A red truck sat across from the street, four living men and a dead body in front of it.
“Shit,” Steve breathed. “Get down, Dakota. Get down!”
Dakota fell to the floor and waited for the sound of Steve’s footsteps to echo across the garage floor. When they didn’t, his first reaction was to peek over the top of the seats and look for him, but instinct took hold. Instead, he bit his lower lip and closed his eyes, tension rocketing through his veins like harsh drugs in an addict.
Tell me you didn’t just flatten yourself against the hood, he thought. By God, Steve, don’t tell me you did that.
Something dropped onto the garage floor.
Dakota sighed.
Someone cried out and a gunshot ripped into the garage.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” Steve screamed, throwing himself into the vehicle just as another shot rang out. “FUCK!”
“ARE YOU OK?” Dakota screamed.
“No I’m not fucking ok! They’re shooting at me!”
“ARE YOU SHOT?”
“I’M NOT FUCKING SHOT!”
A second, then a third shot came, followed by what sounded to be a thousand hammers echoing against the side of a mountain. A spray of debris went up along the far wall and the chain-link fence crashed open outside, its gargantuan screech slicing through Dakota’s ears and into the base of his skull.
“Steve?” Dakota whispered.
“What?”
“We didn’t lock the door, did we?”
The garage door slammed open.
The sound of footsteps followed.
“Kitty kitty kitty,” a voice said, gun cocking in the dead silence of the room. “Come out come out and playyyyyyy.”
Steve reached for the gun lying on the front seat.
“We won’t hurrrrttttt you…”
These guys are fucking psycho. Dakota reached for his gun, but Steve shook his head and pushed a finger to his lips. Frowning, Dakota mouthed, What the hell are you doing?
Steve mouthed back, Wait.
The second lump in his throat now swallowed, Dakota prepared for the worst to happen.
Someone in the garage knocked something over.
“You fuckin’ idiot!” someone cried.
Steve shot upright and fired a bullet out the window.
Someone screamed.
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?” a second voice cried.
A dirty grin lighting his face in a hellfire expression, Steve gestured Dakota toward his gun and eased toward the front door of the bus just as a returning shot came firing into it. Dakota, unsure of his place in the current situation, grabbed his gun, then reached for what appeared to be a box of papers.
Steve nodded.
Dakota raised a manila folder up in front of a window. A bullet tore through the top edge of the paper just as Steve rolled into view and fired three shots. Dakota jumped up and took a blind shot of his own before falling to the floor.
No return gunfire followed.
“Did you get everyone?” Dakota whispered.
“Just wait a minute and let me check.”
“Please,” a voice said. “Stop.”
Dakota’s ears perked up.
“I’m not with them,” the same voice called. “Please! Don’t shoot anymore!”
“Throw your guns to the side!” Steve called back, pushing himself to his knees.
“Don’t do it,” Dakota growled. “You don’t know if it’s a ploy.”
“I shot all of them, Dakota.”
“You don’t know if they’re all dead.”
“I must’ve missed this guy.” Steve frowned. Six clinking noises, as though something metal had just been thrown, softened his expression. “That must be it. I want you to stand up when I do.”
“But—”
“Just do it.”
Rising to his knees, Dakota took a quick breath and readjusted his grip on the gun. When Steve took hold of his pistol with both hands and began to rise, Dakota, too, rose to his feet, training his gun outside of the bus.
Though his doubts had been great, Steve had delivered in his promise—all the men on the floor were dead, sans the one who’d just been speaking. Tall, muscled beyond compare and with a buzzed haircut that reminded Dakota of the military, the guy appeared to be more of a child than he actually was at that very moment. His eyes were puffy and the end of his nose was red. A trail of blood trickled down his one arm, but Dakota couldn’t see any major damage.
You missed. Dakota snickered to himself. You, a pro shooter, actually missed.
“Quit laughing,” Steve chuckled, “because that’s the guy you shot.”
“DON’T SHOOT ANYMORE!” the straggler cried. “PLEASE!”
