by Claire Kent
I’m so surprised by the question that I gape for a moment. “Have I been giving you the cold shoulder?”
“Not me.” Mack nods over his shoulder, where I know Travis is fiddling with the engine of the Jeep. “Him.”
“I’m not giving him the cold shoulder!”
“Could’ve fooled me. Haven’t you been avoiding him all morning?”
“I’m not avoiding him!” I’m half laughing and half outraged since I’m not really sure if Mack is teasing or not. I don’t know him well enough yet to tell the difference.
“Bet he thinks you are.”
“He does not.” I risk a look over at Travis and see him turning his head away. “We’re not joined at the hip, you know.”
“Maybe not. But sure seemed like you were together. And this morning you’re running like a rabbit anytime he gets too close.”
“I am not. That’s not what’s happening.” I rub my face and try to think about how to explain it. “We weren’t really together. Not like that.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. You make it sound simple, but it was never simple.”
“If you say so. I just like the guy. Think he deserves better.”
“Of course he deserves better.” Emotion hits me fast, making my voice break. “But it’s not like that between us. He doesn’t want people staring at us. He said he doesn’t want people thinking he’s a perv.”
Mack frowns again. “How old are you?”
“Um, do you know what the date is?”
“Not sure. Should be the beginning of August, I think.”
“Then I’m twenty-one.”
“So what’s the problem? You’re a grown-up. He’s a grown-up. Where does being a perv come into it? Seems pretty simple to me.”
“It doesn’t always work that way, Mack.”
Mack’s mouth quirks up. “Don’t see why not. But seriously. Even if you’re not all hearts and roses about the guy, at least be nice to him.”
“I am nice to him. I’m just trying to give him some space.”
Mack leans over with a glint in his eyes. This time I know he’s teasing. He murmurs into my ear, “Just how much space are you thinking he wants?”
I huff with amusement—just slightly wobbly because I’m still emotional about Travis—and I give him a friendly little punch on the arm.
The hardness of his bicep surprises me, making me blink and stare. “Damn, Mack. Your arm is like a tree trunk.”
He chuckles and flexes his muscle with a playful irony that’s impossible not to like. “You can admire it all you like.”
I’m about to respond when Mack’s expression changes. His eyes are focused over my shoulder, so I turn to look.
Travis is standing there, his face sober. When I meet his eyes, he says softly, “I think they’re gettin’ ready to start out. You ridin’ with me?”
I freeze, trapped by anxiety and indecision.
Almost everything inside me wants to ride with Travis. Where else do I belong?
But I’m supposed to be strong today. I’m not going to be clingy. I’m not going to make the rest of the world believe that Travis and I are a couple.
We aren’t.
“Oh,” I finally manage to say, forcing a smile I don’t feel. “I thought I might hang out with Anna this morning, if that’s all right.”
“Sure.” Travis glances from me to Mack. Then he gives a short nod before he turns away, walking back toward the Jeep, the dog trotting happily at his heels.
“Shit, woman,” Mack says. “That’s cold.” He draws out the last word way too long.
I give him another little push. “It is not cold. You have no idea what’s going on.”
“I guess not. But I have learned a couple of things since the world fell apart. And one of them is this. If you love someone, you better hold on to them as tight as you can.”
I suck in a ragged breath and exhale slowly, trying to release a new surge of emotion.
I want more than anything to hold on to Travis—as tight as he’ll let me.
But I’m not allowed to do so, not unless he wants to hold on to me too.
THE DAY FOLLOWS LIKE the morning. Strange and frustrating and annoyingly slow. I spend most of the morning with Anna. We ride in the pickup with Mack and catch up on our lives.
I make a point of not always looking around for Travis to see what’s he’s doing or who he’s with. I figure I’ll be happier not knowing.
It’s only midafternoon when the caravan stops for the day. It’s just one more frustration—that we stop with at least three more travelable hours left of the day. There is a decent reason. We’ve reached a good, safe shelter. An abandoned hotel that will serve to house all of us for the night. It’s a small, out-of-the-way building—two stories with exterior exits to the rooms. And it’s secluded, surrounded by woods. We’re not likely to find a safer place to spend the night, so it makes sense that we stop when we do.
But it proves that I don’t want to remain with this caravan.
They don’t even have a clear destination yet. They’re just trying to get out of the region with the dangerous gangs of ruffians so they’ll be safer.
I tell Mack about the little towns Travis and I went through that suffered from the earthquake damage. There were a lot of them. And a lot of gas and food and supplies still available there. It might be a good place for the caravan to settle, at least temporarily. We hadn’t seen any large groups of any kind the whole time we were there.
Mack seems interested and says he’ll talk to the others—whoever is making decisions for the group.
I don’t like that either. That, if I stay with them, I won’t have a say on where I go or what happens to me.
People are settling in rooms of the hotel, but I don’t feel like being cooped up for the rest of the day and all night, so I don’t go inside yet. There are still hours left of daylight, and guards are already set up around the perimeter.
When the dog runs up with a lolling tongue and hopeful expression, I find a downed tree branch and break off a good-sized stick.
