through the gauze. Lamar is sitting on the floor next to him with his back to the wall, and gauging by the bags under his eyes, I think he stayed up all night watching his brother breathe.
“The employee bathroom still has soap in the dispenser!” Rain chirps, pointing toward a hallway on the right side of the shop. “No running water though. I had to use some of the bottled stuff. Sit.” She gestures toward the checkout counter.
I lean against it and toss a glance at Lamar. “You okay, man?”
He nods, but his eyes never leave his brother’s face.
I wish I had something encouraging to say, like, I’m sure he’ll be okay, or, Rain will fix him up, but the motherfucker hasn’t moved a muscle since I pulled him out of that bulldozer last night. For all we know, he could be brain-dead.
Rain sets her backpack on the counter next to me and starts rummaging through it. She pulls out what’s left of the antibiotics, a bottle of water, a first aid kit, and a handful of protein bars. I twist the cap off the orange pill bottle and shake a white tablet into my mouth as she peels back my bandage and takes a peek.
She exhales in relief and pulls it the rest of the way off. “It looks so much better, Wes.”
I glance down at the mangled gash on my shoulder, laid open by that fucker’s bullet, and hear Lamar suck his teeth behind us.
“Better than what? Gotdamn, that shit is nasty.”
I cough out a bitter laugh. “You shoulda seen the other guy.”
I picture those two gangbangers dropping to the ground in a spray of bullets and blood and broken glass. Then, I remember the horror I saw on Rain’s face the moment she realized that she was the one who’d pulled the trigger.
It’s the same look that’s on her face now.
Shit.
I reach over and give her arm a squeeze. I forgot that she’s not exactly happy about being a murderer.
Rain pretends not to notice as she places a new bandage on my upper arm, pressing the edges down with delicate fingers. Her touch makes all the other broken, hollowed-out places in me scream and beg for her attention too.
Goddamn, it hurts.
“Where’s your daddy, Lamar?” Rain asks, changing the subject away from the shooting.
“Home.” He punctuates his one-word sentence by spitting a wad of phlegm on the ground.
“He still alive?” Rain asks, trying to sound nonchalant, but I can hear her swallow that lump in her throat from here.
“I fuckin’ hope not,” Lamar grumbles.
She tucks her chin to her chest and begins shoving everything back into her backpack, probably to hide the fact that her hands are shaking.
Lamar opens his mouth like he’s about to ask her about her own piece-of-shit dad, but then he shoots to his feet and sucks a deep breath in through his nose. “Y’all smell that?”
“Smell wha—” I inhale and can practically taste scrambled eggs on my tongue. “Holy shit.”
“Breakfast time, bitches!” Lamar slaps the filthy counter and heads out the door.
I guess the only thing that can pull him away from his big brother is the promise of food that doesn’t come out of a can. Typical teenage boy.
“What about Quint?” Rain asks, her eyes shifting from the open doorway over to me.
“He’s not going anywhere.” I sigh, tossing the protein bars back into Rain’s backpack. “Come on. Let’s go see what your boyfriend made you for breakfast.”
Rain
Neither of us speaks as we walk through the atrium, following the smell of food.
I try to be tough, like Wes. I stand tall, take long steps to match his, but everything I look at reminds me of her. The escalators I used to beg Mama to let me ride over and over are just metal stairs now. The glass elevator with the big, glowing buttons I loved to press is stuck on the bottom floor—its only passengers a few Burger Palace wrappers and a plastic chair. The three-tier fountain that Mama and I used to throw pennies into is now full of weeds and baby pine trees. And, instead of Christmas music, all I hear is broken tiles clattering under our boots and the sound of voices coming from the direction of the food court.
Everything hurts. My eyes burn. My chest aches. My family is gone. The world I knew is gone. And all I want to do is curl up in that plastic chair in that broken elevator and cry myself to death.
But I know Wes won’t let me, so I keep going. I keep trying to breathe. I keep trying to remember what was on my survival to-do list. But mostly, I keep trying to figure out what I can do to get Wes back. My Wes. Not this detached tough-guy version.
As we pass through the atrium and approach the food court, I wish the walk had been longer. I’m not ready for this.
