Strike (17 page)

Chance stumbles into Wyatt's space. “A good friend helps you dispose of bodies, huh?” he slurs. “Except for Mikey.”

Wyatt looks like he's been slapped. “Don't do that, man. It wasn't my fault.”

“You kinda look like you know it's your fault.”

Wyatt bumps his bloody chest against Chance, his arms back, his hands in fists. “Did I sell him the shit he OD'd on? Did I hand him the needle?”

Chance wobbles back and pushes Wyatt's chest, clumsy but hard. “Was I standing in the room with him when he did it? Was I the one who didn't stop him when they knew he'd already had more than he could take?”

“He made his choice!” Wyatt growls. “He only did it because I asked him to stop!”

“You left him in front of the hospital! Like a flaming sack of shit!”

They start taking clumsy swipes at each other, but Gabriela steps between them, and neither of them is willing to touch her.

“You two can get into a fight about it once the kid's not dead and my brother is sober,” Gabriela snaps. “We'll dump the guy in the parking lot. Whatever. We need to go. Now.”

Wyatt steps away from the car and opens the door for her, looking sheepish and gory.

“Go get cleaned up and take your groceries inside before they start hunting for you.” She rolls her eyes at me. “Funny how TV
shows about the apocalypse always have guys in charge, but they're all actually idiots.”

I chuckle before I can stop myself.

“Wait.” Wyatt uses his spare key to unlock the trunk and rustles around inside. It creeps me out to see the guy lying there, limp, but his chest is still rising and falling, and at least I'm not the one who did the damage this time. “Ta-da!” Wyatt reaches into the guy's pocket and holds up a simple flip phone, a burner. But we have a phone now. And that means I can call my mom.

“You're a genius,” I say.

Gabriela slams the trunk, gets in the driver's seat, and waits until Chance is buckled in before peeling out backward, just in case we want to slow her up any longer.

“Come on,” I say, tugging Wyatt's less-bloody arm. “You're a mess.”

“You're just trying to get me out my clothes,” he teases.

“Shut up. It's not my fault you smell like old steak.”

I'm glad he can't see me blush in the darkness.

When I unzip the tent, we can barely see inside, but what we see is a goddamn wreck.

“Did we get robbed?” Wyatt fumbles for the lantern, and when he flicks it on, it's pretty obvious that we did. Everything has been tossed around. The sleeping bags are unzipped, the pillows are out of their cases, my backpack's contents are everywhere.

“What could they possibly want?” I say, pawing through to see what's missing.

“Jesus. Monty. What the hell?” He holds up the python's plastic travel aquarium, and it's empty.

I edge out of the tent. That snake could be anywhere, and I don't want to find him first. Wyatt sorts through everything, puts our stuff in piles. Monty isn't in the tent—that we can see. I shake out my sleeping bag just to be sure before I sit down. The only obvious thing that's missing? Our food, bullets, Jeremy's gun, and Roy's rifle. I guess I'd be mad if I was surprised. We can't deal with it until Wyatt's cleaned up, though, so I hand him a baby wipe for his face, and it comes away mottled with brown and black. Funny how dried blood is never red. He strips off his tee, balls it up, and grabs for another, but I stop him.

“Wait. There's more blood.”

He stops and stares at me, on his knees in the tent. By lantern light, I move closer, cautious as a baby deer, and gently wipe the blood from his neck and chest. He's got some blond hair scattered around, but not a lot, and it's curly and springy. He's frozen as I touch him, his chest rising and falling faster under my hand.

“I want to kiss you,” he says softly, “but my mouth still tastes like pennies.”

I finish with the wipe and take the clean shirt from his hand, drawing it over his head and threading his arms through it with a weird intimacy.

“Now's not the time. We've got to find our stuff. And Monty.”

“Right.” He nods and tries to get his breathing under control. His smile is shaky, his eyes black pools. “Not now. No kissing now.” He grabs my hand and brings it to his cheek, curving my fingers around his stubbled jaw. “But soon?”

