IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (43 page)

He motions to the nearest building, a toy store, and the three of you sprint inside. Shoes and paws crunch on broken glass. Tom and you yank the first shelf and topple it in front of the door. With hefty doses of adrenaline and fear, you manage to prop the shelf against the door.

“The barricade won’t hold them for long,” Tom says, and
leads the way to the rear exit, only to find it locked. Max keeps looking back, snarling.

“I’ve got this,” you say, confidence prevailing over anxiety.

He steps back, and you cram your crowbar in between the door and the frame. The men outside shout for blood. The shelf screeches against the floor as it’s forced inward inch by inch.

Tom helps, and together you push the crowbar forward. The frame of the metal door bends. The lock snaps and the door flings open, only to be abruptly stopped a few inches out by a padlocked chain around the outer handles of the door.

“Damn it!” Tom shouts, and unslings his shotgun.

Max barks furiously. Men are squeezing inside the store one by one. Trying to stay focused, you step forward to break the padlock with your crowbar, but Tom pulls you to the right, where you spot the stairs. Max needs no command and takes lead. You take steps three at a time. Tom’s right behind you, but the mob is right behind him. He reaches the landing and fires off two shells in quick succession.

Caught by surprise, the assailants fall back, and the three of you escape into the upstairs room. You lock the door behind you, but it has no chain, let alone a dead bolt. A quick scan of the room—a supply room lined with stacks of boxes—reveals nothing that can readily be used to fortify the door. You frown at your crowbar. A sense of loss nips at you as you angle the steel against the door and the floor.

The men outside pound against the door. “We’ll skin you alive! We’ll drink your blood!” is quickly followed by more vile promises and shouts.

Max growls, his fur raised. Each pummel and bellow is a shot to your nerves. Without your crowbar to grip, you find your hands shaking.

“There’s no fire escape,” Tom says from the back windows. He heads to the door, reloading his shotgun.

You run to the front windows, stopping when a label on one of the cardboard boxes catches your eye. You reach inside and pull out a smaller, plastic box. With a grin, you stuff it into your backpack before returning your attention to the windows and staying alive.

Outside, you count three marauders, all on horseback, none with guns. Newfound optimism strengthens you. “We can use the awning and slide down. There’s only three out there.”

“Three’s a lot better odds that what’s behind us,” Tom agrees.

You work at pushing open the window. The old sill protests, but it gives way to your persistence. Something massive slams against the door, and wood splinters. You raise your leg to climb out, but Tom pulls you back. “I’ll go first and take care of these buggers.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” you say quickly.

Tom shakes his head. “I need you to carry Max down with you. Don’t go until I call for you or if they break through that door. Can you do that for me?”

You swallow and nod.

“Good.” He hands you the pistol, then he’s gone.

You keep Max from following his master out the window. He growls but doesn’t bite. You position yourself on the window ledge and pull Max onto your lap. Above the commotion in the hallway, you hear a shout outside. You hold your arm out, aiming it at the door, while holding Max back.

Tom glances up before he leaps from the awning onto a horse and knocks off its rider in a classic Hollywood-style stunt. He takes the reins and twists the horse around to have it literally walk over its original rider, who screams in agony beneath its hooves.

He charges toward one of the other horses. Both horses rear before colliding. Tom hangs on and leans in while the clearly inexperienced rider yanks his reins, causing the horse—and him—
to fall backward. The horse squeals before it lands on him, and he cries out.

Behind you, the doorframe snaps, leaving only your crowbar to hold back the marauders. Through a small gap between the door and the frame, you see bloodshot eyes focused completely on you.

“We’re going to have fun with you! There’s no way out!” one of the men taunts.

Your blood freezes. You clasp Max to you as you prepare to jump.

Outside, the third rider tries the same maneuver Tom had done moments earlier. Tom yanks his horse to the side in time to miss the brunt of the attack. Tom spins on his horse and slams his shotgun into the man’s nose. He tumbles from his horse to the ground. He groans, cupping his bloody nose, before pushing himself up and fleeing.

