by Easton, BB
I hate being right.
I blow out a shaky breath and go to strip off the rest of my clothes when the sound of voices has me reaching for my revolver.
Standing in the space between the sink and the open bathroom door, I press my back against the wall and listen. I can’t make out what’s being said over the sound of the shower, but I definitely hear someone downstairs.
A million different scenarios run through my mind, but the only one that makes sense is that it’s pillagers snooping around for supplies. They’re not gonna find much downstairs unless they check the freezer or swipe the keys to the motorcycle or truck, but the fact that they’re talking at full volume despite hearing a running shower upstairs tells me that they’re ballsy as fuck—and probably well-armed.
I tiptoe down the hall with my gun drawn. With each step closer to the living room I get, the clearer the voices become. The one talking right now is definitely male, which is good. I have no problem shooting the fuck out of a man. And, with another few steps, I can tell he’s definitely a good ole boy. This isn’t one of the Glock-toting gangbangers from the grocery store. This is one of the rifle-slinging, pickup truck–driving rednecks who tried to jump me in town.
I take the stairs as quietly as possible with my back against the wall. By the third stair, I begin to make out a few words here and there—words like violation and willful disobedience. By the fifth, I find their source—a glowing TV screen reflected in the framed poster above the couch.
I exhale and take the stairs a little less quietly the rest of the way to the living room but keep my gun drawn just in case.
“Governor Steele,” a female reporter on the TV says. She’s wearing so much makeup I suspect she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s just as hungover as I am. “Are you saying that what we’re about to witness is a public trial of sorts?”
“No, ma’am,” the bloated, old bastard answers, snatching the microphone out of her hand.
Turning to face the camera, Governor Steele puffs up his chest as a slow, evil smile curls up into his jowly, pockmarked cheeks. “What y’all are about to see heah … is a public execution.”
I drop to the couch and set my gun on the coffee table.
“Excuse me,” the reporter says, leaning into the microphone that Governor Fuckface stole from her. “Did you say … execution?”
“That’s right, young lady. The events of April 23 have given the human race a new lease on life, and we must protect it at all costs. We were facing global extinction due to our bleeding hearts, and the only way to enshuh that never happens again is to protect the laws of natural selection tooth and nail.” The motherfucker pounds his doughy palm with the butt of the microphone. “In the words of the late, great Dr. Martin Luther King Junyuh, ‘Desperate times call for desperate meashuhs.’ ”
“Governor, sir, I believe it was Hippocrates who said—”
He yanks the microphone even farther away from the leaning reporter. “We are no longuh countries divided! We are one race—the human race—and our sworn enemy is anyone who dares to defy the laws of natural selection again! The future of our very species depends on swift … just … permanent consequences.” His jowls bounce as he shakes his fist in the air.
“But, Mr. Governor—”
The balding piece of shit actually shoves the reporter back with his forearm and takes a step toward the camera. “Today, y’all will see the lengths to which your government is willing to go to protect you from evah havin’ to face the possibility of extinction again. We take this responsibility very seriously, which is why anyone reported to us for engaging in activities that save or sustain the life of someone with a terminal disability, injury, or illness will be tried within forty-eight hours and, if convicted, sentenced to death.”
The camera pans to the right, past the shell-shocked reporter and the gold-domed Georgia State Capitol building behind them, and swivels around to face a grassy clearing surrounded by people.
“From now on,” the governor continues, walking into view, “Plaza Park will be the final resting place for those who choose to defy the laws of natural selection in the great state of Georgia!”
The crowd cheers.
They actually fucking cheer.
“Because these criminals chose to violate the laws of naychuh, their bodies will be returned to naychuh as the ultimate atonement.”
At the governor’s gesture, the camera tilts down, revealing a four-by-four-foot hole dug out of the earth and a sapling with roots wrapped in burlap next to it.
“A Southern live oak, the majestic state tree of Georgia, will stand where these traitors fall as a reminduh that Mother Naychuh is the true lawmakuh now, and if we disobey her again, she will feed on us all.”
