Not-yet-titled sequel

Part 4

Rebecca laid a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder to wake her, and Sam smiled before opening her eyes, reaching up with her right hand.

"Mmm... hi sugar."

No, wait. Those fingers were too slender, the nails not chewn short enough. The thumb under Sam's meant there should have been that little raised vein along the back of Rebecca's left hand. Damn.

She rolled over and opened her bleary eyes, greeted by Christine's fabulously frizzy golden hair. It was gentler than a blast of sunrise waking her up, she supposed.

"Sorry, Sammie. Just me. But she's asking for you, if that helps any. Take your time getting your feet under you, I'll let her know you're coming."

"Thanks, Chrissie."

Sam rolled back onto her side and sighed, staring at the wall of the barn for a minute. She'd been doing that a lot. Most of the time she was awake and Rebecca wasn't, Sam spent leaning on the porch columns, or a fence rail, or laying on her back in this cot, staring at fields and ceilings like she was waiting for something to show up. She didn't really know what. Maybe Ronnie in their big armored truck, coming to fix everything — hopefully with Rufus in tow. She could use a good dog snorgle right now, and Rebecca probably could too. Maybe he'd fix everything.

Well, she'd better go check on her girl — hoping she could still call her that. Sam tossed her sleeping bag back with a sigh and sat upright, fumbling for her boots. They'd spent a full day and night recuperating and were probably just scratching the surface. Patrick and Christine took the SUV up to the top of the fire road and reported in, but Rebecca requested — demanded — they not mention specifics of her injuries to Ronnie, arguing that her concussion symptoms were improving. Their sleep schedules were completely screwed; inconvenient exhausted insomnia was the rule of thumb. They'd upgraded Landry to some of their Vicodin stash just so he could breathe comfortably enough to doze.

The recently freed farm residents treated them like heroes, but Sam was pretty sure she felt the least like that of everyone. The day before yesterday had taken her down such a deep dark hole, even before they'd entered that damnable house. She hadn't even had time to properly start grieving her mom, or processing her throw-down with her father, and then all this. Everything was fucking fine three days ago and suddenly she'd pretty much had her heart ripped out and stomped on, prompting her to take it out on everyone around her. Some very deserving, some so very much not.

The locals seemed to sense her mood this morning, parting their throngs to make a path for her as she exited the barn. Dylan was near the door and smiled... sympathetically? Apologetically? Sam tried to be polite and lift the corner of her mouth as she passed. Maybe it worked, but she'd made a token effort.

Some of them were knocking down the crucifixes as she passed — but if the mutterings she'd heard while staring into space were true, they might want to save a couple. There were debates brewing about whether it was better to kick the prisoners out into the world and hope they didn't do much more harm — particularly of concern to the liberated folks who wanted to leave, head back to wherever they came from — or keep them on the farm, allowing them to earn their keep. The crosses were barbaric, but it occurred to her they might need a punishment system of their own to keep the leftovers of Mags' gang in line unless someone was going to get into the incarceration business. Yet another thing Ronnie might have had an answer for that wasn't a firing squad.

Epstein was sitting at the top of the porch steps and extended his good hand to her as she climbed them — she gave it a passing cordial swat. He'd as good as saved her and Rebecca's lives. Maybe Chris and Pat would have taken care of matters too, but at the very least she appreciated being spared more of that crone's monologuing.