I nod. “Soon.”

At least whoever ransacked our tent left the condoms in the zipper compartment of my backpack. We're caught like that for a moment, staring into each other's eyes, but the sound of laughter outside reminds me that now is not soon.

“You're going to need something dark to wear, if we're sneaking around outside.” I withdraw my hand and dig around his pile of clothes, handing him a black hoodie. The scarf I knit for him just a few days ago is carefully rolled up in the middle of his stuff like a beating heart, and I smile. I would put it on him now, but I feel like we should keep it safe from all the blood that turns up whenever we're together. I mean, I just got him cleaned off, and there's still black crust around his nostrils. That would've grossed me out a week ago. Now it just makes me want to hug him tighter.

I'm already wearing a black hoodie, but I put on a hat and check my gun. Wyatt checks his, too, and gives me the nod that means he's ready. Once we're outside the tent, he zips the door and stares at it.

“I wish you could lock a tent,” he says.

“Problem?”

Rex appears out of the dark like a ghost.

“Somebody stole our food and ammo,” I explain. When Wyatt gives me a “Who the hell is this guy?” look, I add, “Rex is on our side. Play nice.” Because after hearing his story on the porch, I've basically accepted him as one of our crew.

“I know who took your shit.” Rex tosses his bangs. “I was watching from the porch. Come on.”

He turns around and starts walking. Wyatt and I follow. The world is no longer a place where you forgive strangers for their transgressions or let a slight go without punishment. We need that food. We need those bullets and guns. He loves that stupid snake. Wherever Matty is, whichever Crane goon is “watching” her for us, we need to get her back. And if we let them take things from us now, they'll just keep doing it. The way Wyatt's hand rests on his gun convinces me that he understands this too. He puts up the hood on his hoodie, and now we're a gang of three.

Rex leads us to a stretch of woods between the cars and the house, the section that I think of as Crane property. There are tire tracks leading to the old barn where they supposedly do deer processing, a smaller attached shack with a sign that says
TAXIDERMY
, and a collection of single-wide trailers and old campers where I've assumed the lesser Cranes live while the more posh ones like Leon get to stay in the house proper. Something crinkles under my foot, and I look down to find a Pop-Tart wrapper.

“Assholes,” I mutter.

Most of the trailers are dark and quiet, but one in particular is lit up with Christmas lights and blasting old-timey rock music that makes my teeth itch. Lights shine beyond the crooked blinds, shadows moving within.

Rex stops and points. “That one. Do we go in with guns blazing?”

I grab his shoulder and whisper, “You don't have to be part of this, you know.”

“I'm already a part of it,” he says simply, pulling his gun out of his waistband.

And just like that, he's part of my family. And I don't know how to approach a trailer full of armed thieves. But when I hear a sharp bark from inside the trailer, my blood boils.

I know that bark.

They've got Matty, too.

Wyatt pulls his gun the second I pull mine. Rex already has Tyler's Glock ready—I just hope it's loaded. They both look at me like I'm the leader. Am I? I don't know. I stare hard at the door. I don't want to knock. Things never go well when I knock on someone's door. That old familiar feeling is back—cold feet, shaking hands, jackhammering heart, blurry vision, sweaty palms. I swallow it down and set my chin.

Just a few feet away, inside the trailer, Matty starts barking like crazy. The aluminum door shudders as her claws scrape it. She knows it's me. I realize I'm pointing my gun at the door, at Matty,
and let it drop to my side. As I reach for the knob, someone inside yells, “Shut up, goddammit!” and Matty yelps along with the sound of something hard hitting flesh.

They hit my dog.

They stole my shit and they hit my dog. That's all it takes.

I grab the knob and yank so hard the door flies open and rebounds off the trailer wall. The guy holding Matty's collar lets go, and she leaps out the door, bouncing around and wiggling. But my gun is up and pointed at the asshole who hit my dog, and he slowly raises his hands, all the while his eyes go narrow with sly hate.