“We’re not gonna shoot you,” Steve said, stepping out of the bus. “You—get up. Dakota, you stay there and keep your gun on him.”
“Got it,” Dakota said, silently hoping that the situation wouldn’t take a turn for the worse.
The man stumbled to his feet with a grimace and a curse. After untangling his feet from his dead companions’ limbs, he stepped in front of Steve and pressed a hand over his wound, allowing his other arm to remain slack as he stared the shorter man in the eyes. At first, Dakota grimaced, knowing more than well that the man—who stood at least four inches above Steve, if not five or six—could easily lash out and choke his friend if he wanted to.
“So,” Steve said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “If you aren’t with these guys, why were you shooting at us?”
“We just broke out of jail, man. The guys said they’d kill me if I ran.”
“Why were you in jail?”
“I raped a girl,” the big man admitted. “It wasn’t one of my graceful moments.”
Dakota’s grip around his gun loosened for a moment, but he picked up the slack and readjusted his hands, sliding his finger away from the trigger.
“What’s your name?” Steve asked, holstering his gun.
“Ian,” the gangbanger said. “Ian Shaw.”
“Keep your gun on him, Dakota. I’m gonna tie him up.”
“With what?”
Steve glanced around the garage, looked to the storage shelf that had since been shot to hell, then stepped around the bodies and began to rummage through the shelf’s contents. A moment later, he stepped forward with two plastic strips and managed to improvise a pair of faux police handcuffs.
“Y-you’re letting me live?” Ian asked.
“No reason not to,” Steve said, tightening the plastic with a tug from both hands. “You’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Everything good?” Dakota asked.
Steve gestured Dakota out of the bus. “Ian, meet Dakota, my best friend.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ian mumbled, face reddening upon Dakota’s approach.
“You too.” Dakota gave the man a once-over. One look at his tattoos was enough to show that he’d been involved in gang activity before the shit had hit the fan. He looked at Steve, who merely shrugged and gestured Ian away from the bodies.
“What’re you gonna do with me?”
“We—and I mean Dakota and me—are going to finish fixing this bus after I get these bodies out of the garage.”
“Where are we going?”
“Wherever we can,” Steve sighed, hoisting the first corpse into his arms. “Wherever we fucking can.”
“Checklist,” Steve said. “Food.”
“Check,” Dakota replied.
“Water.”
“Check.”
“Ammunition.”
“Seven packs. Check.”
“First aid kit.”
“Check.”
“Emergency supplies—rope, knife, alcohol.”
“Check.”
“What else do we have?”
“Extra clothes,” Dakota said, nodding to the backpack. “More plastic ties, a nail gun and a pack of nails, two or three hammers.”
“What about the uzi and the shotgun?”
“Uzi’s out of ammo and the shotgun only has two shots.”
“Two shots more than we have.”
“All right. Well, other than that… I think we’re good.”
“We sound good,” Steve said, making his way around the bus. He stopped near the hood to check the ornate display of plywood and barbed wire before turning his attention to Ian. “Anything else you want to tell us before we leave?”
“Like what?” the man asked. Hands behind his back, he grimaced as he adjusted his position on the ground. A fresh bead of blood flowed down his arm. “I was in a gang. My arm’s fucking hurting. My last name is Shaw. I’m half-Mexican. Should I continue?”
“Don’t give me any fuckin’ lip,” Steve growled. “Or we might just leave you here.”
“Steve,” Dakota sighed. “Not now. Seriously.”
Steve turned his eyes on Ian. “Look, I believe you when you say that you got roped into this gang, but I don’t trust you one bit, especially since you were shooting at me.
“And me,” Dakota said.
“Right. You were shooting at us, so don’t expect to get any special treatment. Don’t treat me like an asshole and I won’t treat you like one. Got it?”
“Got it,” Ian said.
“Good. As soon as we get the ball rolling, Dakota’ll patch your arm up. I don’t want to stick around here for much longer anyway.”