I throw it to the dog a few times. As always, he brings it back right away to begin with. It’s only later that he decides he’d rather lie down and chew it.
I know there are people milling around, but I feel alone for the first time in two days, and I enjoy it.
“Hey.”
The mild voice surprises me since I was thinking I was alone. I turn to see Travis standing a few feet away from me, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.
I say, “Hey.”
“You wanna take a walk?” His eyes are grave. Just slightly uncertain. “Maybe we can talk.”
My heart jumps into my throat. He wants to talk. He knows how I’m feeling. He’s finally going to let me down gently.
I don’t want to have that conversation. It’s the last thing in the world I want to do. But I don’t have it in me to say no to Travis when he asks me like that.
“Okay.”
“Heard a couple blue jays in the woods,” he says, still no trace of a smile on his face. “Maybe we could find ’em.”
“That sounds good. I haven’t seen blue jays in ages.”
We walk side by side into the woods, and the dog follows right behind us, still carrying his stick.
Travis listens and then walks in the direction of the faint squawking we hear. We find the birds easily. Three of them. Perched on a couple of branches. Two of them fly off at our appearance, but one of them cocks his head and peers at us inquisitively.
I’m so excited by the bright little eyes and the colorful feathers that I grab for Travis’s arm unconsciously.
I don’t know how it happens. I really don’t.
I certainly don’t do it on purpose.
But my hand seems to move on its own. Down Travis’s arm. Lingering at his wrist. Then he’s taking my hand.
I squeeze his. I can’t help it. And he holds on firmly even after my fingers loosen,
so I couldn’t pull my hand away even if I wanted to.
I don’t want to.
We hold hands as we keep walking.
He said we needed to talk, but he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to do so. He’s more relaxed now than I’ve seen him since we left our little house. His hand is warm and strong, and it’s holding mine tightly.
We find a crow on a high branch, and it caws down at us disapprovingly, chiding us over sins we’re completely unaware of.
It makes me laugh.
Travis squeezes my hand.
We walk until we reach the end of the woods. My thoughts are on Travis—on what we’re going to say to each other when he finally decides to speak—and it never occurs to me that we aren’t being careful.
But we aren’t.
And we both know better.
We clear the woods, still holding hands, and then jerk to an abrupt stop at what we see.
Three men, sitting around a campfire.
I recognize one of them immediately. It’s the grizzled guy who was on the motorcycle—with the four others who circled us the other day. The ones we assumed are scouts for the wolf drove. I assume the other two men with him are two of the four, but I wouldn’t be able to recognize them.
I recognize the grizzled guy though. Three motorcycles are propped up nearby.
The men are obviously taken by surprise just like we are. They’ve been drinking beer and chewing tobacco.
I’m shocked at encountering them again, but I shouldn’t be. We’re doubling back to the same area we saw these guys the first time.
And Travis and I haven’t been paying attention at all.
At all.
The grizzled guy told us last time that if he sees us again, we wouldn’t be coming away from the encounter alive.
And if they go a little farther, they’ll find the caravan. They’ll be able to alert the drove.
Everyone at the hotel will be in danger.
There’s a weird moment where the five of us stare at each other—poised on the cusp between recognition and action—and none of us move a muscle.
Travis is the one who responds first. He pushes me behind him and raises his shotgun into position. “Run,” he bites out. “Now. Into the woods. Find help.”
I do what he says. It’s pure instinct. I’m scared, and it’s hard to ignore the authority of his voice. So I turn on my heel and run.
One of the guys shoots at me.
I really can’t believe it, but he does. I don’t know which one because I’m facing in the opposite direction, but the gun was obviously aimed at me. I know it because the bullet whizzes right past me, so close I feel the air shuddering just beside my left ear.
Travis lets out an outraged bellow. Then he fires. I assume it’s him. Then there’s more firing. A lot of it. Loud. Deafening. Terrifying.
I hear the dog snarling, more fiercely than I’ve ever heard him. Then there’s an unfamiliar voice cursing, and the dog lets out a pained yelp.
It’s that yelp that pierces the fog of panic in my brain.
Guns are firing. Travis is standing there unprotected. He’s going to get shot for sure.
And one of those bastards just hurt my dog.
I don’t care what Travis told me. I’m not going to run away. I’ve only taken about three steps, but I whirl back around, pulling my pistol out of my holster.
If anyone in this world belongs to me, it’s Travis and that dog.
And both of them are in danger right now.
I see one of the men aiming at Travis, so I shoot. I miss on the first shot, so I try again. This time I hit his shoulder, and he goes down.
The dog is still on his feet, and he runs over to stand over the wounded man, snapping aggressively. Even if the man was capable of it, he’d never be able to get back on his feet with the dog keeping him down.
Travis must have shot the third man because he’s lying on the ground and not moving.
The grizzled man has been shot too, but he’s lurching back to his feet.
Travis has been hit. There’s blood on his thigh. But he must just be grazed because the injury isn’t getting in his way. He’s still on his feet, reloading his gun so quickly I can barely process the movement.
But it’s not quite quick enough.
