“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.
“You won’t leave him here,” Dakota whispered. “You won’t.”
Steve looked up from a map on the table. “Bullshit I won’t.”
“His arm’s a mess, Steve. He can’t fend for himself.”
“He’s an ignorant prick who let someone bully him into doing something he didn’t want to do. I’m not taking him with us. Besides, his arm’s fine. It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Just like yours was?”
Steve froze. His eyes rose and his jaw clenched together. “You’re telling me,” he began a moment later, “that my arm was just a flesh wound?”
“It wouldn’t have killed you.”
“My arm was almost amputated because it was so bad.”
“It wouldn’t have killed you though.”
“You’re not getting the point. My humerus was almost snapped in half, and you’re saying it couldn’t’ve killed me? That’s bullshit and you know it. I could’ve bled to death.”
“Steve—”
“I love how you’ve just turned this situation around just to make me look like an asshole.”
“I’m not saying that.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Dakota. It’s bad enough that you want to take an ex con with us, but now you’re belittling my injury? I could’ve died out there.”