IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (42 page)

“Then what were you doing on that road?”

“What? I was just lost!” you say.

“Do you think it’s my first time hearing that bullshit?” He is not listening, still keeping you facing the vehicle. “Is it yours?”

“The car?”

“No, the girl. Of course, the car, kid!”

“Yes . . . ?” You try not to sound nervous, but obviously, you
do
sound nervous.

You stand there in silence for a moment before you hear the officer get on his radio. “This is Ethan Samuel on US 395. I want to check a Dodge, 8BNI563.”

“Let me guess.” Selena looks at you, her lips curled. “This Dodge is not yours.”

Before you respond to her, you hear the radio buzz and a voice announces, “Stolen.”

Dang it!
Jeff reported his car stolen. But of course he did—that’s the kind of guy he is.

Suddenly, Officer Ethan pulls your hands from above your head and puts them in cold steel behind your back. For the first time in your life, you test how handcuffs feel. And they feel bad, you must say.

“I assure you there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, Officer. This is my stepfather’s car. His name is Jeff Williams.”

“When I was your age, I had a stepfather who would kill me if I did what you did to his car. Anyway, save your words until we go to the police station. But now you have the right to remain silent, boy.” He addresses Selena: “What about you, señorita? Let’s see your immigration documents?”

“What the hell?” She’s infuriated. “I’m an American citizen. You might want to watch all that
señorita
stuff too.”

“Come on, Officer,” you say. “Can’t you recognize her? It’s Selena Gomez.”

“And I’m Clint Eastwood.” He smirks.

“Look well, man! It’s her!”

“Be careful, señorita,” Ethan—aka Clint Eastwood—warns. “These are too many charges to handle.”

“Too many charges?” she echoes in disapproval. “What do you mean?”

“Stealing a car, illegal immigration, and now misrepresenting your identity to a police officer.”

“This is
insane
,” she mutters, closing her eyes, taking her head in her hands and shaking it. “Somebody tell me, please, that this is nothing but a silly prank.” Selena’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, you can see it. “Of course it is.” She lowers her hands, turning to face Officer Eastwood, smiling nervously. “For one day, this bullshit is too much to be true, right?”

Looking over your shoulder, you see Ethan staring at her coldly.

“No?” Selena looks frustrated. “Not a prank?”

“Are you all right, kid?” Ethan narrows his eyes.

“Of course I’m not!” Selena blusters. “My vacation is ruined because of a stupid flat tire. And now I’m trapped with a maniac who stole someone’s car and tried to run away from police.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” you protest.
Because being a maniac won’t jail you, right?

“My white Ford Escape is on the highway.” She ignores you, addressing the officer. “You’ll find all my stuff there.”

“Very well.” Ethan unlocks your cuff.

Which astonishes you. “So you believe us at last?”

“You should have let me do the talking from the beginning,” Selena scolds.

But Ethan is not letting you go as you think. Actually, he only released your right hand to cuff you and Selena together.

“What the hell?” Selena says.

“This is the only pair of handcuffs I have at the moment.” He holds your arm. “Let’s go.”

THROUGH THE SIDE WINDOW,
you spend the next forty minutes gazing at trees and cars. Selena’s doing the same, perhaps to avoid looking at you. Today you’ve succeeded in becoming the person in the world she hates the most.

Ethan’s radio doesn’t stop buzzing until you arrive at the police station. Escorting both of you inside, he enters the place as a conqueror.

“Hey, Ethan!” another officer calls out. “Take Miss Selena and the suspect to the commissioner’s office.”

“That’s not fair,” you protest. “Either we’re both suspects, or he calls me by my name.”

Selena doesn’t say a word, but her face looks a bit relieved. As if she’s telling herself,
They know me. They know me at last.

As you enter the commissioner’s office with Ethan, the top cop gives the officer a dismissive gesture. “Leave us now, Ethan. Good job by the way.”

Yeah, good job, asshole.
As you stand cuffed with Selena in front of the desk, the bald commissioner gives you a warm smile. “We’ve found your car, Miss Gomez.”