He pauses for dramatic effect and then barks, “Bailiff, bring out the accused.”
A tall, thin man in a cop uniform parts the crowd, dragging an older, white-haired guy behind him. He’s wearing a prison uniform that looks like it’s made out of the same burlap material the tree roots are wrapped in. His hands are bound behind his back. His eyes are blindfolded, and his mouth is gagged. He stumbles a few times as they trudge over the uneven grass, but he appears to be coming willingly.
My already-sour stomach turns putrid as I watch the bailiff stand him directly in front of the hole, facing the governor.
No. No, no, no, no, no …
“Doctuh Macavoy, you were arrested on April 29 at Grady Memorial Hospital for allegedly continuing the use of life-support procedyuhs after being ordered by your superiors to cease all Intensive Care Unit functions. During your trial on April 30, you were found guilty of this crime, and as such, you have been sentenced to death. If you have any last words, you may speak them now or forevuh hold your peace.”
The bailiff removes the burlap gag from Dr. Macavoy’s mouth.
He swallows, and with trembling lips and a quivering voice, he says, “Elizabeth Ann, I … I will love you forever and always. Take care of the girls for me. Tell them not to be sad. Tell them …” He sniffles. “Tell them whenever the wind blows, that’s me giving them a hug.”
By the time the gunshot rings out, I’m already halfway up the stairs.
Rain
I squeeze my eyes shut and cover my ears just in time, but I can still hear the gunshot blast and slump of a body falling into a hole even through my hands. The image of the gentleman in the burlap jumpsuit still blazes behind my eyelids, only now he is two men, both wearing red bandanas and pointing their pistols at Wes outside of Huckabee Foods. I watch their bodies jerk from the impact of my bullets. I hear their grunts and gurgles and gasps for air all over again as they fall onto a bed of broken glass at our feet. I feel the weight of the gun in my hand and the guilt on my conscience, and suddenly, I don’t know who to feel sorrier for—the executed or the executioner.
When I finally open my eyes and lower my hands, the hole is gone. In its place stands a baby oak tree—even taller than the man who stood there before it—and Governor Steele, who’s posing next to it with a golden shovel that has obviously never touched a speck of dirt. With every camera flash, his grin widens, and his pose becomes more and more heroic. But when the camera pans over to the reporter for final remarks, she has none to give. She simply stares into the lens, the blank look on her face mirroring my own until the screen goes black.
I stand, slack-jawed and silent, as the gravity of what I just witnessed settles around me. But I seem to be the only one. Within seconds, the uproar in the food court picks up right where it left off. They treat the broadcast like it was just another bad reality TV show, shocking at the time but forgotten as soon as it’s over.
Q goes back to pelting the crowd with supplies from my backpack, working them into a frenzy as she mimics Governor Steele. “Return to naychuh, you filthy criminals! Pow! You a tree! Pow, pow! Now you a tree too! Hey! Stop movin’, muhfucka! I said, you a tree!”
I stumble backward through the mosh pit of manic runaways until I bump into the burn barrel.
Then, I spin around and head straight for the hallway. I pass Carter’s family, clinging to one another at their table, but I don’t stop when they call my name. I don’t ever want to stop. For the first time since he left, I finally understand how Wes must have felt on his way out the door.
Because for the first time since I got here, I want to leave too.
But when I try to muster the courage to lift my head, to look out those broken windows I’ve been avoiding instead of down at my own two feet, I watch them turn and tread into the tuxedo shop instead.
Because, as much as I want to be, I’m nothing like Wes Parker.
I’m not brave.
I’m not strong.
I’m weak and scared and possibly going crazy.
That’s probably why he left. Because Wes wears his past like armor while I wear mine like chains.
I lift the mannequin back onto the white cube in the center of the store. Then, I close the cabinet doors and checkout stand drawers that Q didn’t slam shut while she was hunting for my supplies. I straighten the entire store, even adjusting the mannequin stands along the sides of the room so that they’re perfectly spaced and symmetrical, until I feel my blood pressure go back to normal. Until the urge to scream and pull my hair out passes. Until I feel like I have a thimbleful of control in this fucked up new world.
