Everyone packs up to leave the following night. We make sure the car has enough gas, the guns are all rounded up in the bag on the table, the cans of food are loaded into the trunk of the car, and we all memorize where Ostford is. We track it on the map and highlight the path there. It's farther than expected, but it doesn't matter. Our only real concern is the amount of water we'll need on our way. There are only three water bottles, six people, and a long road ahead. With the flowers wilting, we dump out the vases and pack them in our bags.
The morning we're scheduled to leave, there are more dead on the streets than before. It's like the number multiplies with each passing day. Most days, it doesn't bother me, but today it does.
I pull up a chair in front of the window at the front of the store and watch the activity outside just like I did at the Safe House. Buildings materialize from behind a hazy, distant fog and the sky bleeds a reddish-orange. I remember seeing the sky like this once before: the morning after my neighborhood was bombed.
I suddenly feel sick.
"Scarlett, you okay?"
I look to my left and see that Keilah has joined me. Her skin glows brighter than usual.
I nod. "I'm just...I don't know...a little jittery. I hope I'm making the right choice going to Ostford. A part of me wonders if Carter really would have gone there. I mean, I didn't realize how far it was."
Keilah pulls her brown jacket tightly over her and crosses her arms. "I didn't realize how far it is, either. But where else would he have gone?"
I look back out the window. The sun begins rising and rolls shadows out along the pavement like dough. "I don't know."
"Well, don't think about it so much. Ostford is your only option as of right now, so you might as well take a chance. And if he's not there, stock up on weapons and food and try again."
She has a point. I nod slowly and exhale. "You're right. Thanks."
"Any time, sweetheart. Now you better make sure you have everything before we leave. Robert said the car leaves at noon, so be ready."
"Okay," I say. Keilah turns to leave, but I catch her before she does. "Wait!" She stops and turns around. "Does the sky look strange to you at all?"
Her eyes jump to the window and move from object to object on the outside. She shakes her head. "It's just a little foggy, that's all. Why?"
I scan the sky once more, taking in all the oranges and reds and pinks. Just because the sky looks brighter than usual and coated in fog doesn't mean I'm reliving the day my parents...died. The reminder grips my heart and squeezes tight. The difference in the sky could just be because of the seasons changing. I mean, it's January. It could be leftover smoke from the bombings that first week? It's not impossible.
I shake my head and wave Keilah away. "Never mind."
* * *
Noon.
Robert and Marvin head out to the car to load the guns up. I help Keilah search the rest of the flower shop to make sure we're not forgetting anything. After we decide we've packed all we can carry, I rush to the bathroom in the back to clean myself up.
There are no longer any working faucets, but we still have sanitary wipes on the sink. I take one from the box and look in the mirror. It's the first I've done so since being at the Safe House.
My faded auburn hair stands up in random places with knots everywhere. Dark stains paint bags beneath my eyes, and I realize they're makeup smudges. After all this time, it's still there? It makes me look even more horrifying. The bruise right above my left eyebrow is almost completely gone, along with the pain. And my eyes—dark, almond brown and completely boring—seem darker than usual. Grim, even.
"Ew," I mumble, just before wiping my face. Once I finish, I grab the comb on the counter and pull it through my hair. Then I hear Robert swear outside.
"What's the matter?" Keilah calls out.
"We have a leak in the engine!" He calls back.
What? I finish tugging the comb through several of the knots until it's as detangled as I can get it and hurry out of the bathroom. Everyone crowds around the front door. I make my way over and stare out at the car. Sure enough, a puddle darkens the pavement beneath the car.
"Oh, no..." Keilah says, her hand over her heart. "So what are we supposed to do?"
"Well," Robert huffs, throwing the bag of guns into the trunk, "It must've happened during our outing this morning. There was more debris on the road than usual. But don't worry, it's not bad. I'll have this thing fixed up in no time."
