Drying off the best I can, I change into new clothes and wash the ones I’ve been wearing for the past couple of days. The water in the sink turns brown but I swirl them in the soap and pretend it’s enough.
The fresh set of clothing I put on are my favorite. The ones I’ve been saving—for what I didn’t know. I have a desire to feel clean and take a moment to look in the small mirror mounted on the door.
The black shirt has a retro style kitty cat on the front. I tug up my green cargo pants and tie the shirt in a knot at the waist. Tender bruises spot my neck from the Eater attack on the deck. I’ve already lost weight and the muscles in my normally soft arms and legs are more defined from the hours of hiking and lugging the extra weight of my pack. I take a moment to loop the pouch over my head and squeeze the extra water out of my hair.
Hanging my wet clothes on the edge of the sink I consider that Wyatt’s clothing could use a good scrubbing too. Not that I want to set myself up to be his housekeeper but he’s not in the condition to do it himself.
I push open the door and saw him awake and leaning against the seat cushion. Shirtless.
Oh boy.
“Hey,” he says without glancing up.
“This place isn’t so bad. Beats my aunt’s cabin in a way. Maybe we should camp out here for a day or two and regroup,” I say jokingly. It’s all a ruse to pretend I’m not staring at his chest. And shoulders. And the way all that stuff works together. I focus on the strips of bandages I fashioned around his wound last night. A dark spot of blood has seeped through. “Give you time to heal.”
His eyes are glued to my movements. It makes me uncomfortable. I feel the heat on my cheeks. “What?”
His eyes snap from wherever he was looking to my face.
“You changed and you’re…wet.”
“There’s a shower, but I’m not sure you need to get that cut wet.”
I find my comb and run it through my hair, dividing it into two, equal pigtails beneath my ears. “What do you think? Stay here or go? There’s the extra bed and unlike the cabin there aren’t any mice biting my toes.”
He glanced at me again but put his feet firmly on the ground. He winced when he stood, but his balance was okay. “We go.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “There’s a bunch of Eaters outside. Can’t we wait until something else distracts them?”
“How do we know something will?” He’s acting weird. Or is he? I don’t really know him. I mean, I know nothing about him at all. Maybe he’s moody as hell on a good day.
“Let me clean up,” he says. “Then we can work out a plan. I don’t like waiting around. We’re basically cornered if anyone else finds us.”
“Who else would find us?”
He squeezes past me, warm hands on my shoulders. I stare at his lower back and the way his muscles arch and curve as he enters the bathroom. It’s very…well, it’s a lot to take in.
He spins suddenly, hand on the door. Again he gives me a smile—one that makes my stomach flutter. No, Alex. No. We are not doing this—whatever “this” is.
“I like that shirt,” he says.
I look down at the cat, its eyes narrowed suspiciously. Glancing up to respond, he’s already closed the door. This man—this guy—Wyatt. He’s dangerous in more ways than one.
Chapter Twenty-Six
~Before~
Five Weeks Earlier
The second week passes. My father doesn’t return. We pack. We sort. We pick through our things trying to find our favorites. Then we repack and re-sort and narrow down our favorite things to a favorite thing. It sucks.
It’s the end of the world.
The news has stopped. The talking heads are gone. I suspect they’re sick or in quarantine. Cable is off the air—we’re stuck with local channels, each with the same message. Go to your nearest shelter. Cover your mouth and nose. Do not approach anyone.
It’s more about what they don’t say. They don’t talk about the Eaters. The ones we’ve all seen if not on the television but in real life. For us it was Mr. Johnson down the street. He’s one. Or was. Eyes spidery and black. He paced outside the house, banging on the doors, busting windows. He threatened Mrs. Johnson and finally the white van came, one like Liza described. Emergency workers in hazmat suits loaded them in. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. He was no longer moving.
Curtains up and down the street fluttered with interest as the transport bus drove away. A loud speaker announced we could go too—another vehicle would be here to take us to the shelter. Pack your belongings. Take the bus. All is well.