“The zombies would’ve probably already made it here if they heard anything,” Dakota sighed, rolling the extra supplies into a tool bag.
“I know,” Steve said. “I just don’t trust the ‘probably’ part.”
Neither do I, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to come out of the blue and get us.
Shaking his head, Dakota gathered up the rest of the supplies and loaded them onto the bus. While Steve continued his last-minute maintenance on the vehicle, pounding extra nails here and applying extra barbed wire there, Ian sat idly by, only offering Dakota his attention when he caught the younger man looking at him. Dakota smiled, hoping it would entice a positive response, but frowned when it didn’t. Though the ex-con’s demeanor seemed to lighten, his overall expression didn’t. His ice-blue eyes appeared sharp, angry in the aftermath of their admittance of mercy, and his rough, stubbled jaw looked so set that Dakota thought it would break right off his face. The tip of his strong nose and the lobes of his hooked ears—places that, normally should have been immune to such displays—looked red, as though scarlet with shame or hurt, and his thin lips seemed just on the verge of quivering. The whole spectacle was sad, especially when he himself felt bad for the man.
Do I really feel bad for him, or is it just pity?
He’d never been able to distinguish the two from one another. Pity felt just like any other form of remorse. A man lost his wife and you felt bad for him, even going so far as to ask how things have been and what he planned on doing with his life, but it was never a true emotion. Sure, that feeling was there, and it would stay with you if only briefly, but it didn’t pass the impersonal barrier called your short-term memory. That was called pity.
Disturbed by the notion, Dakota stepped forward and offered a second smile. “You care if I sit by you?”
“Go ahead,” Ian said.
Taking his cue, Dakota seated himself on the floor beside Ian and watched Steve circle the bus a second time. His thoughts in knots and his stomach threatening to do a barrel roll, he tore his eyes away from his friend and looked at the man beside him. “Where’d you get them?”
“What?”
“Your eyes.”
“They’ve always been there, kid.”
“I meant what side of your family.”
“My Dad’s.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“Whatever,” Ian grunted, grimacing as another bead of blood flowed down his arm. “Care to do me a favor? Fix my arm up if you’re not doing anything right now.”
“I’m not,” Dakota said, rising to make his way toward the bus. He stopped in midstride. “You need anything else?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. A drink of water, medicine…”
“Water would be nice.”
At least he’s straightforward, he thought, taking a step into the vehicle.
A moment later, after combing through the packs and finding the first aid kit and a bottle of water, Dakota stepped out of the bus kneeled at Ian’s side. He popped the cap off the water, tipped it to the man’s lips, then got to work, first sterilizing, then applying cotton over the wound—which, though not completely severe, would not fare well if left untreated.
“Where did you come from?” Dakota asked, measuring a length of bandage.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, where were you guys?”
“North. In the city.”
“What’s up there?”
“Zombies,” Ian said. “Cars. Some food. A few guns.”
“I’m guessing there’s not much more than that.”
“Nope. Not at all.” Ian paused when Dakota began to wrap his arm up. “You know where you guys are going?”
“Steve said south.”
“Toward the army base?”
“I forgot there was an army base down there,” Dakota said.
“We’re not going to the base,” Steve said, slamming the hood down. “At least, not yet.”
“Your buddy doesn’t have a clue where to go,” Ian whispered. “Does he?”
“No one knows a lot of anything,” Dakota sighed. He pinned the bandage into place and began to reload everything into the kit. “We’re just trying to figure out where to go.”
“You care if I come with?”
“He’s not coming with!” Steve called out. “Not after what he did.”
“He’s not an asshole,” Dakota whispered. “He wouldn’t leave you here.”
Ian snorted.
You may not trust him, Dakota thought, but even you wouldn’t leave behind someone like him.
No. He wouldn’t leave Ian here, especially not after what had happened three years ago, when he came home from the desert with a mark on his heart and his hand to his chest. Three bones had been broken.
A soldier was no use if he couldn’t fire his gun.