We all exchange worried glances. Dean rushes out to help and I follow close behind. I don't know much about cars—in fact, I know exactly zero about cars—but I offer help anyway. Robert shoos me away. With Dean, Marvin, and Robert all outside preoccupied with the car, there's no one to stay watch for zombies entering our range. So I decide to sit watch outside with my handgun ready.
Robert's "no time" turns into "lots of time." Four hours later, he, Dean and Marvin are still trying to fix the car.
I watch the sky fade to gray. It looks like it might even rain. A low wind picks up and raises goosebumps on my arms. I look back at Robert. He's busy arguing with Marvin on which car part is supposed to go where.
"It's getting dark," I say.
Robert throws a wrench and it clatters on the pavement. He stands up and puts his hands on his hips. "I can't believe this. This is your fault, Dean."
"My fault? You were the one driving!"
"Yeah, but you're the one who told me to take a detour. Now, we—"
"It's no one's fault," I interrupt. "But obviously, this isn't gonna work. What's Plan B?"
I look between the three of them. No one says anything. Then, of course, Robert speaks up. "We walk."
I blink. "We walk?"
"Yeah. Unless you've got a better idea."
I look back at the car. Unbelievable. Our only mode of transportation, and it's already gone. Like everything else. What if Carter's out wandering the streets right now? What if, as each day passes, he's only getting further away? I'll never find him at this rate. I should've just left the store when I had the chance. I might've found him by now. Yeah, I might've run into the hoard on Maple Street, but maybe there'd be a way around it.
"Guys, just forget it," Keilah shouts from the shop door. "Come inside. It's getting late."
At her request, everyone—including me—heads inside.
We plot our next steps, literally. On foot, it'll take twice as long to reach Ostford, but we have no other choice. It's already too late at night, so we decide to start first thing in the morning. We write out a list of everything everyone will carry. Robert says we'll find a way to bring everything.
Which I don't think is very likely.
Soon, nightfall comes. No one has said anything since forming our backup plan. We listen as the announcement for Ostford replays for about ten minutes before cutting to static again. And that, if anything, brings back a small ounce of hope. At least Ostford is still running. At least they're still there. To the mountains.
The group decides to sleep early since we're leaving at the crack of dawn. Dean, Marvin, and Terri sleep in the front room of the flower shop, while Keilah, Robert, and I take the storage room a few steps down in the back. Robert and Keilah share one corner. I break away from the two of them and sit in the opposite corner, knees pulled to my chest. Sleep doesn't come for me; there's just too much on my mind.
I try picturing the last time I saw Carter. But then, I change my mind. The last time I saw him was when he was worried; when his brow was creased and there was fear in his diamond-blue eyes. He was the most uncertain I'd ever seen him. So instead, I try picturing him back in California, when he looked around as we landed. His eyes were hopeful; full of life. His cheeks were pink and he could hardly contain his excitement. Being a part of the science program was everything he'd ever dreamed. His future was in his hands.
While I picture him, I play with a wilted flower on the ground. The petals of the flower aren't completely dead yet, so I reach for one and feel the fading silkiness between my fingers. I remember being one of those cliché little girls who would use the flower trick to determine if a boy liked me or not. He likes me, he likes me not. I think I even tried it when I first became friends with Carter. It ended on He Likes Me Not, but whatever. I only cried in my shower for days afterwards.
This time, I change the rules. I pluck one of the pink petals and stare at it. Then I toss it to the floor and whisper, "Carter's alive..." I reach for the next one, pluck it, and whisper, "He's alive, not..." What's this whole apocalypse making me into? Some demented child? Either way, I continue. I pluck and pluck and pluck. There are a few petals left, and I whisper, "Carter's alive..." just when something crashes at the front of the store.
I look up. Keilah and Robert jolt awake. We all look at each other. Robert grabs a gun from off the table. "What the h—"
And then we hear screaming. Several gunshots go off. Bang, bang, bang!
