What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER TWELVE

"It's alright," I say to her, because it really is. "You're allowed to be tired. And besides, you have a really heavy pack."

"Doesn't that mean you'll get tired?" Emmi asks. She finally lifts her gaze from the ground, confident that she won't trip over something.

I do the same; I tear my gaze from the horizon and turn to look at the girl who comes up to my hip. "Nope. I'm permanently tired so it doesn't affect me."

Carrying everyone's packs is a bit of a pain, but I've been in worse situations. I'd rather be lugging their stuff than lug Robbie around. Being a pack horse is easy.

We take a right and put our backs to the highway as we follow a narrow but worn path into the trees. It might have been used by the original owners of the property, another entrance for them to get home besides a driveway.

I can't help but continually glance over my shoulder, back towards the highway. I feel as though we're being watched.

The sun well and truly sits above the horizon by the time the farmhouse comes into view. Nate gently lays Robbie against a tree, and outright refuses to give me my gun so I can go inside and score the place out.

The two storey farmhouse looms above us, still shrouded in shadow, the rising sun yet to find its way to the front door. Four windows, two on the ground floor and two at the top, face the front, and there are plenty more around the sides. Many are covered by moth-eaten curtains, while others have pieces of cloth covering the glass. Planks of wood are nailed haphazardly over those that are broken.

The house looks like it was white with light blue edging, but now all the paint is peeling away – and I notice, as I do a double take and look at the side of the house, there's a message spray-painted between the upstairs and downstairs windows.

WE ARE ARMED AND WILL SHOOT IF YOU ENTER.

Whether the message is fresh or old, it doesn't matter. It makes me uneasy.

"Look after Robbie and Emmi," Nate says to me. He checks Robbie over, makes sure he's comfortable leaning against the tree – he smartly has him facing the other direction, in case there is someone inside the house – and he covers him with a blanket from his pack.

He leaves the pack beside Robbie, checks the area once, twice, before he kisses Emmi on the head; he then shoulders his rifle and moves towards the house. And by move I mean he gets three steps before I block his path.

He's not impressed. "Charlotte," he says, dropping his voice an octave. "Move."

"Let's go elsewhere," I say.

"We can't go elsewhere," he says. "Robbie's not well enough."

He tries to sidestep me but I mirror him until he practically bumps into me. "That message-"

"Was there yesterday."

That doesn't make me feel any better. Whereas yesterday it was only me and him, it's now us plus Emmi and Robbie, who might not be with us much longer. "Let's just go somewhere else," I continue.

Nate's gaze narrow, eyes searching. The blue of his eyes is startling, and he has two, three days' worth of stubble. He looks exhausted. "Charlotte," he says finally, "what's wrong?"

Everything. Everything about this situation is wrong. Bringing Emmi and Robbie with us seems stupid and reckless and and risky. They shouldn't be here. We shouldn't be here.

At times like these, I wish I had my parents around – especially my dad. He'd know what to do. He was full of wisdom, even though he loved giving unconventional tidbits that I'd roll my eyes at. "Never settle for one fish when there's a shark around," he would say, or, "Better start chopping wood before you quit your day job." And to this day, they still make no sense.

"Let's go somewhere else," I try again, and I know he's not going to listen to me unless he gets some sort of explanation. Despite having been here only hours ago – though it feels like years – something doesn't feel right. This place feels off. "We'll find somewhere else."

Nate shakes his head. "No." He successfully sidesteps me this time, and his fingers gently brush my arm before he's gone, rounding the corner of the house, his footsteps light and quick.

I huff out a breath, hands on hips, watching as Nate goes. And then I turn around, almost tripping over Dog who's sitting between my feet, happily chewing on a shoelace. He squeaks as I barely miss stepping on his tail. I pick him up and hold him high against me so his face rests against my shoulder. He squirms and whines and tries to lick my face. I let him.

"Soon," I tell him, only for him to get me right in the mouth. I jerk my head back, and he seems awfully pleased with himself. "That's a bit rude." If animals could smile, Dog would be doing that right now.

"Nate's going to make sure no one's in the house," I tell Emmi when I return. She stands by Robbie, next to our belongings – minus my handgun. Dick Face strikes again. "He shouldn't take too long."

She doesn't answer right away. I should've seen it as a warning, that something was wrong, but obviously in retrospect it's damn obvious. As I approach her, Dog growling a warning, I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked, and all I can think, the only word that comes out of my mouth, is, "Fuck."