|Lara|
Fighting the cold, wind, sleet is one matter – fighting blood suckers is a whole other trouble. I decide that both really suck, the Turned, literally do. Taking shelter across the street from the grocery store in a small hotel room seems like a good idea. It is built above an old beat up bar called Tin Can. The once neon sign shaped into a beer can, dangles from a wire swaying, keeping a collection of icicles sharp as daggers. I duck, crossing underneath the sign, crawling through the broken glass door. Luckily my petite figure comes in handy, practically scraping the jagged glass that threatens to puncture my clothing. The bar is a hellhole. Rancid smells of booze and rusted iron that expels from the splash of dried blood scattered effortlessly on the walls and floor.
Pinching the tip of my nose tightly, I set foot onto the creaking steps to the stairs that lead to the upper floor. I’m taking caution, knowing my luck; I will run into a Turned. Preparing myself, I grip my stake, holding it out in front of my body and slowly walking up the final last two steps when…
POW! POW! Gunshots pop through the air.
My heart skips a beat or maybe it stopped for half a second? I lean against the stairwell wall, holding my breath, afraid the slightest noise will reveal me. Someone else is up here with me, in one of the rooms, shooting off rounds from a rifle. This is a good sign, hope rises inside me, and it could be another non-infected. Although, it still doesn’t mean they aren’t crazy. Slowly craning my neck around the corner of the stairwell, I gaze into the hall. Unfortunately all that was visible was a door that was ajar. Still gripping my stake, I step into the hall way, creeping slowly and cautiously towards the room.
“Almost there,” I say softly, my lips trembling.
Each hand is shaking, forgetting how cold my toes feel inside my soaked boots. Reaching forward, my fingertips touch a wooden door that keeps me and the shooter separate. Giving it a slight push, the door opens wide, exposing a room with furnishing and wooden flooring that shows tarnish.
Okay deep breath, Lara. I try to calm myself, but my trembling legs beg to differ.
“Who’s there?” I speak softly, afraid at first, but I am being extremely brave regardless of the vibrato in my voice.
No one answers back. Walking through the door, I stick my boot forward, moving inside the room. A shadowy figure stands in the distance, with a rifle barrel aimed at my forehead.
My breath catches, as I stare ahead at a tall ruggedly looking man standing across the room holding his rifle, still aiming straight at me. He is wearing a thick flannel jacket and a black cowboy hat that tilts forward on his head shielding his eyes. I study him, but still cannot tell what his expression holds. From the shape of his figure and stance, he looks to be mid-twenties. Raising my hands high above my head, I try to show him that I was there unarmed, sort of, if you don’t count my stakes.
The stranger walks across the room, never letting the barrel of the rifle lower. When he reaches me, the tip presses against my forehead firmly. I wince, jerking my head back. He angles his head sideways, smirking, and then lowers his weapon to his side. Stepping closer to me, his arm swiftly reaches around me slamming the door shut and I fall back into it gracelessly. Pressing against the door as tightly as my body was capable of, I try to figure out what his intentions are, and still not sure what this guy was capable of doing.
“Welcome to my humble abode.” His arms rise into the air, spinning in a circle.
He has a slight touch of southern drawl to his voice. Facing towards me again, he reaches down into a box, grabbing an object that is being hurled straight at me, I duck fast. Luckily, my reflexes are on point or else the can of beer would be planted into my face.
“Um thanks…” I didn’t want to be rude, so bend down and pick up the dented beer can. Cracking the tab on top of the beer, the foam flows over my hand. Raising the can to my lip, I begin to take tiny sips to show that I appreciate his odd generosity. What he doesn’t know is that I despise beer…
The taste takes me back to a memory a couple of summers ago, when everything was normal. Arizona was its usual dry heat and helping my mother’s best friend Jackie’s son on the farm was a brutal chore. Good thing Erik and I had been close since we were little snot nosed brats. He never knew that I always secretly glanced at his permanently tanned skin that glistened with sweat in the sun. His muscles were lean and strong from his hard work on the farm. I always envied his ability to have such beautiful pigment to his skin. He, however, had no choice because his family was Spanish American. His hair is jet black like mine, but I am pale and gawky compared to him.
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This one particular summer day I will never forget as we trudged across the farm yard carrying bundles of hay. My arms and legs were burning with pain from the weight of them but I didn’t want to make a fuss and seem weak in front of Erik. We finally reached the barn and he walked towards the back to the fridge where his father kept an abundance of beer. He opened the fridge reaching in grabbing out one of them and I turn away looking outside shaking my head with a slight smile. Suddenly, a pang of cold wetness scorched the back of my neck. I yelp and jump swirling my body around to come face to face with him, whom wore a mischievous smile. I give him a playful punch in his right arm and he jumps back laughing.