“Now!” Tom yells up to you.

“Hold on, Max,” you say as you push off from the window. Behind you, your crowbar clangs to the floor, the door slams open, and you hear a cacophony of boots file into the room.

You’re falling. You land on the awning and slide right off the end. You grab the edge with one hand while clutching Max with the other, but the weight and momentum are too much. Your grip on the awning slips, and you topple to the ground, turning your body midair to protect Max.

You hit the ground with a painful thud. The dog shakes it off and bolts from your arms.

When you move, your body screams, but you force yourself to your feet.

“Can you ride, Yank?”

You peer up to see Tom and nod. “I think so,” you mutter through clenched teeth.

He pulls you onto one of the horses before lifting Max onto his lap.

Angry shouting erupts from above. A man jumps, followed by a second. The awning shreds under the weight of two men. They tumble onto the concrete. One hits his head with a resounding crack and doesn’t move again. The next jumper uses his friend to cushion his fall and is on his feet in an instant.

Gunfire zips through the air, causing you to duck. You look around for your gun and realize you must’ve dropped it when you jumped.

“Come on!” Tom yells, and his horse charges forward.

You grab the reins and turn your horse to follow. A marauder reaches for you, but your horse shuffles out of the way. The marauder grabs your horse’s tail, and it kicks, sending him flying several feet. Needing no further encouragement, your horse bolts forward, and you hold on tight as it speeds to catch up to Tom’s. The third horse has the same idea and trails not far behind.

You glance back to see men teeming onto the street, waving guns and spears in your direction. As the distance increases between them and you, their guns become useless.

After a couple minutes of galloping, the angry sounds fade, and your pounding heart slows to a less terrifying rhythm.

The horses pant and Tom reduces the pace. You ride up alongside him and eye him. “Let’s not do that again.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

You scowl. “I had my doubts a few times back there.”

“O ye of little faith,” Tom taunts.

“We wouldn’t have made it except you went all superhero. Where in the world did you learn stunts like that?”

“I picked up a few tricks here and there. Funny thing, I’ve never been a fan of horses.”

“No way.”

“True story. I learned to ride while filming
The Revenant
. Never thought I’d use those skills again. Being an actor—or at least doing my own stunts—turned out to be good training for being a Seeker.” He motions to a junkyard. “My car is hidden over there.”

His last statement blows away any stunts he’d just done. You give him an incredulous stare. “You have a car? One that runs?”

“Aye.”

“But, I thought nothing worked anymore.”

“Some of the older stuff still does—as long as you take extra care with it.”

Tom drops Max and slides off his horse. He ties together the reins of the three horses before tying them to the car’s luggage rack. He climbs into the driver’s seat, and the engine roars to life. The horses jerk and try to yank away, but Tom is there again, calming them.

“Can I drive?” you ask.

“No way.”

The rumbling engine entrances you. You lift the door handle and open the door. Old memories flood your mind. You sit down with reverence on the dry, cracked leather seat and soak in the dusty car smell.

You open your eyes when you feel like you’re being watched, and you find Max less than a foot away, fixated on you. “What do you want, fur ball?”

He replies with a whiny growl.

“Oh, Max, take the backseat already,” Tom says with a motion.

The dog lets out an exasperated grumble before jumping onto your lap and then onto the backseat.

Tom gets behind the wheel. He shifts the car into gear and creeps forward until the horses grow accustomed to being led by
a machine. Then he speeds up ever so slightly so that the horses can walk at a normal pace alongside the car.

With nothing to do but sit, you frantically scan for danger. When the lack of speed gets the best of your nerves, you frown. “We should leave the horses. They’re slowing us down.”

“I’m not leaving them. They’re too valuable.”

“But, the marauders will catch up to us.”

Tom shakes his head. “I’ve seen the way they work. They’ll regroup, slowly,
then
come at us with what they’ve got. But we’ll be ready for them. We’ll beat them, just like we did today.”

As his words sink in, you realize just how lucky you are. “I can’t believe we pulled it off.”