Now you realize that you’re invisible. His
warm
smile is only for her.

“So, you’re sure now that I’m not an illegal immigrant, or some fraud who impersonates someone else?” she asks cautiously.

“No, no.” The commissioner laughs. “Ethan has gone too far, but you should know he was doing his duty.”

At last, you see light at the end of that dark tunnel. “What about me?”

“Your stepfather has vouched for you. When he comes in and signs some papers rescinding the order, you’ll be free to go. It’s only a matter of time before this nightmare is over.”

“Yeah, a nightmare indeed,” she mutters.

“You can wait in my office until the arrival of your stepfather,” the commissioner says, leaving you and Selena cuffed together. As he shuts the door behind him, an awkward silence reigns over the place.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” you start. “I involved you in so much trouble today.”

“It’s okay.” She looks down, and silence fills the space again.

She scans the desk with her eyes before she picks up with her free left hand a small piece of paper and a pen. “My left handwriting is horrible, but it’s readable, anyway.”

You can’t see what she’s writing. “What?”

“My number.” She hands you the paper. “Let me know when you have one of your cool parties. If I’m available, I may come to watch you onstage.”

You don’t believe what you’ve just heard. “Are you serious?”

She smiles. “Well, you did show me a night to remember. I’ll be interested in seeing what happens when you actually try to do it on purpose.”

You harrumph, but smile back. “I don’t usually give my number to just acquaintances. But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

Y
ou never saw the end coming, even though all the signs had been there. Nobody had. All the missiles, the technology, escalating global discontent. It’d been only a matter of time before civilization destroyed itself. Millions died on Day One. Billions died in Week One. By Week Two, you’d begun to wonder if you were the only person left.

But others survive. Empty shelves and screams in the night are proof of that. The harsh elements peeled away humanity as easily as layers from a dry onion. Now you wonder if you’re the only
good
person left.

“Stop it,” you chastise yourself, the words echoing throughout the small shed. You know you can’t allow yourself to get lost in despair, because if you do, you might never find your way out.

You’ve been at this location too long already. Every night the screams get closer and closer. It’s time to move on, and you pack all your food—a single can of green beans (God, how you hate green beans)—into your backpack. You grab your crowbar and slide it through your homemade sling. A single bent bar of steel is your only weapon, but it hasn’t ever let you down.

You climb to your feet and walk to the door. Taking your last breath in this small, safe place, you step out into the blinding, baking sun. As your eyes adjust to the harsh brightness, you see nothing has changed since yesterday.

A good omen for your journey.

Cockroaches scurry to avoid being crushed. They seem to be the only things that thrive in this world. They scuttle across you when you sleep. They taste awful, but they’ve kept you from starving. Paying them no further mind, you creep in the shadows of buildings so as not to draw any attention from far worse predators.

You walk less than an hour before a commotion erupts from down the block. A dog’s barking drowns out men’s angry words. An evil male voice yells, “Gut him!” A fray ensues. Careful to not reveal your position, you seek the source of the noise. You glance around the corner of a building and discover four men. You dive behind the remnants of a car before they notice you.

Warily, you peek around the bumper. A man is lying only a few feet from you, unconscious, while the remaining three men are fighting. Two wear tattered rags and their faces bear war paint, just like the one on the pavement. Chills climb your spine. These are the
others
—the ones you know to avoid at all costs. These are the survivors who cause the screams you hear at night.

It’s too dangerous to be here.

But you don’t move. Your body is tense, ready to fight or flee, as you watch the outnumbered man in action. The pair of aggressors keep their distance, lunging intermittently as though searching for weakness. When one thrusts to skewer the underdog, their adversary dodges effortlessly and returns a jab to the ribs. The attacker falls back with a grunt, holding his ribs. The mongrel snaps at the man, who stabs at it. By the looks of the one on the ground, the loner may be outnumbered, but is in no way outmatched.

That is, until you notice the unconscious man is now very conscious and pulling out a pistol.

