by J. P. Castle
“Hmmm . . . how about Rani’s?”
They glanced at each other and snickered.
“Yeah, she’d make ‘mother of the year’ all right,” he laughed and rubbed his chin.
“I’ll do it, I guess. No one else is here to ask. That would make me like fifteen when I gave birth, hahaha.”
“Yeah, this guy’s gonna have to age all of the papers between eighteen and twenty, except Ezra, and McC. You could pass for eighteen. What are you, sixteen? Aren’t you ‘n Rani in the same grade?”
“Yeah, I’m sixteen, and yes, we’re in the same grade. Are you saying I look old?”
“No, no, not at all, haha. You’re . . . more mature in your mannerisms I’ve noticed. Especially compared to Rani. She’s stuck permanently in the two-year-old me-me-me, phase.”
“Yes, she is. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t trying to put her down.” He noticed my mannerisms. So, he isn’t just a brainless jock, he pays attention to details.
“It’s okay”—he laughed—“She’s high strung. Wears me out sometimes. And I will deny every word of that if you mention it to her.”
“I’d never betray your trust. You can tell me anything.”
“Didn’t think you would. To be honest, I wanted to choke her earlier today when we found that baby, haha. I wouldn’t really choke her, of course, but figuratively speaking . . . in my imagination, yes, I can’t lie, I was choking her.”
“I can understand completely, but you’d never hurt her, or any girl for that matter. I don’t feel like you’re that kind of guy. You’ve carried a lot these past few days, watching out for the whole group. They may not have said it, but I’m certain everyone appreciates it. I’m always here if you need to vent. I never share secrets unless someone’s peeling off my fingernails. Not sure how long I could hold out with that.”
“That makes two of us. So, let’s give baby Ezra mine ‘n your new last name,” said Bastian.
“You mean like . . .”
“Like I don’t want you to be considered an unwed mother in the eyes of the law. People frown on that these days. I won’t put that whole responsibility on you. And we need a plausible explanation for having him if we get pulled over.”
“Rani’s gonna have a complete meltdown.”
“I’ll deal with her later. You can’t stand alone with this baby, even if it’s pretend. Wow, what kind of jerk would that make me? We’ll just have to figure some things out as we go along. This is one of those things.”
Troian couldn’t wait to get a load of Rani’s face when he shared the proud news. “You’re a real stand-up guy, Bastian Ballentine. Thanks for making an honest woman out of me.”
“And she cracks jokes,” said Bastian. “I can’t believe I never talked to you in school before. GPS says we’re here.”
Jay Slim’s house matched every other house on the block. Brick, five concrete steps, barred windows, and no garage to break into.
“When I called earlier, Jay Slim said he’d turn a blue light on upstairs. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood where you want to knock on the wrong door.”
“Well, there’s the blue light,” said Bastian, putting the vehicle into park. “This place seems rough.”
“Yeah, I’m a little nervous,” said Troian.
They both looked around and checked out the street.
“It’s okay, but let’s not linger. Come on,” said Bastian.
Jay Slim promptly opened the door after the first ring. “Hey, Troian, long time girl. My how you’ve grown. This, your boyfriend?”
Troian blushed again, “No, no, a friend.”
Bastian grinned at her.
“So, you two need I.D.s, papers for yourselves, twelve others, an old man, and a six-month-old baby?”
“Yes, make everyone eighteen to twenty, too, except for the old man ‘n the baby. Also, the baby needs to share mine ‘n Troian’s last name.”
“Come again,” Jay Slim raised both eyebrows. “Dang girl, you ain’t wastin’ no time in life.”
“No, no, I didn’t technically give birth to, baby Ezra.”
“So, you non-technically did? Is that it?” laughed Jay Slim.
“He was abandoned, his parents are . . . gone.”
“What’s going on—never mind, never mind. Jay Slim’s not one to ask questions or pry, but your brother comes askin’ I’m gonna have to tell him you were here. I can lie to crooked cops and crooked people, but not Tony.”
“He’d approve of my actions, trust me. I’m telling you the truth, he’d approve.”