“Yeah. We made a good team back there.”

“We made a
great
team,” you correct him, believing it. Then you remember. “Oh”—you rummage through your backpack—“I found something for you.”

Tom’s brows crease in confusion. “For me? Whatever for?”

“For saving my life.”

“That makes us even.”

You tear the item from its brittle clear package and hold it up. “It’s not much. It’s a bit silly. Okay,
a lot
silly. But it made me think of you.”

Upon noticing it, Tom barks out a laugh. He takes the small Mad Max action figure from your hand. He holds it up and stares at it as he drives. As seconds pass, his smile fades, and his eyes glisten.

“It’s ace,” he says softly. “You don’t know this, but I used to collect these when I was wee. I had one just like this once.” He slips the toy into a pocket. “Thanks.”

“You’ll have to look harder to find an action figure of me,” you say jokingly.

“Challenge accepted.”

Time flies by as you enjoy the first real conversation you’ve had in far too long. Only taking breaks to water the horses, Tom tells you about the Set, and you tell him how you ended up in the wasteland. Before you know it, the car comes to a stop before a tall fence with an overbuilt metal gate.

“This is it?” you ask.

Tom nods. “It’s the Set. Not the catchiest name, but it’s what stuck.”

He gestures out the window, and the heavy gate creaks open. The car creeps through the opening and enters a large yard. You see children running around, kicking a ball. Their laughs fill your rusted heart with hope.

Tom stops the car. “Welcome home.”

You feel your smile widen at the word.
Home.

He turns to you. “What I said earlier, about us making a good team, I meant it.”

“Yeah,” you say simply. “I know.”

“Most folks around here have never even left the Set. It takes courage to be a Seeker. It’s hard out there and the days are long. It can wear down a person.” Tom pauses for a length. “I realized today that Max and I could use a partner. How about it, Yank. Want to be a Seeker?”

You don’t even have to think about it. “You bet. But I get to drive.”

Z
ayn Malik smiles seductively at you from across your bedroom.

You return his smile, glad no one can see you flirting with a life-size stand-up cutout.

For the past ten months, you’ve been writing a fanfic about him on Wattpad called
Redirection
. And Friday night you’ll finally get to see your idol in person when he comes to town for a solo concert. You’ve bussed tables at your mom’s restaurant for four consecutive Friday and Saturday nights in order to buy a ticket.

You
should
be studying for tomorrow’s dreaded AP chemistry midterm, but you can’t resist writing one more chapter of
Redirection
. You grab your phone and open the Wattpad app and find five thousand new notifications. A quick check of your stats shows you now have close to fifty million reads on the story. Even social media has picked up on it, since a lot of what you write about Zayn actually seems to happen to him.

Like when you wrote about Zayn nearly hitting a cat while riding his motorcycle down a dark road one night. He rushed the cat to the vet. In the waiting room, he met Bruno Mars, one of his idols. Bruno was there with his dog, Geronimo. Bruno confessed that he’s a fan of Zayn’s and asked him if he’d be interested in recording a song together. Sure enough, a few weeks
later, almost this exact thing really happened to Zayn. Now he owns an enormous cat named Lion and has a single coming out with Bruno Mars.

And then there was the time you wrote that MoMA wanted to put on an exhibition of Zayn’s alien drawings. Okay, so they actually ended up at the UFO Museum in Roswell, New Mexico, but the similarity was bizarre.

They call you the Crystal Ball.

If only you could predict your own life with such accuracy, but the truth is, these events were only coincidences; there’s no such thing as magic. If there were, maybe you could use some to get a passing grade in chem. If you do poorly on tomorrow’s midterm, and flunk the class, Yale might rescind their offer of admission into their premed program. Your mom would be heartbroken. It’s always been her dream for you to become a doctor. The thought of her finding out you might fail twists your stomach in knots.

Your textbook and class binder taunt you from your desk, but you can’t stay focused enough to study. All you can think about is Zayn and
Redirection
. When you write, you lose yourself in another world—one you control.

One short chapter and then you’ll study. . . .