Strike (40 page)

“I sent her money.”

“Not enough!”

“You don't know that. You can't blame me for your mother's bad decisions.”

“No, I totally can. You got her pregnant and left. Everything that happened after that is your fault. That's the definition of the word ‘fault.' ”

“Are you saying you're sorry you were born, Patsy?”

I stare out the window, a fist to my eye. “No. I'm saying I wish you had been there, asshole. It would've been different.”

I didn't even notice it, but we're back at the safe house. He's silent as we navigate the long drive, but when he pulls up by the fountain, my dad leaves the car running and turns to me, his face lit up by the glowing dashboard lights.

“Patsy, I don't know if it helps or even means anything to you, but I'm sorry. It broke my heart, leaving, but I truly thought it was for the best. Everything I did after you were born, I did to keep you safe. I left to keep you safe from my father. And now that we know he's alive, I'm serious about not taking any more chances. Don't go joy riding. Don't go out for ice cream. Don't stop to spray-paint rocks. Just . . . stay close. Devil Johnny is a very bad man. I can't prove it, but I'm pretty sure . . . I'm pretty sure he killed my sister, Valerie.”

“And you're sure that was him we saw?”

“Let's just say that when his favorite truck is parked outside of his house, I don't think what we saw is the old bastard's ghost.”

When we get inside, he goes straight upstairs. Of course.

“Did you get the guns?” Chance asks from the floor. He's lying on his back by the bags of food, his hoodie pillowed under his head. From what I can tell, he's in a food coma. All of them are.

I shake my head. “Nope. There was someone there.”

Wyatt sits up. “Who?”

My dad and I didn't discuss this part, and I'm not sure how much of the information is relevant or if we can trust Heather with it, so I just shrug and say, “I don't know. Two cars.”

“Is the red car unlocked?” Rex asks.

“I think so?”

He hops up with way too much energy. “Sleeping bags are in the back.” Bea trails him outside like a ghost, and I shiver. It's easy to forget how cold a drafty house can get at night in November without any heat.

“Can we start a fire?” I ask, looking at the fireplace with naked longing.

I'm surprised when Heather answers. “You don't want to do that. This house is too remote. Anyone looking for something out of the ordinary would notice hearth smoke.”

“Is that how the CFF finds people?” I ask sharply.

She smiles at me like I'm a stupid little kid. “The CFF doesn't find people. They wait for people to show up. Plenty of people are more than happy for the safety Leon provides.”

“Maybe the people he doesn't send on one-way bombing missions,” I grumble.

Rex and Bea are back, dropping armloads of rolled-up sleeping bags on the ground. Without a word, they go back out for another load. When they return, Rex says, “That's everything.”

I do a quick count, and there's no way it can add up. I'm counting the sleeping bags in my head a second time when Wyatt puts a hand on my shoulder. I didn't even notice he was gone.

“Come on,” he says. “You have to sleep now.”

“But there's not enough, and what if Devil Johnny comes?” I mumble.

“Then I'll take care of him,” my dad says from somewhere nearby.

And then Wyatt is carrying me, and I'm limp as a noodle. My feet sway. We're on stairs. I'm flat on my back, something soft under my head, the coolness of a plump sleeping bag cushioning the hard floor.

“But we never decided what to do,” I protest.

Wyatt pats my back, and I smile and snuggle down.

“We'll figure it out. You sleep,” he says.

And I do.

When I wake up, there's a big square of golden sunshine covering me, and I stretch and roll around like I'm coated in hot butter. I'm alone, a cold chicken sandwich and a watery soda by my side. I hear voices echoing from downstairs, but I'm going to take this gift of time and plenty. Tomorrow morning, just before dawn, the Citizens for Freedom are going to blow up the mall where I got my ears pierced when I was eight, and if we can't stop them, they're going to blow up my dog, too. Whatever my dad thinks he knows about Leon, I heard the glee in his voice, and I know he's going to put Matty right where he wants me to go. And I'm going to go there anyway.

That means that we're going to have a late night that will involve fighting people who would be more than happy to see us dead, the kind of people who claim to be good guys but would blow up a good dog just to make a point.

But for now . . .

Sunshine is nice. Food is nice. Caffeine and sugar and grease and tapping up the crumbs with my fingertips are nice. All I'm missing, really, are Matty and Wyatt.

As if on cue, he appears in the doorway, looking worried. But he always looks worried, doesn't he?

“Did you get enough to eat? Do you want something else? I know the Coke is watery, but there was no way to keep the ice from melting—”

“It's fine.” I suck up the dregs so he can hear it. “Thanks.”

“We're making plans downstairs. For tonight. Or tomorrow morning. If you want to . . . ?”

I shake my head and flop back down on the sleeping bag, rolling over onto my full belly. “Not yet. Just a few more minutes.”

Wyatt sits beside me, and after a moment of what must be hardcore interior debate, places a gentle hand flat on my back. I allow it. Welcome it, even. We're in one of our bubbles, in one of these rare, miraculous moments in which no one wants us for anything, and we're not running away from or toward anything, and no one is shaking with fury, and no one has a gun drawn or a heart beating out of their throat. No one is bleeding. No one is driving. No one is shooting.

Not like last night, on the highway.

Repress, repress, repress.

“Last night, when I was sleeping. Did I do the thing . . . ?”

I'm asking the wall, but Wyatt knows what I mean.