"Terri?" Keilah jumps up quickly and stumbles around. Robert dashes through the door and hurries up the stairs to the front just as a bullet hits the adjacent wall. Robert ducks, stumbles down the stairs, and crawls back into the room. Several more gunshots go off near him. When I hear Marvin scream, the way he screams, my blood runs cold. There are other voices in the front room. I don't know how many. I don't recognize them.
Robert stands quickly and shuts the door at the bottom of the stairs. He bolts the lock and turns to us. "They have our guns...they have our guns...oh man, they're shooting, they killed..." Robert grabs his hair and paces frantically. I stand up and pull my backpack over my shoulders. "We have to get out, is there another way?"
"Marvin, oh God, they stabbed him! They stabbed Marvin!"
"Who's out there?" Keilah's watery eyes lock on the door.
"We have to go!" I scream.
With Robert still pacing and Keilah having a mental breakdown, I pull on my boots and start moving stuff around. I search for a vent, a secret door, anything. And then I spot a small window on the back wall partially hidden by flower pots. I rush over to the window and shove all the pots off the table. After climbing up, I use the butt of my gun to smash the glass.
"Open the door! We know you're in there!" A muffled male voice calls through the door. Several gunshots go off.
"Guys, come on!" I shout from the table.
Robert finally looks over. He grabs Keilah's wrist and pulls her to the table, shoving me off in the process. Keilah hops on the table and reaches through the window. I look back at the door and see the knob rattling frantically. There's more banging, more gunshots, and another scream. This time, I recognize it as Terri.
"Hurry up!" I yell.
Keilah wiggles through the window. As soon as she's out, she disappears. Robert climbs up quickly and pulls himself out next. Once he's through, I toss my backpack out in front of me. Then I hop on the table and grab hold of the window frame. The table wobbles beneath my feet, but I steady myself. Using my elbows for leverage, I try hoisting myself out. And then, just when I lift one of my feet, the table collapses under me.
"Robert!" I scream.
He looks back once, but his eyes land on my backpack. Then he meets my eyes. "This is your fault! This is all your fault! You brought them here! You got the others killed! This is your fault! Your fault!"
Glass from the window cuts into my arms and I kick at the wall for leverage, but my shoes keep sliding down the wall. "I didn't do this! Please, Robert!" I reach out my hand and slide down a couple more inches.
"I hope you rot with the dead!" He spits at me and hoists my backpack over his shoulder, scoots back, and kicks my hand. The force sends searing pain from my ring finger up to my wrist and I let out a small scream.
"Robert!"
But it's no use. He dashes through the darkness, and the last I hear are those stupid suede shoes pounding against the pavement.
And then I hear the lock on the door bust.
"No," I mutter, kicking at the wall again. "No, no, no!" I grab at the grass outside the window and use all my upper strength to pull myself up. My knee slams into the wall as I continue fighting for leverage, but I use my elbows to hoist myself out. I'm almost completely through when a hand locks tightly around my ankle.
I scream and start kicking with my free leg. He tugs and I slide a little further down into the window, but I keep kicking. My boot finally hits something solid and the grip around my ankle loosens. I dig my elbows into the dirt and pull myself through while glass slices my knees and catches on my pants. But finally, I wiggle free.
Bullets spew at me from all sides. I army crawl across the grass, fighting to push myself to my feet, but then the man in the room grabs the sides of the window and hoists himself out.
I stumble and push myself up just as hard hands shove my back and I fall forward.
Before I can move, he kicks my ribs—hard. The force causes me to roll to my side as air is stripped from my lungs.
"Give me the gun," he commands.
The gun. I yank it from the waistband of my jeans and aim. Before I pull the trigger, he knocks it from my hand and it flies off to the side. I try scooting away from him but he yanks me by my leg and pulls me towards him. I kick and scream and as he crawls over me, on top of me, and pins me in place.