“Troian, are you all the ones on the run from Breckenridge? I mean, that’s where you’re from. It’s nationwide girl. Everybody knows about the virus. Wait—are you all infected?” Jay Slim threw side-eyes.
“No, no, we’re not. I promise. Our group left town early Friday, on a field trip, before the virus hit. The truth is, we all just want to disappear while this mess gets sorted out. We were nowhere near any sick people.”
“You realize his face and two other boys appeared on the National News tonight, right?”
“What’d they say?” said Troian.
“That he and his two friends are wanted for questioning about the murder of a soldier and the disappearance of two others.”
Jay Slim flipped through the camera card. Sitting with a potential murder suspect didn’t seem to alarm him as much as the virus. He studied the other’s faces. “None of these other people were on the news. Whoa, what happened to this guy’s face?”
“The soldiers they mentioned on the news tried to kill us,” said Bastian, “my friend’s picture there is proof of that. We didn’t murder anyone; my friend is still in and out of consciousness. We snapped a photo anyway in hopes you could come up with something for him.”
“What color are his eyes—usually?” said Jay Slim, sizing up Caleb’s purple and blue face.
“Brown,” said Bastian.
“Let me see what I can come up with. I sure hope whatever happened out west with this virus stays out west. ‘N you all need to lay extra low. Like, lower than Jay Slim, and that’s really, really low.”
“How hard would it be for you to round us up an SUV, not brand new, but worth say . . . fifteen to twenty thousand? I’ll pick it up when we return,” said Bastian.
“Jay Slim is a one-stop-shop. It’ll be here. I’ve got Troian’s number. I’ll call within twenty-four hours. Sixteen I.D.s is gonna take a minute.”
“Here’s half the cash, you can have the other half on delivery, plus the vehicle money,” said Bastian.
Jay Slim peered into the bag; he didn’t bother to count it.
“Fair enough. Jay Slim don’t need no mo’ information, and you were never here.”
“We understand,” said Troian, “I’ll wait for your call.”
BASTIAN PULLED AWAY from Jay Slim’s house. “Why didn’t you warn Jay Slim about the vaccine?” said Bastian.
“I feel like a piece of dirt for not bringing it up, but I figured they’d find us faster somehow. He’ll tell someone, then boom it’ll be on the Internet, and they’ll find out exactly where we are. Does that make me a bad person?”
“You did what you had to do to protect us. Most of the people we’re with are alone now. This is their family. No, you’re not a bad person. I tell you what. When we get to safety, wherever that may be, we’ll call Jay Slim and warn him, but only if you want to.”
“Okay, um, why did you buy another vehicle?”
“Thinking ahead. I’m quite sure we’re gonna need it, even if we have to stash it somewhere for later. There are a lot of Jay Slim’s in this world, but who’s to say which ones we can trust with our money. Dad always said, ‘Better to have it and not need it, versus need it and not have it.’”
Bastian pulled up to a dimly lit stop sign, about ten feet away from a dark underpass.
“I figure we’ll . . .” Before he finished his sentence—BAM, BAM, BAM— fists beat on both the passenger and driver s
ide doors.
“BASTIAN,” screamed Troian.
“GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW!”
Two stout young men not much older than Bastian—from what Bastian could tell—pointed guns in their faces from either side.
Bastian and Troian raised their hands in the air.
“OKAY, OKAY, let me unlock the door,” said Bastian.
“What are we gonna do?” whispered Troian.
Bastian made eye contact with her. “Get out, stay calm, and above all, trust me.”
“MOVE man, before I blow your head off and take her as a consolation prize.”
Upon exit, one of the robbers grabbed Troian hard around the neck, pulling her back into his chest. He jammed his gun into her rib cage. “One false move, her ticket gets punched.”
Troian bent her head backward so she could breathe easier.
The other thief waved his gun at Bastian, “Step back, away from the vehicle.”
Bastian took two steps back, trying to stay close. He noticed the thief’s jittery hands, the wild look in his dilated pupils, and the way he kept working his lips around.
