“That’s better.” The hick paused. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “Now. You ain’t got no business with a gun. You could hurt someone.”
Brandon could have told this jackshit asshole that 23 French could swing a piece of lumber or a crowbar, and that was good enough when the whole world went horror-movie crazy and your elderly parents got up off their sickbeds and started trying to kill you. Bright, sharp hate rotated in the center of Brandon’s head. He’d shattered Daddy’s spongy-boned, balding head with a broomstick, but his mother…
He didn’t want to think about Mama. Especially not the sound made when her neck cracked or her skull shattered.
“You hear me?” The hick shoved him further into the slushy concrete. “You shoulda stayed at the hotel, buddy. But you didn’t, so you gonna learn our rules and abide by ’em. Right?”
It was just like his father all over again. Army make a man outa you, son. Brandon didn’t want the fucking Army, he wanted to wear a black turtleneck and go to a city, or anyplace that didn’t reek of cowshit, but Gordon French didn’t raise no sissyboy, yessir nosir, and Brandon had only just squeaked his way through two hellish years of National Guard before escaping. Even Daddy had to admit he’d tried.
Christ. There was another bad thought. Still, if the world hadn’t gone all to hell with zombie fucks running everywhere he’d be thinking about the situation with that little ponytailed bitch of a sophomore. We think it’s best for you to be on administrative leave, Mr French.
No such thing as tenure at a fucking hick high school, when you'd moved back to take care of your parents like a good son. His entire life, he'd been doing what his goddamn father wanted, and the bastard couldn't even die before the whole country went insane.
“Right,” Brandon moaned, his jaw wet and loose. “Fine. I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been in the back of a goddamn truck all day!” Even this asshole had to see the justice of that. His arm was twisted painfully behind him, and the muzzle against the back of his head felt very sharp, and very cold.
“Nobody ast you to come along.” But the hick eased up. “You put your manners on, Mr…French, is it?”
“Yessir.” Fuck, he hated those goddamn cracker backwoods inbred pieces of shit. Fucking Neanderthals. “All right? You done?”
“For now.” At least the hick let him up, and even brushed at his shoulders. Like that did any fucking good, after rolling him in snow and slop. “I’m Quartine.”
“How do you spell that?” He’d be surprised if the asshole knew how to spell anything, but the fellow rattled it off. Brandon took note. Mispronouncing someone's name was an easy way to fuck with them. “Okay, fine. I’m French. Brandon French.”
“Yeah.” The man stood, hipshot and easy, his pistol pointed at the ground, finger carefully locked outside the trigger guard. He wasn’t as old as Brandon had thought, or as wiry. His shoulders weren’t linebacker-sized, but then again, neither were Brandon’s, now. That direct glare of his was troubling, and the hick’s hair was blurring out of a high-and-tight just like a drill sergeant's that gave Brandon the willies. “Come on. Let’s get you dry.”
Sure thing, you asshole. Brandon followed, meekly enough.
He was already brainstorming how he was going to make this backwoods bastard pay.
Get Change Back
Evening found them in Taggart, slowing because of the dropping temperature in a bruise-dark dusk. The melt had halted halfway as afternoon wore on, and Lee had the kids in the truck while Juju and Ginny took Brandon and Traveller into the four-by. Lee didn’t like that, and he didn’t like how the man’s whine switched off as soon as he saw Ginny. There was a steadily lengthening list of things Lee didn’t like, and fatigue was wearing his nerves to a frazzle.
Or they were already done worn, as Nonna used to say.
Lewiston had spread tentacles toward the joint Army-Air Force base and in the opposite direction along the interstate. Taggart was a knot near the end of one long ropy leg, and it was deserted. Lee finally settled on a locked-up Schnuck’s, deserted but not fully dark. Some power was getting through. The lot was a sea of melt freezing into odd shapes as the mercury fell, each glowing, guttering lamp festooned with small icicles. He got the truck right on up near the doors, cut the engine, and glared balefully at the place, finally realizing neither of the kids had spoken for the past hour. Steph, huddled near the window, was round-eyed, and Mark held her ungloved left hand in both of his palms, like it was precious.