He straightens up. “Well, what do we have here? Boys?”

Two more Crane goons mosey up to surround him, trying to look dangerous. The second one is Tuck, and the third one is the jerk who drove me to Mark's. My gun doesn't waver.

“I take it you're the assholes who stole our stuff?” I say through clenched teeth.

The lead guy smirks and starts to put his hands down. I shake my head no. He does it anyway, crossing his arms over his chest.

“If it's food you bought with Crane money, I figure it's more ours than yours. What are you going to do about it, honey?”

I take a deep breath and nudge Matty behind me. “Well, considering what Leon said . . .”

He goes for his gun.

I shoot him in the stomach.

The guy doubles over as a red flower blooms on his shirt. The other guys dive away, probably for guns. Adrenaline rockets through me, and I feel like the Incredible Hulk, stretching with power. A hand reaches over to pull the moaning guy away from the open door, and Rex shoots it, right through the palm.

“I give up!” Tuck shouts. “Truce! I didn't like these assholes, anyway!”

“Come out with your hands up,” I say, and his huge frame fills the door, hands up. I've never seen him without an assault rifle before. He almost trips and falls down the stairs as he steps over the guy I shot.

“Can I go?” he asks.

“Check him,” I say to Rex, who obligingly runs hands over the places a dude could carry a gun. When Rex shakes his head, I say, “You going to try to get revenge here?”

Tuck shakes his head. “Hell no. I been telling Sean all night he shouldn't have taken your stuff. Little weasel deserves it. A good man doesn't kick a dog.”

As if to support this claim, Matty wiggles up to him and licks his hand, and he pats her head.

“Can I come out, or are you going to shoot me again?” a guy calls from inside.

I look at Tuck. “Was it just the three of you in there?”

“Yeah. They got your snake, too. Didn't hurt it yet. Nice snake.”

“This last guy—is he a Crane?”

Tuck has to think about it for a minute. “Not that I know of. He's just a tech guy. College kid. They found 'im online or something. Expendable.” He leans in and whispers, “Kid's a prick, so I don't mind if you shoot him again.”

“Pull out that one.” I point my gun at the guy I shot in the stomach. “Please.”

Tuck shrugs and yanks the floppy dude out by the legs. His head bonks down the stairs, and I know he's already dead. The smell reminds me of what happened when Wyatt shot my friend Jeremy; gut wounds are the worst, but they don't splatter as much as other places. I can't believe I know shit like this now. Tuck drags the body
sideways, and I do my best to ignore him. It. Fuck. My stomach is twisted, my mouth sour. The shooting might get easier, but the aftermath never does.

“Is this your trailer?” I ask Tuck.

“Nope. I got my own place. According to the rules, it's yours now. But it's going to take some cleaning. Those boys were pigs. There's still one more that hasn't come back yet.” He looks at Wyatt, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Last time I saw him, he was with you.”

“I haven't seen him since we got back,” Wyatt says, voice hard.

A voice hollers from inside the trailer. “Can I please come out? I'm not going to hurt anybody. You shot my gun hand. I'm unarmed.”

Tuck looks at me, and I look at Wyatt, and Rex just looks bored. I shrug.

“Come on—” I start, and shots pop off as he runs outside, screaming.

I've pulled the trigger before I meant to, because these days, my body does that.

The guy stumbles and falls, full of holes. Wyatt and Rex were shooting too.

Tuck kicks him over with a steel-toed work boot. “Told you he was a prick.”

“Did he get anybody?”

We all look down, checking our bodies and looking at one another for holes. Looks like we're safe, this time.

The air smells of pine trees and gunpowder, and the night is suddenly a vacuum of silence as I stare down at two dead men. I killed one for kicking my dog and the other for lying, and I'm starting to feel like that's fair. That this is what the world has become: a place where you do whatever it takes to keep what you love alive.