When the boys come back, the place looks good as new, and so does Quint … almost.
I hop up onto the counter while Lamar dumps an armload of bandages, pills, and ointments on the dust-free surface next to me.
“Look at you, up and walkin’ around. Did you get somethin’ to eat?”
“Did I get somethin’ to eat?” Quint winces in pain and lifts his fingertips to the bandage around his neck.
“You just got your ass handed to you by Queen Cuntface,” Lamar finishes for him. “And you wanna know if he ate?”
I slam my hands over Lamar’s mouth and shush him with wide, warning eyes.
Quint looks from him to the far corners of the room, as if he’s searching for surveillance equipment.
“Are y’all for real?” Lamar mumbles before shoving my hands away. “I can’t even call her a—”
“Shh!” Quint and I hiss in unison, waving our hands in his face.
But it’s too late. Lamar’s insult must have had the power to conjure Satan herself because Q waltzes in not one second later.
I slide off the counter, and Quint and I stand on either side of Lamar, as if we could actually protect him.
Her serpentine eyes slide across the three of us before settling on the boy in the middle. “Saw you and your bro here helpin’ yaselves to a little breakfast this mornin’. Now, I been reeeeal patient wit’ y’all, but now that I know ya girl here’s been holdin’ out on me, well …” She spreads her arms wide and then slams her hands together with a loud clap. “Look at dat. My patience done run the fuck out.”
“No!” I blurt out, bile and panic beginning to rise in my throat. “Please don’t kick us out. Please. I … I can’t go back there. I … we …” My eyes swing from Quint’s to Lamar’s. “We don’t have anywhere else to go!”
“Aww … ain’t that about a bitch? Maybe y’all shoulda thought about that before you fucked wit’ ya landlord.” Q’s expression goes from sarcastic to murderous. “Get the fuck out.”
“Please!” I cry, taking a step forward to reach for her arm.
Q yanks her arm out of my grasp before grabbing my shocked face with splayed fingers. Her thumbnail jams into my jawbone as the talons of her first two fingers stab into the swollen bags beneath my eyes, pulling my bottom lids down. She assesses me like a cat, trying to figure out if she wants to eat me now or play with me first.
“Touch me again, and I’ma take ya eyeballs and wear ’em as earrings, bitch.”
I try to squeeze my eyelids shut and whisper, “I’m sorry,” against her palm.
Q groans and releases my face with a shove. “I’ll let y’all stay—on one condition.” She turns her attention on the boys to my right and sneers, “These two lazy-ass muhfuckas start scoutin’ … now.”
“No,” I blurt and shake my head. “Please. They can’t go out there. Quint still has an open wound, and Lamar …” I turn and look at the smart-ass standing next to me. “He’s just a kid.”
“Boo-fuckin’-hoo, bitch.” Q pretends to wipe a tear from her eye and flick it at me. “Scout or get the fuck out.”
My frantic mind races through every possible choice. Even though the very thought of going outside makes me feel like the room is spinning and the walls are closing in, I can’t risk getting kicked out or losing the only friends I have left.
With a heaving chest and sweating palms, I open my mouth to volunteer, but the voice that I hear isn’t my own. It’s deep and cool but with an edge that electrifies every cell in my body.
“I’ll do it.”
All four of our heads swivel toward the door, which is now filled with a presence I never thought I’d see again. His chestnut-brown hair is dark and wet. His pale green eyes are sad. Severe. His clothes are clean, his boots are muddy, and even from ten feet away, I can feel him. Hollow yet overflowing. Calm yet pulsing. Strong-willed and stubborn, yet … he’s here.
He came back.
Wes’s green gaze swallows me whole before he speaks again, “You still want to stay here?” His words are quiet, meant only for me.
I nod. It’s a lie though. I don’t want to stay here another second, but nodding is easier than admitting that something is so wrong with me that I can’t even look outside without having a panic attack.