“Thank God,” Steph said, as the engine started tick-cooling. She was pale, again, her sharp kittenish face drawn tight. “I have to pee.”
“Wait a minute.” Lee slipped out, freed his rifle, and slammed the door, maybe a little harder than he had to.
Juju was already parked and out of the four-by, scanning the lot. “Hey.”
Lee grunted, tipped his head at the store.
Juju fell into step, covering him. “New boy’s an asshole.”
Yeah, I figured. “Ginny safe in there?”
“He ain’t got a fever, she says. But the dog don’t like ’im.” Juju scratched under the rim of his knitted cap, the pompom nodding, carefully keeping his own piece pointed well away and down while he got the itch settled.
Any man a dog didn’t like was better off where you could see him. “Huh.”
“Been talking about books with Miss Ginny. College boy. Just graduated, now a teacher someplace called Lourd Bend.”
That was all the way on the other side of Lewisville, and a fair way from the Crossing, too. Lee’s mood blackened a little more, but there was work to be done, and he set himself to doing it. Juju shut up, too, unless it was to say clear, right, or left. Jimmying an employee door wasn’t hard, and the produce department hadn’t gone ripe because of the chill. The entire place was dim and echoing, but the employee break room was a nice one. There were even windows, letting in what little remained of the dying daylight.
At least Ginny hadn’t gotten out of the four-by to stretch her legs. Lee motioned them to come on, scanning the parking lot again. No movement. Their own tire tracks, looping neatly, were the only evidence of human passage. There was a belt of ice-freighted scrub brush at the far end of the lot, next to a long squat brick building holding a nail salon, a dry cleaner’s, and a take-and-bake pizza joint. No sound of traffic from the freeway, just that deadly, deep quiet, with their vehicles’ engines pinging as they cooled a counterpoint to little crackles as the freeze settled in everywhere else.
“Art history,” Brandon French continued, as he got out. Fucker didn’t even go ’round to open Ginny’s door, just stopped to gap and stretch. “I had to go into education, but that was my first love.”
Lee popped the handle on Ginny’s side, and Traveller yipped a greeting, wriggling to get past her. She just barely managed to get the leash on him, and gave Lee a quick look of thanks when he took the red nylon strap and hefted the dog down.
“I only took a couple semesters, really.” Ginny was smiling. Her color had come back, and stray curls floated on the cold breeze. “Oof. I’m glad we’re stopping. Juju won’t let me drive.”
He’s kind of particular about his car. “Maybe tomorrow,” Lee mumbled. She just looked so damn happy. Traveller tugged on the leash, and when Ginny tried to reclaim it Lee shook his head. “Go on in, get warm. They got an upstairs, and power still.”
Her grin broadened, and she looked up at him, tucking a flyaway curl back into her braid with quick, graceful, tapering fingers. “I should take Traveller—”
“I got ’im, Ginny.” He didn’t mean to say it so sharply, but maybe she didn’t mind. In any case, she nodded a thank-you and slipped past, heading for the back of the truck.
The hound wasn’t overly pleased, but at least with Lee he minded his manners. Brandon walked on into the Schnuck’s like he owned the place, not stopping to pick up any gear or even his own damn backpack. Probably thought Juju and the kids were the help, for God’s sake. Ginny immediately pitched in with unl
oading instead of heading inside, and Lee turned away, staring across the lot at the greenbelt. There was plenty to think about, and it was getting to where he didn’t like a single bit of it.
Had the branches moved? Lee exhaled softly while Traveller wriggled, the dog pulling at the leash, straining to sniff out another patch of ice to pee on. The clouds, scudding away westward, scraped the sky clean, and stars glimmered through. There was Venus, riding low, and with most of the streetlamps and city lights dead he’d lay odds you could see the Milky Way, if you stayed out late enough.
Murmurs behind him. Juju’s footsteps, crunching. Lee kept watching the bushes.
“You all right?” Juju asked.
Now why wouldn’t he be? “Thinkin.”
“Penny for ’em.”
The lot’s lamps guttered again, came back even lower. “You’d get change back.” Lee settled his rifle strap, tugging at the leash. “Come on, dog.” Maybe it was just the wind. In any case, they’d barricade the employee door, and Lee thought he was maybe tired enough to actually sleep tonight.