There are people everywhere. I was expecting Carter and his family and maybe a few other stragglers who had made their way here after getting stopped by the wreck, but this is at least twenty people, talking and laughing and sitting at tables that have been clustered into small groups. The left and right sides of the food court are lined with fast-food counters. The back wall has an exit that’s been barricaded shut with tables. The merry-go-round in the corner is still there, but it’s tilted to one side and blanketed in cobwebs. And in the center, Carter’s dad is standing next to a flaming barrel with a metal grate on top, cooking something in a cast iron skillet.
“Mr. Renshaw!” I cry, bounding over to the human teddy bear.
Carter’s dad looks like a lumberjack Santa Claus—all beard and belly—and he always gives the best hugs.
His face lights up when he sees me, which is half a second before I tackle him and burst into tears.
“Come on now …” He chuckles, his deep voice vibrating against my cheek. “I ain’t that ugly, am I?”
“Rainbow? Oh my goodness, child.” Mrs. Renshaw’s voice is husky and warm as she walks up and smooths her hand over my shorter hair.
She’s tall and heavyset, like Carter’s dad, but that’s where their similarities end. Mrs. Renshaw is a no-nonsense black woman who was an assistant principal at our school before the world fell apart. She used to have a sleek, shoulder-length bob, like a TV reporter, but now her hair is cropped in a super-short Afro, probably due to the lack of hair salons in the Pritchard Park Mall.
“Shh …” she coos. “We should be celebratin’, not cryin’. It’s April 24. Come on now. Let’s get you somethin’ to eat. You must be starved.”
When Carter’s mom goes to fix me a plate of scrambled eggs from the skillet, I notice Wes standing a few feet away. The way he’s watching us, with those intense eyes and that bored expression, makes me cry even harder. Because as much as I love Carter’s parents, it’s Wes’s arms I want to be wrapped in right now. It’s his punishing kisses and powerful hands that could make this pain go away. It’s his love that could replace what I’ve lost.
But he’s gone too.
Just like in my dream, Wes is nothing more than a scarecrow now, waiting to be burned.
Once I catch my breath, Mrs. Renshaw sits us down at a table nearby. The fake wooden surface is cleaner than anything I’ve seen in the mall so far, just like the metal chairs surrounding it. They obviously get some use. Carter and Lamar are at the table next to us along with Sophie, Carter’s ten-year-old sister. She rushes over and hugs me from behind. Her dark corkscrew curls are wild, same as the other boy who’s watching me right now.
Carter’s eyes are a warm brown, but his stare is cold and questioning as it flicks from me to Wes.
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” Mrs. Renshaw says, extending her hand across the table to Wes.
“Oh, sorry.” I pull my gaze from Carter to his mother. “Mrs. Renshaw, this is Wes. Wes, this is Carter’s mom and dad.” I reach up and tug on one of the curls smooshed against the side of my face. “And this little brat is Sophie.”
“Hi!” Sophie giggles and squeezes me one more time before taking her seat by her brother.
“Wes and Rainbow here are engaged,” Carter announces to the group, his voice oozing sarcasm.
Everyone’s eyes fall on me as I squirm in my seat and stare at my untouched plate of food.
“Engaged?” Carter’s mom echoes, dropping her fork.
I can’t even speak. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and rage and shame as people who thought I would one day be their daughter-in-law stare at me like I have two heads.
“Yep,” Carter sneers, looking at me like a cat that just found a rubber mouse. “Why don’t you tell us how he popped the big question, Rainbow? Or did you ask him?”
“Carter!” his mother hisses in warning. “Stop it.”
I go to push my chair out, ready to run away and hide until my face goes back to its regular color, but Wes’s arm clamps around my shoulders before I can take off. He still feels cool and distant, but his icy aura is soothing now, like a balm.
“Can I tell the story, sweetheart?” Wes’s voice is steady and strong, like his fingers as they stroke my upper arm.
I nod and slump against his side, wishing I could disappear altogether.
“So, after you left Rain in Franklin Springs with her deranged father … he took a shotgun to her mom’s face while she was asleep, blasted a hole in Rain’s bed—which he didn’t know was empty at the time—and then redecorated the living room with his own brains.”
I wince and cover my face with my hoodie sleeves as everyone in the food court gasps and goes silent.
“I met her … I don’t know … was it the next day, baby?”
I nod against his chest, too stunned to cry and too mortified to look up.