“Wow! You have gotten stronger over the summer,” he spoke loudly as he rubbed his arm.
I walked towards him with my hand balled in a fist ready to give him another hit. He skidded backwards holding his free hand up begging for mercy. His childish manners got the best of me and I began to laugh lowering my hand to my side. He stood for a moment staring at me and I looked down at my dirty boots shyly. When I looked up he was chugging down that cold beer in which I suddenly wanted to taste to wash down the cotton feeling in my mouth. As if he could read my mind he points at his beer while giving me a wink.
“Want a taste?” He walked toward me and suddenly he was towering over me, all 6 foot of him. I felt small and vulnerable but I couldn’t move away because in truth I rather enjoyed his close proximity.
I looked into his eyes and almost lost my words but managed to squeal out something like, “Sure…” Erik brought the can up to my lips and as I reached for it he lowered it and replaced it with his lips.
I’m not sure how long we kissed or whose tongue was who, all I know is that they danced around one another. His mouth was cold and refreshing and I became overwhelmed with confidence that I grabbed the back of his neck pulling him into me. I had to stand on my tip toes to devour his mouth and then he pulls back smirking at me, his nose pressed against mine and his cool beer battered breath tickled my face. In this moment I realized this was my first real kiss and my first taste of beer.
I pushed against his chest with the palm of my hand and took a step back catching my breath and regaining my composure. Bringing my hand up to my mouth I just held it there touching my lips with a flushed red face. He smiled again showing off those pearly whites then proceeded to take another drink of his beer. He finished it off and tossed it in a nearby plastic bin full of his dad’s empty cans.
Erik turned to me and I attempt to speak but fumble with my words, so he spoke up first, “Was my breath that bad?” He laughed.
I held up my hand waving it back and forth in a “no” gesture. Finally, I could speak and all I could come up with is, “I despise the taste of beer.”
With all his perfection and wit all he said back to me before we left the barn was a simple, “Me too.” Then, he flashed me that gorgeous smile.
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I felt a tip of a boot knocking into my shin, flinching back into this harsh reality; I realize I am sitting on the floor with my back against the door. Gazing up, I find myself staring straight into the eyes of my gun happy stranger, who stares back down at me in return. His hand waves in front of my face. Quickly regaining my composure, I swipe a tear that almost escapes my eye, almost. I push off the floor with my hands and scramble to my feet, nearly losing my balance. Falling into the stranger, he catches my tumble, holding both of my arms to get me steady.
“Whoa there Miss,” he speaks softly, and for a moment I think he might be a thoughtful man.
He walks me over to a chair and places me in it, pressing down on my shoulders. Feeling weak all of a sudden from lack of food and water creates a tiring tension in my eyes. I look up at my tall stranger again, noticing a scar that traces vertically down his right cheek. It appears to be an old scar that was no longer pink, but it gives him character. For a slight second, I was curious to know how it happened. Shifting uncomfortably in the chair, I pull my knees up to my chest – hugging them with my arms. It was too quiet inside the hotel room.
Mustering up the courage, I discover that I am able to boldly ask, “Why the hell were you shooting the Turned with a rifle?” He turns from the window, looking at me with a surprising expression.
He tilts his head and quietly says, “For fun, why do yah care?”
I return the gesture and speak softly. “For starters they won’t die that way and secondly you are just drawing more attention to us!”
By sentence end, I find myself yelling and standing. I pull a stake out of the back of my pants, where it is held snuggly and pace quickly towards him. I am furious and tired---I don’t want to deal with a gang of the Turned surrounding the hotel. I certainly don’t want to deal with a cocky cowboy who is trigger happy. As soon as I step in front of him, he holds the tip of the barrel to my stomach, in which it stops me motionless in my tracks. Holding my breath, deciding to lower my stake, I drop it to my feet. Raising my hands in front of my body, to show that I surrender, he slowly lowers the rifle.
He laughs and his smile reminds me of Erik’s, in return for him laughing at me I slap him across the face. His smile drops immediately, because that smile doesn’t belong to him, not in my eyes.
Speaking quietly this time, but feverously, “This isn’t a joke and what is out there isn't a joke," I begin to breathe heavy, "this is our lives that are at hand, is that a joke to you?” I start pacing the room. “Guns do not kill them, but these do!” I pull out another stake, walking over to the door, driving the stake into it and the tip stuck.
Finally he speaks, and I feel relief to know that I won’t have to keep preaching.
“Got a name girl?” He sits on the edge of the hotel bed, while waiting for my reply--he taps his foot anxiously on the carpet.
Finding him annoying, I pull the stake out of the door and turn my head towards him, “My name is Lara and I’m staying rogue.” With that said, I open the door and start down the hallway towards the stairwell, towards hell, because he just stirred up trouble and I’m going to clean up the mess.