Strike (8 page)

“I'm going with him,” Gabriela says.

Chance nods. “Make me a list.”

She snorts and gives him her card but looks to me. “I'm a size thirteen. Get me whatever you get yourself. And a warm coat. And some Pop-Tarts and Gatorade.”

With a determined nod, Gabriela stands to help Kevin off the couch. When he almost falls over, the blond girl takes his other arm, and they head for the door.

“Feel better!” I call after them, and Gabriela glances over her shoulder at me like I'm an idiot.

“We'll take care of the dog for you,” Tuck says. When his huge, tattooed hand takes the rope leash, his rifle brushes against me, and my fingers jerk open. “You can't take a dog into the store, right?” He laughs.

Hartness adds, “Be sure to get your own dog food and a bowl while you're shopping. You all know the way out?”

I watch Matty trot beside them and out the door as if I didn't even exist. Just like she came to me when I shot her owner, my uncle Ashley, on his doorstep. I feel cold and empty without her, and I turn to Wyatt and bury my face in his chest.

“You think they'll be okay?” he asks, as low and angry as I feel.

Chance shrugs. “If they're not, we'll use the card to buy a gas can and set their stupid Hollow on fire.”

He's trying to look tough, but I can see the fear in his eyes. They have Gabriela now too.

Looks like our new bosses, just like Valor, can hold the ones we love hostage to keep us in line. Except the Cranes give you a friendly smile while they cock their guns.

All the cars from earlier are gone, except for a shiny Audi and a new Ford Explorer with a sticker of flip-flops in the back window. Bet I know who that one belongs to. Wonder what they'll do with the cars left behind by the traitor and the deserter. Considering that the Crane family seems to own just about every kind of practical rural business there is, I'm guessing they'll end up on a Crane used-car lot or neatly sold for parts next week. Just like with Valor, getting rid of deadweight comes with unexpected gains.

I call shotgun, only belatedly realizing how lame that sounds now, and Chance sits in the middle of the backseat and pulls his duffel bag from under my seat, checking that his drugs are still there, I guess.

“Big Choice okay?” Wyatt says.

“Whatever,” Chance and I say at the same time.

Wyatt turns left. “It's closest. You guys agree we need to hurry back before they assimilate our friends and dog?”

“Yeah, nerd. Let's keep the hillbilly Borg from giving your dog too many treats,” Chance says. But he doesn't say anything about Gabriela and Kevin, which I'm learning means he's worried about them.

Big Choice looks so different when we have two thousand dollars to spend. We each take a cart and stop by a Thanksgiving display. The boys look at me expectantly, like my fallopian tubes make me an expert shopper.

I sigh. “Look, it's easy. We need tents, sleeping bags, flashlights, knives. Backpacks. Deodorant. Coats. Socks. Underwear. Boy Scout shit. Go.”

Wyatt manages to look sheepish. “Uh. So. Do you want your own tent, or . . . ?”

I blush and join him in staring at the ground. “Not really.” I spin and walk away, pushing my cart fast.

I head for the women's section and pick out the least offensive underwear in my size and Gabriela's size, plus pajamas, extra socks, fleece jackets, leggings and stretchy jeans, tees, long-sleeved shirts, knitted hats, hoodies, all in black, and two black puffer coats off the sale rack. I get myself a pair of slip-on shoes and try to remember what kind of shoes Gabriela was wearing. She didn't tell me her shoe size, and I can't remember. Crap. I hope her current shoes don't have holes.

I buy a big-ass bag of dog food and a bowl and a new leash and collar. In the health and beauty section, I get replacement packs of the same face wipes I stocked my mail truck with before going on my first mission to kill Wyatt's dad. I get fingertip toothbrushes and floss and mouthwash, a brush and rubber bands and deodorant and
coconut-scented body spray and lotion—double everything, because Gabriela's got to feel as crappy as I do. And maxi pads, because I can't imagine how bad it would be for either of us to start bleeding in a tent in the middle of nowhere. Being a girl sucks even more in the apocalypse.

And then I do something insane. Something I would never have considered doing just a week ago. Something I wouldn't want my mom to accidentally find out about. Something daring.

I buy a box of condoms.

Because it's the end of the world, I have a boyfriend, and I don't think I want to die a virgin. An old man glances at me from the fiber and stool softener section, and I stubbornly stick out my chin . . . and hide the box under the coats in my cart.

In the food section, I grab crap. All crap. Pop-Tarts and granola bars and peanut butter crackers and Gatorade. Snack cakes and cookies and animal crackers in a giant plastic jar shaped like a bear. Since I know the guys will forget it, I slam a twelve-pack of toilet paper on top. I'm sure I've forgotten half the things I should be getting, and as I stand in the aisle biting my lip, I remember one thing. One small thing. Just for me.

The guys are arguing over tents as I hurry by without a word, straight to the craft section. I get a roll of knitting needles with all sizes, even rounds. Pawing through the yarn, I choose soft things and cheap things and bright things and speckled things, but
nothing in that damning Valor blue that should've been a tropical teal but somehow ended up cold and ugly. I stop in front of the embroidery, but you can't hang samplers on tents. The last thing I get is a couple of backpacks on sale from the back-to-school section so Gabriela and I have a place to keep all our clothes. It's all we have now.