His soft gaze hardens as it settles on Q. “Then, I’ll do it.”
She claps her ring-adorned hands together and sashays toward Wes. Her full hips sway as if she were swinging an invisible tail. “I knew you’d be back, Surfer Boy,” she coos, reaching up to pat him on the cheek.
Wes jerks his chiseled chin out of her reach, and she bursts out laughing.
“Oh, I forgot. You wanna keep us on the down-low.” She casts an evil smirk at me over her shoulder before walking out the door.
Just before she disappears, Q turns to face Wes again. “You got until tomorrow to bring me some dish soap, lighter fluid, toothbrushes, deodorant, D batteries, and some gotdamn chocolate chip cookies, Surfer Boy. I ain’t playin’.”
Wes lifts an eyebrow at her but says nothing as she spins back around and prances away. When his gaze falls back on me, as cold and guarded as the day we met, I hold my breath.
“You’re hurt.” The words come out raspy and clipped after clawing their way through his clenched jaw.
I don’t even know what to say to that.
Of course I’m fucking hurt. You left me. I needed you, and you left me.
But when Wes reaches out and runs a thumb over my bruised cheek, I wince and realize what he meant.
“Ugh.” I turn my head away and hiss, “What do you care?”
“So, uh …” Lamar mumbles as he and Quint tiptoe around us. “If y’all need us, we’re gonna be … avoiding the hell outta this conversation. Deuces.”
He throws a peace sign up on their way out the door, and suddenly, it’s just me.
And Wes.
Who is still staring at my freshly slapped cheek.
“Who did this to you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Fucking tell me, Rain.”
“Fine! You did this to me, okay? You. If you had been here, none of this would have happened!”
Wes drops his eyes, the lids stained purple from exhaustion.
Just like mine.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is soft and sincere and makes me want to do stupid things like kiss his violet eyelids, so I turn and walk to the counter to put some space between us instead.
I sit on the dark gray surface next to the medical supplies. It’s better over here. I feel like I can almost think now. Almost.
“I’ve never felt sorry for anything I’ve done before … but I
’m sorry for this.” Wes’s eyes lift, and the remorse I see in them is all the apology I need.
I want to run to him and kiss the pain off his face, but I can’t. I’m paralyzed by his presence. All I can do is hold my breath and stare as he crosses the room like a ghost.
“I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like to fear something that doesn’t make any sense”—Wes takes a step toward me. Then, another—“but this”—he gestures between us with the flick of a finger—“this scares the shit out of me.”
Step.
“I was trying to protect myself.”
Step.
“But when I saw that broadcast today …” Wes shakes his head as the color drains from his face. “It made me realize that there’s something I want to protect even more than myself.”
Wes erases the gap between us with one final stride. His body comes to a stop between my dangling legs, and his palms find a home on my trembling thighs.
“I know you think you’re safe here, but you’re not. You taking care of Quint … all these witnesses …”
Wes cups my face just below my busted cheek. I close my eyes and lean into his touch even though it makes everything hurt that much worse.
“Piss off the wrong person, and they can make you disappear with one phone call, Rain.”
I pull my eyes shut tighter and shake my head against his palm.
No one here would do that. Would they?
“Listen, I don’t care if you hate me. I don’t care how bad it hurts to see you with someone else. I don’t care if you ever fucking speak to me again. I will suffer through all of that and more to make sure they don’t fucking take you.”
Wes slowly dips his head forward, but his lips don’t land on my mouth. They fall like a feather onto the raised welt on my right cheekbone. The gesture is so gentle, so sweet, that it breaks my heart in two. I remember how Wes used to flinch and grit his teeth when I cared for his bullet wound. That’s how I feel right now. His tenderness hurts, but only because it’s making me realize how badly I needed it.
My eyes flutter open as a strange sense of déjà vu slithers into my veins. Panic replaces pain as I frantically search the flowers on Wes’s shirt for telltale horseman silhouettes.