He’s high, thought Bastian.
The thief approached to climb inside, confident his partner could keep Bastian and Troian under control. He eased himself onto the driver’s seat, maintaining eye contact with Bastian. The moment he broke the eye lock and went to close the door, Bastian made his move.
He flung the door back and gripped onto the thief’s wrist. A shot discharged from the weapon into the door panel. Bastian wedged the guy’s hand between the steering wheel and the dash. He elbowed the thief in the throat with his other arm. While the thief gasped for air, Bastian reached up and broke his thumb. The crunch grated in his ear.
The thief, high on meth, felt little pain, he only dropped the weapon because his thumb could no longer grasp properly. He leaned back, lightning-fast, and double-barrel kicked Bastian in the chest. Bastian fell, his lower back bounced on the edge of the broken sidewalk curb.
Agonizing pain shot through his kidney.
The gunman leaped on top and opened Bastian’s brow with one solid punch. He managed to reach the weapon with his working hand and slung his arm around to shoot Bastian. Bastian tossed him over with great ferocity.
Troian fearfully watched Bastian wrestle to take control of the weapon. Bastian slammed the guy’s hand repeatedly on the concrete until he released the firearm. He snatched up the attacker’s pistol and rolled a hard left. The gunman jumped to his feet, along with a now armed Bastian, who grimaced from the pain belting around his waist.
Bastian warned, “Leave now while you still can.”
“Ain’t leavin’ without the truck,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a knife. The man reared his arm back to throw the blade.
A single shot rang out, filling the night air, echoing extra loud as the sound waves bounced off the concrete walls of the underpass. The bullet bored through the man’s arm, who inadvertently dropped the knife.
“Last chance, man, and I already gave you one too many,” said Bastian sternly.
The brazen thief refused to listen. He lunged at Bastian in a final attempt to take him down. Before reaching his target, a second shot straight to the chest brought the attacker to his knees first, then the pavement.
Bastian whirled around to save a terrified Troian. The second gunman shoved Troian forward with such force, she lost her footing and struck her head on the side of the SUV. The second assailant tossed his gun into the bushes and disappeared into the night.
Bastian rushed over to a dazed Troian; sirens roared from a few blocks away. Bastian picked Troian up off the street, sat her in the SUV, then jumped in the driver’s seat. He killed the lights, pulled through the darkness onto a nearby side street, and shut off the engine.
Troian held her bruised forehead, still woozy. Bastian pulled her down onto his lap and laid his upper body over her back as the loud sirens, with bright red ‘n blue lights flashing, passed them by.
Slowly coming around, Troian felt a warmth on one side of her face. The first thing her eyes focused on—Bastian’s zipper one inch away from her nose. She sat upright in a hasty manner.
“What the hell, Bastian?!? You could’ve got me killed back there. He had a gun pointed in my ribs! Are you crazy? Why was my face in your crotch?!? I can’t believe . . .”
Bastian, in total control, reached up and took ahold of the sides of her face with both hands. “Troian, STOP, stop, take a breath.”
Troian glared at him.
“Listen to me,” he said calmly, with her face still in his hands, “the man that held you at gunpoint had a cap gun. A fake, a toy. I knew that when I noticed the black tape half off the orange tip. It must’ve fallen off in his pocket, who’s to say.
“But I never would’ve purposely done anything to get you killed. The blow to your head really stunned you. I had to pick you up, put you in the truck as fast as I could, and hide us from the cops, coming down the street. I laid your head on my lap, then laid over the top of you while they drove by. That’s why your face was . . . well, where it ended up.”
He released her face, sat back, and continued, “I almost let them have the vehicle, but I was afraid if I did, we wouldn’t make it out of this neighborhood alive. Now the other guy, that had this 100 percent real gun—wasn’t playin’ around. I knew that, too, and he wanted to use it. He was high on drugs. Not too smart when you want to commit a crime.”
Bastian sat the gun in the lower console. He reached over and pushed Troian’s hair behind her ear. “You’re gonna have a pretty good bruise on your forehead,” he said.