The thing where I scream and cry and thrash in my sleep, where my eyes are open but I'm not there. I'm not anywhere. I'm in the past, holding a gun.

“I don't think so. I was outside the door. I wanted to be here if you needed me but not really close if you didn't. I wasn't sure if you were still mad at me. Plus, your dad read me the riot act about sleeping beside you.”

“Screw him. He's not in charge of my body. And I'm not mad. Much.”

Gently, slowly, he starts rubbing my back. There's nothing sexual about it—he's as careful as if I'm a cat that might purr or bite him, and he doesn't know which. It's nice.

“Will you scratch my back?” I ask. Because I fell asleep in my bra, which means there are hard, red, itchy lines pressed into my flesh.

He obliges, although his nails are stubby things. He's been biting them, I think. Everyone's picked up bad habits. Rex with his earphones, Chance with his cockiness, Bea with her creepy stares. My bad habit appears to be shooting anyone who gets in my way.

I relax down further.

“Do you want to know the plan?” he asks.

I'm kind of annoyed that I wasn't involved in forming it, but I'll wait and see what it is before I protest. I nod.

“So your dad says we need to be in the mall before it closes at ten. We'll each have a backpack with a jumpsuit in it, like the mall's custodians wear. So we're supposed to go to the store today and buy new clothes and get haircuts and do whatever we can to not look like ourselves. And we need new shoes, work boots, to go with the uniforms. Your dad's going to get a couple of hotel rooms within walking distance of the mall, and that's where your mom and Heather and Kevin will be, where we'll meet afterward. And anyone who wants to be part of the rescue will be in different corners of the mall, hiding
until the CFF has placed the boxes. We get Matty and get out.”

“And what's my dad going to do?” Because, honestly, this doesn't sound like the plans he was making last night.

“He didn't say.”

“Yeah, I bet he didn't.” I frown at the wall. “Because he's going after Leon. I don't like it. This is not a party. We don't need a bunch of people. Just you and me. She's our dog.”

His hand is gentle on my back. “That's what I said. But your dad wants to be there. And Gabriela and Chance want to help. Even Rex. Heather wanted to join, but your dad was too worried about her still being on Leon's side, so he wants her to stay with your mom.” He leans closer, his breath grazing my ear. “I still don't trust her. I think we should tie her up until it's done.”

“Smart,” I say. “I don't trust her either. What about Bea?”

“Who knows what she's thinking? She was there while we talked about it, but she didn't say anything. I don't know if she's in or out. I don't even know if she's human. And I don't know why we trust her, either.”

“Because she chose us, maybe.” I drop my voice down to whisper in his ear. “I think she's like an attack dog. For now she's on our side. And if we tried to get rid of her, she'd turn on us, and it would be really, really bad.”

“I definitely don't want to be on that girl's bad side.”

“When do we head out?”

Wyatt stands. “Whenever you're ready. We're just waiting on you.”

I'm in Mark's—a different Mark's that's farther away and not packed with Wipers—and my cart is full of crap. Clothes that aren't my style, heavy work boots, organic peanut butter biscuits and a dog bed for Matty. It's kind of funny how I've had more leisure to shop in the apocalypse than I ever had when poor and in debt in the normal world. I've been standing in front of the hair dye display for five minutes, the tension growing as the clock ticks down. My hair is dark and thick and wavy, which means that the only way to make a drastic change involves bleach. But I've never bleached my hair, and I'm starting to think that deep down I'm terrified of how much of myself I'm losing, inside and now out.

I don't act like Patsy. I don't feel like Patsy. Soon I won't look like Patsy either.

“This one's actually better.” Gabriela appears with her cart and hands me one of the three bleach boxes. “Works faster.”

“Thanks.” I read the box, but the words no longer make sense. “Is it that obvious that I have no idea what I'm doing?”

“I'm an assistant dog groomer with a purple Mohawk. I can spot virgin hair a mile away. I wish you could go blue or green, but since we're supposed to blend in, maybe ash blond?” She hands me a box with a thin, boring woman twirling her dull, mouse-brown hair.

I hate this woman, and I don't want this hair. I put that box back and select a different box. The redhead on the front has gorgeous freckles and looks like she's enjoying the hell out of her spunky short hair.

“Blondes have more fun,” Gabriela reminds me.

“But redheads have more confidence,” I retort. “What are you going to do with yours?”

She puts a hand to her fro-hawk and frowns. “Shave it. All the way down. I guess I can always grow it out afterward, right? I'm getting the nicest clipper set they have here, so I can do your hair. I was supposed to go to beauty school, but I guess that's out. Maybe I can become an underground barber. Cut all the rebels' hair. Trim their rebellious beards.”

She picks up a box of turquoise dye and reads the back.

“That would look pretty kickass,” I say.

“Mall custodians probably aren't allowed to have blue hair.”

“So don't go. You don't have to. You don't even have a gun. Just hang out in the hotel and dye your hair blue and make sure my mom's okay.”

She puts the box back on the shelf and turns to face me, hands on her hips. “First of all, you're not my boss. Second of all, don't you think that's exactly what I want to do? She's a nice dog and all, but she's not worth dying for, and it's not my fight. But my brother is determined to help, and that means I'm coming along to make sure he doesn't do something stupid. You understand that doing stupid shit is his thing, right? I'm beginning to think he might be suicidal. So I'm coming whether you want me there or not. And you'd better get that dog out safe, because I don't give up my 'hawk for just anybody.”