I turn my pistol on the grizzled man, but he fires before I can pull the trigger. He’s aiming right at Travis.
I hear the shot. See where the barrel is pointing. Travis is just starting to raise his shotgun when he’s hit.
I’ve read in books that events shift into slow motion in a time of crisis, but it’s never happened that way for me. Usually they blur for me, happening so fast I can barely track specific moves.
But the world slows down to a crawl right now. There’s far too long a delay between the sound of the shot and Travis jerking backward from the impact.
I actually see the bullet go in, tearing open his shirt, his chest. I see the blood spreading out onto the gray fabric. And I see him falling backward.
It takes him way too long to hit the ground.
I hear the thud when he lands.
I scream. At the top of my lungs. Absolute outrage.
I raise my gun again and fire at the grizzled man. I’m so out of it that my aim isn’t good. The bullet brushes past his hair.
He’s got an ugly smirk on his face as he steps closer to Travis, who is now sprawled out on the ground. The man is ignoring me. He assumes I won’t be able to hurt him. He’s going to shoot Travis again to make sure he’s dead.
I know it for sure.
I aim again. My hand is so wet with perspiration that I can barely keep the gun still. I fire. This time I hit his side.
He grunts in pain, takes a couple of steps back. Then he turns his gun on me.
He’s angry now. He’ll kill me if he can.
I shoot again. This time I hit him square in the chest.
He falls and doesn’t move again.
I drop my gun and run over to Travis, collapsing to my knees beside his body. “Oh God! Travis? Travis! Oh please, God, please don’t let him be dead!”
To my surprise, Travis’s eyes are open when I reach out for him. He’s got a faint smile on his pale lips. “Oh darlin’. You did real good.”
I cover his bullet wound with both my hands. It’s not really in his chest. It’s closer to his shoulder. But there’s so much blood. All over. “Travis. Please, Travis.”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes close. He’s not moving at all.
I hear voices approaching. Calling out for us. Folks at the hotel must have heard the gunshots and are coming to help.
It’s too late now. It doesn’t matter.
I’m not sure anything can matter after this.
Travis isn’t moving.
Nothing that’s ever happened to me has hurt as bad as this does. I thought I couldn’t cry over people anymore. I thought the worst had already happened to me, but I’ve only now reached the thud at the end of the fall.
This is it for me. At last. The end of the world.
I keep trying to hold back Travis’s bleeding with my hands.
And I cry.
Twelve
IT’S AFTERWARD THAT time speeds up. That events blur. That I can barely process what’s occurring.
Mack and some others from the caravan show up. A couple of them stay to deal with the two dead bodies and the wounded man while the rest get Travis back to the hotel.
There’s a doctor there they summon. He was an ob-gyn in his former life, but he’s all we have right now.
Travis isn’t dead, but he’s also not conscious.
They won’t let me stay in the room as they tend to him. I don’t want to leave, so they actually push me out.
I sit with the dog on the concrete floor outside the hotel room, and I wait.
I don’t know what’s happening in the room. People try to talk to me—Anna, Mack, even Cheryl—but I’m not capable of having a real conversation.
I ha
ve no idea how long I sit there, hugging the dog and praying, until Mack steps out of the room and says, “You better come on in.”
I try to speak and can’t. My throat clamps down over nothing.
“He’s not dead,” Mack says hurriedly. “Didn’t mean to scare you. He keeps asking for you.”
“He’s awake?” My knees are wobbly, so I brace myself against the wall.
“Nah. He’s totally out of it. But he keeps calling for you. Won’t stop. We got the bullet out and stitched up the wound. He’s lost a lot of blood, but I think he’ll be all right as long as he doesn’t get a fever or infection. It wasn’t a good shot, and it didn’t go in very far. But he won’t settle down. Figured it might help if you’re with him.”
Travis is pale and sweating when I go into the room. He’s not wearing a shirt and has a large bandage over one shoulder. His eyes are closed, and his hair is plastered to his skin.
A sheet covers his lower body, and as I watch he pushes it down with a groan. His eyes are closed, but when I approach the bed, they open wide and he lifts his head. “Layne!”
He’s staring at nothing. Obviously delirious.
I speed up to a clumsy stumble and lean over the bed, grabbing for his hand closest to me. It’s not the hand of his wounded shoulder, and he’s got it stretched out, groping blindly. I cling to it with both my hands. “Travis. Travis, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m right here.”
The doctor is a nondescript, middle-aged man wearing beat-up khakis and a dirty golf shirt. He’s standing next to the bed, looking down at Travis. “Be careful. He’s been flailing. We had to hold him down so that I could get the bullet out.”
Travis’s fingers squeeze around mine painfully. He’s still shifting on the bed, but he turns his head in my direction. His eyes are closed again. “Layne,” he murmurs.
“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
It takes a few minutes, but Travis’s body finally relaxes.
The doctor lets out a long breath. “Thank God. Poor guy had to go through the whole procedure without pain medication. We don’t even have whiskey to settle him. But the bullet didn’t damage anything vital. I really think he’ll be all right if he can rest and not pull out the stitches. Can you stay with him for a while? Seems like you’re the one he wants.”