You spring from cover and bring your crowbar down with
strength and accuracy. The steel connects with the gun wielder’s head, and he crumples. You rush the fighter focused on the dog and swing at his thigh. It’s a reassuringly solid hit, one that sends vibrations through your palms. He grunts and collapses onto his knee. The animal charges. The man blocks with his forearm and the dog chomps down. Somehow, the attacker manages to spin to his feet, tearing free from the dog and dragging his leg as he runs away.

The dog chases him, and you turn to help the man. But, as you suspect, he needs no assistance. With only a single opponent to focus on, he kicks his opponent’s jaw. The man drops, out cold.

The loner ignores you, whistles, and the dog immediately stops and returns to its master.

Now, it’s only you and the stranger. Tendrils of tension web in your gut. For all you know, this man could be a greater threat than the others were. He could be a cannibal. Still, you stand firm, refusing to run. You’re no slouch. After all, you’ve survived this long on your own. In addition, you’re gripping a weapon while he has only his hands . . . well, and the shotgun strapped to his back.

He still doesn’t look your way while he checks the men on the ground. He takes the pistol out of the first attacker’s hand, and you realize how easily he could kill you. The air in your lungs hardens. You don’t let out a breath until he slides the gun into his belt.

He motions to you. “Come with me,” he says with a British accent. “Their chum will return soon enough with backup.”

Hearing English feels unnatural at first, almost mesmerizing. After all, no one has spoken to you in countless days. You allow yourself to fall into step alongside him. After an interminable silence, you ask, “Where are we going?”

“The name’s Tommy,” he says instead. “And, this is Max.” The dog wags his tail upon hearing his name. “Thanks for your help back there, Yank.”

“He was going to shoot you.”

“That wasn’t very nice of him.” Tommy’s accent is strong, and even though you’ve never been to England, he is undeniably familiar. You peer closely at the bearded stranger.

When understanding dawns, you stop walking. “Oh my God, you’re Tom Hardy.”

His eyes widen. “Yes, I am, though most folks nowadays know me only as the Seeker.”

Confusion furrows your brow. “The Seeker. Is that from one of your movies?”

Tom chuckles. “It’s safe to say my acting days are behind me. I suppose everyone’s are. No, being a Seeker is my job now. I look for survivors, ones like yourself.”

He keeps walking, and you find your pace again as the new information darts around your mind. “Is being a Seeker why you’re out here in the middle of the wasteland? I’ve got to say, I never expected to see a movie star around here.”

“You’d be surprised where I’ve been.” He stares off into the distance as though reliving some fond memory, before returning his gaze to you. “I was about twenty miles west of here shooting a film when everything crashed.” His gaze narrowed. “Now, to the more important question: What are
you
doing out here?”

You frown. “I don’t understand why that’s so important.”

Tom continues to watch you, saying nothing.

You shrug. “The same as everyone, I guess. I’m looking for somewhere safe from guys like the assholes we ran from back there.”

“Marauders. They’re a beastly lot. Desperate and scared. Makes for a bad combination. Best to avoid them.”

“Like you did?”

He smirks.

You motion to the sawed-off shotgun strapped to his back. “Why didn’t you kill them? It would’ve easier and a lot less dangerous than fighting them the way you did.”

“I needed the exercise.”

“
Really
,” you say with sarcasm.

Tom sours. “I don’t like killing.”

Four simple words. That’s all it takes for something to change deep inside. A tiny glimmer of hope grows. For the first time in a long time, you open yourself up to trust someone.

“It’s your lucky day,” Tom continues. “I happen to know of a safe place, with grub and water and more than enough people to fend off unsavory blokes. It’s a film set hidden deep within the old woods. We’re rebuilding, one life at a time. It’s where we’re headed now—if you’re in, that is. Otherwise, we’ll part ways right here, to each his own. Your call.”

Hope is a tidal wave, drowning your doubt. You find yourself smiling, the expression feeling almost unnatural. You nod energetically. “Hell yeah, I’m in.”

Tom looks pleased, but Max growls. You look around to see dozens of marauders pour out from the alleyways. You recognize the man who ran away, limping as he comes toward you, his face masked with confidence—and murder.

“Looks like their friends showed up,” Tom says. “We might be fucked.”