“For your sake I hope not,” she said gently. “But I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
I place my laptop to the side, all motivation lost. How was I supposed to write a motivational speech to the class when all signs pointed to the world going to hell in a cannibal filled hand basket?
Chapter Thirteen
~Now~
The blood and goo on the windshield is thick and whatever wipers this beast had stopped working ages ago. I flinch with every hit—the Eater’s knocking heavy and hard out of the way.
“Jesus,” the guy next to me says while looking out the back window. “I think we’re clear.”
The lights shine on a dirt driveway and the tires kick up rocks until I make it to the paved road. I pause.
“What?” he asks, again peering into the darkness behind us.
“Nothing.” With squealing tires I gun the gas, steering the truck to the road, leaving the farm and my mother behind me. I don’t even have time to look at the mailbox address. She’s gone. I know this. She’s not the first person I’ve had to leave behind.
A half a mile away I pull over on a dirt road and reach for my gun again. Good thing because the guy next to me has already leveled his at my head.
Seems like we’ve moved to the distrust phase of the apocalypse.
“Where the hell did you come from?” the shadow says. His voice is firm. Controlled, with a slight southern accent.
I keep my hand low, touching the cool metal of my gun. “The barn. Are you going to kill me?”
“Not unless I have to,” he replies.
I shook my head. “Are you going to rape me or torture me or anything? If that’s your plan just tell me now so we can get it over with.” And by get it over with, I mean blow his freaking head off before he can make a move.
He lowers his gun and runs a hand over his sweaty forehead. “Sweetheart, sex is the last thing on my mind right now. You can put that thing away,” he says gesturing to the weapon in my hand. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I let go but keep the weapon on the worn leather seat. To use on him or an Eater. I’m not sure. Slumping against the headrest, I take a deep, shuddering breath and close my eyes.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
“What? No.” I wipe my eyes. “I’m just losing it.”
He reaches for my face, and I flinch. “Hold on a second. I think you’re hurt. There’s blood on your cheek.”
I push his hand away and swallow down the nausea. “It’s not mine.”
“From one of them?” He raises an eyebrow skeptically. Contamination is still a little confusing. The infection has mutated more than once.
“I just killed two of them. Back there.” I jerk my thumb in the direction we came from. He fumbles under the seat. I hear a zipper and he comes back with a handkerchief.
“You sure they didn’t get you?” he has to ask. “Here,” he says but he doesn’t hand it over. He wipes the spot from my cheek.
“No, they didn’t.” I feel the warm tears on my cheeks. It makes the blood gooey and easier to wipe off. “The blood is my mother’s. They got her, not me.”
“Just now? I heard the gunshot.”
“Yeah.”
He grimaces and looks out the back window. Even in the darkened truck cab his good looks are obvious. His profile is strong and angular. Full lips but with his longer hair pulled back in a tight knot at the back of his head, he looks masculine. God he has a man-bun, Liza loved guys with man-buns. I choke back a sob. They’re all dead. My mom. Liza and probably freaking Harry Styles too.
“Do you want me to go back? Do I need to…”
“No.” I shake my head and wipe my nose on the back of my hand. “