The guys are in line, looking smug and easy. I guess they solved whatever they were arguing about, and they each have a full cart. Perched on top of Wyatt's cart is a stuffed green turtle with big, goofy eyes like Ping-Pong balls. Which means he remembers that my stuffed-turtle collection died in the truck fire, which is possibly the sweetest thing on earth.

“Thought you might need some company,” he says, and my heart wrenches.

I can't say thanks without crying, so I just wipe my eyes and hug him.

Outside of my turtle, everything else he has makes sense, including a portable plastic aquarium for his snake. I know we're missing a million things that we won't think about until we're squatting in the tent, but at least he remembered two sleeping bags and a two-pack of pillows. His stuff adds up to four hundred and something, and we all go tense as he swipes the card.

“Can you put in your passcode, sir?” the cashier says.

Wyatt gulps. “Uh. I . . . uh . . .”

We just stand there staring at each other, and the lady looks toward a stand where a thick-built dude in a manager's jacket is watching us, one hand on his radio.

The skin on the back of my neck prickles, and I look around at the other people waiting in line to check out. It's mostly men, and they all look guarded. They're staring at us like we might be trouble. Black holsters peek out from under their shirts, and they constantly glance at one another and the doors as if waiting for a shoot-out. Most people are alone. There's not a single child. Maybe Chance wasn't that off when he said it was turning into the Wild West. People have to have food and toilet paper and aspirin, but no one is sending out a pregnant wife with a little kid to fetch it, either. There's no polite conversation, no friendly banter. Just tense silence and carts overloaded with necessities.

“Just run it as credit, idiot,” Chance says. He reaches past us to the machine, hits cancel, and presses credit. It goes through, no problem, and I try to look cool and not like I expected Valor SWAT to burst through the door.

I'm next, and mine is more than seven hundred. The lady gives me a pained look when I run my card. “Sorry, honey. There's only five hundred and fifty on there. How else would you like to pay?”

My face goes hot, and I start doing mental calculations about what to put back when Chance slides another card through. “You got my sister's stuff, right? Here's her card.”

That card goes through fine, and once Chance is up, our cashier chews her gum like cud and says, “You kids got one of them festivals or something? We're selling lots of tents lately. Seems like a dangerous time to be out in the woods, what with the crime wave.”

“We're just going camping with some friends,” Chance says. He starts bagging his stuff up so we can get the hell out before we have to tell a bunch of stupid lies to someone who has no idea that she's not an American anymore. Valor must be hiding what they're doing from the media, or else she'd know exactly why we have survival gear.

A crime wave? That's what they're saying? Scared people will believe anything.

“Have fun. Watch out for bears.” She's still chewing, hands on her hips, as we push our carts out.

I'm putting my bags in Wyatt's trunk when a guy gets out of a black sedan across the lot. In between the darkness and the credit card panic during checkout, I forgot to look for suits. In this country town, unless it's prom weekend or you're going to a funeral, there's only one reason to wear a slick black suit. I go cold all over and turn around, pulling my gun out from my waistband and holding it low behind my back as Chance follows my line of sight and mutters, “Shit.”

But the guy just walks past us, checking his phone. No sunglasses, no ear wire. Probably not even Valor, then. Or maybe off
duty. He didn't even look at me. But, well, I'm not special, am I? Just another dumb kid until I pull out my gun.

“You've got money left on Gabriela's card, right?” I ask Chance.

He eases his gun back into his jeans. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because I don't want to eat whatever they're serving at Leon's house.”

The drive to Crane Hollow is quiet, the car filled with the scent of burgers and fries. I'm worried about Matty, worried about Gabriela and Kevin, worried about what a rebel camp on Leon's land is going to be like. We pass the road to my house, and my throat goes tight. The sky is dark and cloudy, but I still look for smoke. If Chance did what they asked and they still burned his house down and killed his parents, what are they going to do to my mom once they realize I opted out? Shit. I pull down the mirror and barely recognize myself. I look like I've been to war, like I'm haunted. Like I killed ten people this week, most of them innocent.

“We won't let them hurt you,” Chance says, quiet.

My head jerks up. “What?”

“I'm just saying . . . I know we started off on the wrong foot when you shot my orphan, but whatever's happening in Crane Hollow, you and Gabriela don't go anywhere alone. I don't trust that guy.” He scoffs. “Leon Crane. Who names a kid Leon?”

“The notary public married to a deer butcher,” Wyatt says. He
glances at me in the half-light. “And he's right. You need to stay close. After those guys . . .” He trails off. I don't know if he's referring to the IT robbers who tried to rape me in the back of my truck or the thugs at Sherry's house, and it doesn't matter. Men are desperate now, and there are no laws.

But I don't want to sound like a damsel, so I say, “Whatever. I'll just shoot anybody who gives me trouble. It's worked so far.”

We turn onto Crane Road at a light, and there's a stark difference between the busy, well-lit highway and the curvy country road. There are no streetlights, and the grass is high on the shoulders, with heavy forest and barbed-wire fences in various stages of slow death along the sides. It's always looked like this—like anyone who isn't a Crane is unwelcome. If we kept driving down this road and made a few more turns, we'd end up at Alistair's trailer—or the ashes of it. Instead, we turn at a collection of ramshackle mailboxes covered in
NO TRESPASSING
signs and bump along the dirt and gravel road toward the scattered buildings of Crane Hollow.