Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
He cocks his head. “That’s where you want to go?”
“I think it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.”
“Defending a place like that would be a fucking nightmare.”
“Would it really, though? Small, with limited entry points? It wouldn’t hurt to have some help, however, which is why we need to make friends. Have community.”
He gives me a long look. “I am not saying I agree to your plan. But we have to move in some direction. Guess it might as well be south for now.”
I clap my hands. “This is going to be great.”
It is not great.
They’re perfectly positioned. Waiting for us when we come around a bend on a back road running sort of adjacent to a highway. Two men stand in front of a large truck that’s blocking the road, with another person situated behind it. All of them armed to the teeth, with white skin and short haircuts.
We hadn’t seen anyone all day. And now this. None of them seem sick at first glance. In fact, the merry assholes all appear to be in the best of health as they wave their weapons at us in a menacing fashion.
Dean brakes hard, bringing the motorcycle to a stop and sending me slamming into his back. Which is when he hisses at me, “When I give the signal, hit the ground.”
There’s no time to ask what the signal will be.
“Turn off the engine and throw the keys over here!” yells one of them. And Dean does as ordered.
“Get off the fucking bike!” yells another. “Get your pack and your helmet off.”
This cannot be happening. I know stuff has transpired and we’ve discussed the collapse of societal norms several times now, but yeah. It still somehow comes as a complete surprise. None of them are showing signs of a fever. No coughing or sneezing. And not one of the three seems to have a runny nose. Being this close to them, however, is still one hell of a risk.
I climb off the bike and ease my backpack off. My fingers fumble over the buckle of my helmet, but I unclasp it in the end and put it on the ground.
One of the assholes walks up to us and grabs me by the arm.
He pulls the mask off my face, looks me over, and announces, “Yeah, she’ll do.” Which is rude. Then he turns to Dean, looks him over, and says, “Drop your piece. Big son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“Drop your piece,” I repeat without thought. There is every chance my habit of babbling when nervous is going to get me killed. When my natural state of sarcasm will condemn me. It could even happen today. “Watch a lot of cop shows, do you?”
The asshole smacks me in the cheek, putting me on my ass. “Shut up, you stupid bitch.”
It turns out this is the signal. Me getting sucker punched.
None of this would have worked if the asshole who’d hit me had been secure enough in himself to carry a small weapon. But no. He’s wielding some huge fucking thing that takes time to bring up and into position.
And by the time he’s done that, Dean has already drawn his pistol and put one dead center of his heart. Bang.
I show some intelligence and curl up in the fetal position on the asphalt. Making as small a target of myself as possible. However, I still watch what’s happening, because this is life and death playing out in front of me.
Bullets fly on both sides. There are more misses in a gunfight than Hollywood would have you think. And it’s loud as heck.
Dean shoots the second asshole standing in front of the truck with relative ease. Just puts one through his face.
But the asshole standing behind the truck is a problem. He has shelter.
Dean drops to his knees and aims beneath the body of the beast of a vehicle. And a second later, the last of the three is screaming in pain and then silent as the grave.
“You still breathing?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I carefully rise to my feet. Getting punched kind of shook me. No one has ever hit me before. Or not since Hannah Moore, the school bully, in third grade. There’s some splatter on me from the guy Dean shot in the chest. So gross. And the sharp scents of gunpowder and the copper of blood are in the air. But I am not about to burst into tears or anything. “How about you?”
Before he can answer, I have face-planted in the middle of his chest and am breathing deep. Or at least trying to. However, it takes me a minute to catch my breath, what with all of the sobbing.
He slips his gun back into the holster and pats me awkwardly on the back. Like he has nil experience with comforting a woman in distress. Which actually tracks with his personality and what little is known of his lived experience.