Except our species lost its position as the top consumer. My heart landed somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach.
“We should stop there and see if there’s anything we need.” He coasted the jeep into the parking lot of a small grocer station. Pristine panes of glass veneered the exterior. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s looted this one yet.”
I let out a choked laugh. “Yeah, bet we just passed the town looters in that pasture. They’re looting other things now.”
He frowned as he angled the jeep with the driver side door inches from the entrance. Bent over the steering wheel, he scrutinized the store’s small interior. “I’ll keep the engine running while I check it out. Ready your—” He glanced at the pistol in my hand. “Good girl. Five minutes, okay?”
I nodded, scanned the bleak horizon through the cracks in the windshield.
The car door latched shut and the wait began. I chewed a nail. Checked the mag. Chambered a round. Back to nail chewing. Come on, Joel.
A motor rent the air, grew louder. Then a lone figure rolled over the hill on a motorcycle. The gun shook in my hand as the bike turned into the parking lot.
Inside the store, a dusty dark clouded the depths. Where was he?
The biker stopped beside me, his eyes bugging under his helmet. Should I point the gun? Would that scare him away?
The features on his weathered face rearranged themselves from strained shock to soft elation. Then his mouth and eyes hardened. Determination.
I raised the gun, trained it on his chest.
He shook his head. “Open the door.” His voice muffled through the window.
My other hand joined the one on the gun, cupping the grip, stabilizing the aim.
He showed his empty hands, his smile. “You’re…aw, Christ, you’re a looker. I haven’t seen woman since…” His eyes made hungry promises. “I just want to look. What do you want? I’ll give you anything. Just let me touch.”
I stopped breathing.
Then his arm snapped out and grabbed the door handle.
In a flash of movement, Joel was behind him, swinging the butt of his shotgun. The stock collided with the back of the man’s head. His body dropped, eyes rolled to the sky.
Joel jumped behind the wheel and dumped a box of bottled water and packaged junk food in the backseat.
Blood pounded through my veins. “Is he dead?”
He shoved the gear into first and rolled to the edge of the lot, gaze locked on his side mirror.
I holstered the pistol on my thigh. “It’s okay, Joel.”
“No.” A heavy rasp pushed past his teeth. “No, it’s fucking not okay.”
We faced the road, unmoving. He remained fixated on the mirror. I looked in my own, which reflected the unconscious man sprawled on the gravel.
Thirty seconds passed. I tapped a finger on the carbine. “What are we waiting for?”
As if on cue, the prone man raised his head, rubbed the back of it.
Joel hit the gas, spitting rock in our wake.
“You didn’t want to leave him vulnerable,” I said, a few minutes later.
“No, though make no mistake. If killing him would’ve been the only way to neutralize him, I would’ve done it without hesitation.”
The fact that he hadn’t just killed him gave me renewed appreciation for the kind of man he was.
A few miles later, we skidded onto a gravel road and made our descent to my father’s lake house. Joel had told me my dad stopped answering his phone two days after the outbreak. And I knew if he survived, he would have found a way to contact me. A shiver licked my spine. Was he prowling his property in a mutated form? Could I shoot him like I shot the aphid in our basement?
Joel eyed my fingers plucking a frayed hole in my jeans. “You’re worrying.”
“Yes.”
“Want a hug?” His eyes crinkled.
A laugh bubbled up, came out as a snort.
His hand squeezed my thigh. “There’s a pack of smokes in the glove box.”
I let him see my face and he returned the smile. Then I exhaled a little of my tension.
A mile north of my father’s property, we passed the arched entrance of the Hurlin family’s eight hundred acre ranch. I wondered if the infected ranchers were dining on their prize winning stallions.
He pulled the jeep into my father’s circle drive. The motion activated light came to life. I grabbed the door handle and remembered what Joel had said, Side-arm, carbine, shotgun, vest, like a fucking nursery rhyme.
Already snug in the bullet proof vest, I wrestled out of the seat belt and hooked the carbine over my shoulder by its single point sling. I loved the look of my M4. With a collapsible stock and 14.5-inch barrel, its black metal frame and plastic hand grip made it an easy weapon to use. It was my weapon of choice.
When I secured the USP .40 in my thigh holster, he flashed his white teeth in the flood light’s reflection. “Ready?”