The Girl Who Kicked Ass (Death Fields 3)

I’m eye to eye with dirty, cracked-faced mannequin with powder blue eye shadow and pale pink lips. I kick the wig with my toe, flinging it into the corner.

“Shut up,” I bite, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I turn and spot not only Parker but Jude grinning over her shoulder. I hold my hatchet up. “Not a word. Not a single word.”

*

“You know in Harry Potter when Harry, Ron, and Hermione go on the run and Hermione has that purse that’s really a magical suitcase—“

Davis cuts me off. “Like Mary Poppin’s bag?”

“Yes, like that,” I continue. “I wish we had one of those.”

“I wish we had magic for all kinds of things,” Parker mutters from her spot on the couch, stabbing her finger into the tin plate in her lap. We’ve made a lumpy nest of chairs and cushions, passing around our dinner rations. Erwin has, for now, a massive supply of MREs, which are not great but are better than scavenging around for food.

“If you could pick one thing,” Paul asks, obviously liking this topic, “what would you put in a magic bag?”

“Unlimited ammo,” Davis says without hesitation.

Jude goes next. “A magical refrigerator with cold drinks and food inside. And ice. I miss ice.”

“A bed,” Parker says, her eyes taking on a dreamy shine. “No, a really warm blanket. No, clean socks. Unlimited clean socks. No. Wait. Can I say a shower? Because right now several of you could use a shower and I’m happy to share.”

Jude throws a pillow at her and she squeals when it lands smack in her face. She tosses it back, but misses, hitting Paul on the ear. His eyes narrow and he grabs two stuffed animals from the shelf behind him and pegs Parker in the chest.

“No fair,” she shouts, scooping up the small bean bag-sized dolls. “Alex, help me!”

I’m about to come to her defense, lifting my own cushion, but I’m tackled and held down by Cole’s strong arms.

“You’re on their side?” I ask, with a huff.

“Bros before…well, you know.” I roll my eyes. He can’t even say it.

I scramble and manage to get out of his grip. The entire nest is now one big pillow fight (except for Davis who moved to the side to continue eating) and I take advantage of the fray to attack Cole. I throw the two stuffed animals I’m holding at him, one gets him in the neck, the other he snatches out of the air. He then grabs the whole basket

of bean-filled animals off the floor and eyes me like a target.

“Don’t you dare—”

He hits me square in chest.

“Cole—”

Thwack. Again. I search for my own weapon but the others are in a pile of laughter on the ground and the pillows are scattered under their bodies. I look up again and Cole gives me a tiny smirk.

My next move is because I have to. I take the coward’s way out. I run.

The antique shop is laid out like a maze, rows and rows of furniture and display cases dividing out the space. I travel down one, listening for the sound of Cole’s boots on the hardwoods—he’s headed other direction. I dash off again, tripping over a rolled up rug and steadying myself on a sunglasses rack. The plastic frames clatter to the floor. I freeze and mutter a curse when his boots start my way. I search for a place to hide, eventually settling on a 1950s style chrome and Formica kitchen table. I get down on my hands and knees and squeeze beneath the chairs, keeping an eye out on the direction he’s coming from. Then I’ll jump out and attack.

The room grows still, other than the faint sound of my friends laughing and talking in the other side of the shop. I hold my breath, knowing he’s near—waiting for the scuffed brown of his boots to appear. A minute passes and I think maybe Cole’s given up on our game and I’m foolishly hiding beneath a kitchen table. I inch out from the table on my hands and knees and see nothing but an empty pathway. My shoulders relax and then I hear quietly in my ear, “Found you.”

I scream. I scream louder than I’ve screamed in years. Every Eater in eastern Georgia must hear. Every Hybrid just turned this direction. Cole’s eyes pop wide and he clamps a hand over my mouth. My chest heaves and he yells out, “We’re okay. It’s okay,” so the others don’t race back and attack.

“Holy crap, Cole. You do not do that to people in the apocalypse, okay? What if I’d shot you?”

He looks down at my side. “You’re not carrying a gun.”

I hold up my hands. “These are deadly. I don’t need a gun to hurt you.”

He steps close and loops a finger through my belt, tugging me into his chest. I’m still breathing hard from being scared out of my wits but the closeness calms me.