"Shut up and stop kicking!" The back of his hand slaps me clean across the cheek and I let out a small squeal. His breathing is hard and ragged, and he blows his long, dark hair from his even darker eyes. I watch as they drop down lower... and lower... and lower...and a wicked grin spreads across his chapped lips. "We're gonna have a little fun."
"Please," I beg, "let me go!" I bring my knees up and try wiggling out from under him, but he's just too heavy. More gunshots go off inside the store. My heart pounds hard against my chest and hair clings to my forehead from sweat. The man grabs my wrists and pins my arms above my head. I try resisting, but I can't move my arms. My wrists ache. His weight presses into me.
"Shut up." He pulls out a knife and flashes it before my eyes. The cool tip of the blade touches my stomach, but instead of piercing the skin, he slices the bottom of my shirt and brings the knife up, yanking on the material, until it leaves a sloppy cut straight up the middle of my shirt.
"And when I'm done with you, I'm going to take this same knife and bring it straight across that pretty little throat of yours. Let the dead have ya. Whaddaya think?"
Tears burn my eyes and I scream for Keilah. Of all people, she's the last I expected to leave me behind. I try wiggling my wrists free, but he tightens his grip. After tossing the knife aside, he reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. "As much as I'd love to hear you scream, we can't have the dead interfere." He stuffs the cotton into my mouth. I gag and choke on it, tears spilling down my cheeks.
He parts my legs and moves between them, fingers fighting with the button of my jeans until finally, it comes undone. I feel his breath on my cheek as he starts tugging and pulling...
And then I hear the cock of a gun. "Get off of her."
The man looks up past me and just sort of...freezes. His crusty lips curl into a disgusting smile. "Sorry bud, but I got here first."
"Get off of her," the male voice repeats. "Now."
The man raises an eyebrow, but loses the smile. "Why don't you pin her down for me? We'll take tur—"
Bang!
The gunman behind me sends a single bullet straight into the man's head. The sound echoes through the darkness. He falls back...and lies still. Even the inside of the flower shop has fallen silent.
My hands shake uncontrollably as I remove the handkerchief from my mouth. I cough and tears run down my cheeks. I can't catch my breath. Everything hurts.
A pair of bloody boots stop on the grass in front of me. I look up slowly, my eyes trailing from the baggy camo pants to the gun holster to the black t-shirt, and finally, to the dark helmet shielding my rescuer's face. The only feature I can clearly depict are his eyes—dark, sapphire, familiar blue eyes.
He removes the helmet, revealing a head of copper-brown hair dampened from sweat. His lips—full and bright red—are set into a frown, matching the hardened stare locked behind his gaze. My eyes drop down to the sharp edge of his jaw, the way it tightens and un-tightens as he struggles to steady his breathing. Something sparkles around his neck beneath the moonlight, and I realize he's wearing dog tags.
"Here," he says, tucking his gun into his holster. He grabs the hem of his shirt and starts pulling it over his head. Oh, gosh. I try lowering my eyes, but I've lost control of them: they bounce back up to his hands, the black gloves around them, and how they pull the piece of clothing away, temporarily exposing the tight ridges of his abs. He's wearing a gray muscle beneath the black one. It falls back over his skin.
He holds the shirt out for me to take. "Thanks," I whisper. Turning away, I shake off my ripped shirt and pull the black one over me and hug myself.
"You okay?" he asks.
I open my mouth to answer, but those eyes...where have I seen them before? They're so blue...so dark...so haunted...
"I'm Ashton," he finally says. "Ash for short."
And suddenly, I remember.
It's not the name that sparks the realization. It's not his voice, or the dog tags, or the strange, curious look he gives me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to fit the last piece to. There's something about the smell on his shirt, like fire or smoke, or a combination of the two. And as I keep staring into those dark sapphire eyes, I finally remember. It all comes flooding back to me in one, painful mental explosion:
He's the one who killed my parents.