Go figure, right when he had to keep one open eye on this Brandon fella.
A practically new microwave in the employee break room had enough buzz to cook up several cans' worth of beef stew for supper; they ate in the breakroom, the overhead fluorescents buzzing and Ginny laughing as Brandon cracked rich-boy jokes. The two of them talked about people he’d never heard of, and sometimes Steph put a word or two in. Mark just hunched over his paper bowl and shoveled down all he could get. Juju, next to Ginny, patted Trav’s head every once in a while, sneaking the dog tidbits of whole-wheat bread soaked in stew-juice; and Lee, set back from the circle a little bit, watched Ginny’s delicate wrist, the way she glanced down every so often to make sure the dog was still there, how her chin lifted a little when she was amused. There was no shortage of imaginary people and things in books for them to chew over, and after a while it turned to opera, for Chrissake.
“I’m neutral on it, really,” Ginny said, her earrings gleaming. The fluorescents buzzed, dimmed like the lot lights, and came back. “Juju’s the expert.”
“I know what I like,” Juju said, brightening visibly. You could probably run a house or two off his face alone whenever anyone mentioned that screechy-time music.
“Aida?” Brandon stretched his legs out, taking up more than his share of space. His boots rubbed mud and melt into the short nylon carpet. “Othello?”
“More a fan of Gluck, actually.” Juju’s nostrils flared a little, and Ginny looked quickly down, as if embarrassed. Her smile faded a little, and Brandon stretched his legs out even further, taking up more space than he had a right to.
“Orpheus et Eurydice?” Brandon took a giant mouthful of stew. His eyebrows went up a little, as if Juju had said something surprising.
Juju shook his head. His hair, crushed from the pompom cap, was springing back slowly but surely. “Iphigénie en Aulide. 1953 recording, Wiener Philharmonic.”
“You lost me,” Ginny said. “I saw Die Zauberflote once, and that was enough.”
“That’s Mozart.” Juju managed to sound scandalized and amused all at once, and his shy smile matched hers perfectly.
“I know, I’m not a barbarian.” She bumped him with her shoulder, and their shared grin didn’t make Lee want to punch something. “I’m not fond of him, either. My mother put me through ten years of piano, I quit as soon as I could.”
Juju’s eyebrows drew together, and his mouth turned down. He stirred his stew with a plastic spoon, meditatively. “Didn’t like it?” Like he didn’t believe anyone could dislike that Mozart fellow, or the piano.
“It could have been worse.” It was the first time Ginny had seemed, well, relaxed. “My sister had to take clarinet.”
Lee’s hands tingled a little. He didn’t have any appetite, but ate anyway. When you had a job to do, you needed fuel, no matter what your stomach felt like.
“Didn’t make you duet, did they?” Brandon found this funny.
“God.” Ginny rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me. We sounded like a Canadian goose and a drunken Victor Borge.”
Music lessons. Opera. Lee hunched his shoulders. He supposed he qualified as a barbarian. Just a dumb backwoods bunny. The next time those zombie critters came around, though, she’d be damn glad he wasn’t stupid enough to sling a carbine on without knowing how to use it. Motherfucker could have shot Ginny if he’d loaded the damn thing.
Now Lee was wishing he’d shot the man on sight. A sigh caught him by surprise, so he dropped his gaze back into his bowl and set himself to eating. That, at least, was something he was fairly sure he knew a little about.
Your Useful
The manager’s office was small, but at least it had enough room for a sleeping bag or two. Steph would be up in a bit, Mark would settle on one of the couches in the employee breakroom. Lee and Juju had assumed Brandon would take a shift standing watch. He didn’t look too happy about it—what English teacher would? Ginny sighed, unpinned her braids, and unrolled her sleeping bag. A courteous knock on the office door made her jump.
“Brought you a candle, and some matches.” It was Lee, his flashlight beam bobbing; they’d turned the breakers off for the night. It was nice to have power, but the risk of drawing more of the infected was more than any of them wanted to take. Traveller bustled in after him, and immediately began a circuit of the office, tail held horizontal and wagging businesslike.