Troian turned to him, “You’re bleeding, let me see your face.”
Bastian studied his face in the rearview mirror, then bent his head toward her. “My bruises haven’t even healed from the other day, what’s a few more at this point. Startin’ to look sweet.”
Troian took the only available medical supply from the glovebox—an old napkin. She wet it with the water from the bottle that had fallen on the floor. She placed one hand on his chin to steady his face and wiped away the blood.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. That completely freaked me out. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”
“Yeah, I thought you morphed into Rani for a minute.”
“Funny.”
“Just kiddin’ ‘n don’t apologize, you don’t know me well enough to trust me like that. I would’ve reacted the same way if I woke up with my head pressed into someone’s stones. I completely understand,” he said.
I want to know you, though, now more than ever, she thought. And the only time in my whole life you had me in your arms, I had to be half-conscious.
“I gave that guy every chance to get away, he absolutely refused to give up. I’ll give him a ten for determination, and a zero for smarts. I didn’t just accidentally shoot him in the arm the first time, either. Caleb ‘n I shoot guns all the time with my dad . . . or we used too. Now, the news people can actually call me a murderer, I guess.”
“Self-defense isn’t murder for starters, and isn’t that the second guy you’ve killed?”
“No, the first. Caleb killed the soldier the other day, but I don’t mind taking the blame. He had no choice, he did it to save my life. The man nearly strangled me to death. Technically, that qualifies as self-defense, too. But they’ll call it murder, use all they can to justify killing us. To shut us up. I’m gonna have to reckon with that Girard guy somehow.”
“Here, hold pressure on this for a few minutes. Let me check your back. You hurt it when you crashed down on the sidewalk.”
Bastian turned toward the door. Troian raised his shirt to find a very reddened back with both old and now new bruising. She eased her hand over his spine, gently across the scrapes. When she approached his lower back, he arched slightly.
“Bastian, what’s this scar, seems kind of fresh? The tissue’s quite swollen. You did hit it awfully hard.”
Bastian pulled
his shirt down. He’d momentarily forgotten about the problem plaguing him. “I don’t wanna talk about that,” he said, placing both hands on the steering wheel. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Rani . . . Caleb . . . no one knows about that, except Bryce obviously. If I tell you, this stays strictly between us.”
“You have my word.”
“I started to get a little weak ‘n sick last summer, ended up in the hospital. Had to get surgery on my kidney to remove a mass. They cautioned me to be extra careful in sports, get it checked at least once a year, and their famous last words—‘try not to worry about it . . . live your best life,’ they said. They must get a script of that shit in med school titled, Things to Say to Sick People. I left town for a couple of weeks to get surgery ‘n came home. Told Rani, I had to visit a sick aunt in Boston. I didn’t want any rumors at school or college scouts finding out.”
“Any particular reason you didn’t tell Rani?”
“Yeah, because the entire town would’ve been alerted in about five minutes.”
“Hasn’t she seen the scar or felt it when she touches you?”
“She thinks it’s an injury from one of my races. So . . . I’m still her dirt bike hero. Truth is, it makes me feel—vulnerable, like less of a man, weaker than the herd. That’s why I haven’t told anyone, and I’m not going to. I’ve seen the way people treat sick people. They pity them and talk all whiny to them. I don’t want that or need anyone thinking I’m weak . . . especially not right now.”
Troian put her hand on his arm.
He looked over at her.
“From what I saw back there, no part of you is weak. You’re all man in my book, and your secret’s safe with me, always.”
“We have to get out of here.” Bastian started the vehicle.
“What are we gonna say to the others? Coming back, all busted up.”
“We’ll tell ‘em we got in a fight with some carjackers and we won. Leave it at that. They don’t need all the details. We’ve all dealt with enough lately.”
“Okay,” said Troian.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Doghouse
RANI DECIDED TO take a shower with the few free moments she’d found. Once dressed, she quietly entered the back room where Caleb rested. Bryce stayed protectively by his side ever since he’d taken a bullet to defend her.