“Thanks.” She longed for a bubble bath. Some scorching Thai curry. A soap-bubble comedy on her laptop and a world going on in its normal way, maybe passive-aggressive texts from her sister or Mom calling with gossip. She’d even settle for spam emails and ads, because that would mean everything was normal. Natural. Sane.
Lee nodded, his eyes turned piercing-light for a moment. “You all right?” His stubble had gold tips, and slid him over the line into borderline-raffish but handsome nonetheless. At least, handsome enough. Or was he just familiar?
“I guess.” Jesus, who could be all right, in this situation? She tried for a smile; it felt tight and unnatural, her cheeks straining. She'd have to sleep in two pairs of sweatpants—a floor was cold no matter how good your sleeping bag was, or how thick the rolled foam pad Lee had picked up was. “As okay as it’s going to get.”
“Listen.” He glanced over the office, once, a roving sweep to make sure none of the things were in the corners, maybe. “There’s a lock on the door.”
“Oh. Do you think…” The question died in her throat, and she looked down at the plaid sleeping bag. It was probably better not to know.
Lee told her anyway. “We don’t know anything about this man, Ginny.”
“He’s a teacher.” As if that mattered, but she couldn’t help feeling…what? Scandalized, again? She reached for her pillow, pushing Traveller’s snout aside. “Don’t drool on that, you.”
“So he says.” Lee’s hair was almost long enough to lie down in patches—when you kept it that short, the edges blurred quickly. A little bit of softness suited him. “He could be anything.”
“But…” Ginny let Traveller mouth her fingers. He was after her pillowcase, but had to settle for her hand. “God. You’re right.”
“Odds are he ain’t no big deal.” He sank down, knees bending, balancing lightly; the pistol riding his hip sat easily even when he shifted. Up on the wall, a whiteboard full of strange numbers and “targets” in multicolored marker frowned at their unprofessionalism. “But I ain’t having you hurt.”
There it was again. She gazed at the desk. A triangular nameplate announced its owner was Burt Lafontaine, Store Manager. The computer was dead and dark, a failed monolith. Steph would be up soon, to unroll her own foam pad and sleeping bag. “What about Mark?” In other words, a teenage boy was at risk, too, if Lee suspected Mr French of being…not what he appeared.
“Juju and me got our eyes peeled.” Lee’s expression didn’t change, but the faint edge to the sentence held all the meani
ng in the world.
“Okay. And I know you’re looking out for Mr Thurgood.” She settled on her own heels and bit her lip, wished she hadn’t because his gaze focused on her mouth. “Who’s looking out for you?”
He ducked his head a little. Traces of melt clung to his boots—he’d been outside after dinner, with the dog. “Juju, I guess.”
Oh. “Lee…” Well, maybe it was enough.
“Hm?” He waited, crouching easily. Like he had all the time in the world.
“Nothing.” Now she felt ridiculous. Her braids fell down her back, as if she was in elementary again. God, she’d hated long hair then, and got a pixie cut right before high school. That about drove Mom up the wall. That’s boy hair, she’d said. You shouldn’t have.
Was her mother all right? Had Flo gone into labor? Did they have enough to eat? Was there still power in New York? There was a whole lot of space upstate, but their part of Saratoga wasn't rural by any stretch of the imagination.
“All right.” Lee paused. “Know what?”
“What?” Worrying about her family right before bed was getting to be a habit, and one that robbed her of what little sleep she could manage. She wanted to drive through the night, keep going, maybe find a few energy drinks and just keep moving. At least when they were traveling she didn’t feel so…useless.
Faint reflected glow from the flashlight scoured hollows in Lee’s face, turned him into a chiaroscuro. “First time in my life anyone ast me that.”
Huh? “Asked you…?”
“Ast me who’s lookin out for me.” One side of his mouth curled up, lazily. That did good things for him, too. He’d taken off his bulky green sweater, so under his well-worn shearling, the leather vest over his flannel button-down looked natural instead of motorcycle-gang. It added to his stubble to make him way less military, and way more…what? He still watched her mouth, and Ginny was very aware of her breath slipping out, mint toothpaste tingling pleasantly—what were the odds she’d ever visit a dentist again?