Book 1 - Page 24 (1/2)
I tried to sleep in the silent s.h.i.+p.
Haven House was always—had always been—so noisy. I would never hear it creak and groan again. Would never hear the cane whisper me to sleep. Would never hear my mom’s heels clicking across the marble floor.
Even the voices were quiet, as if they wanted me to experience my grief to its full, excruciating potential.
Or perhaps they were quiet because Jackson was mere feet from me, sleeping slumped over that desk. He’d told me we’d always stay in the same room on the road because, again, “no place is one hundred percent safe.” His crossbow was at the ready.
I felt alternately uneasy and protected to have him so close.
As I lay on a too-soft foam bed in a too-quiet cabin, I relived the day. A trio of memories had been etched into my mind, and I knew they’d never be forgotten.
The proud look Jackson had given me when I dropped the lighter to burn down my home and cremate my mother.
The feel of his blistered palm when we ran hand-in-hand from the flames.
How peaceful Mom had looked in death.
Tears gathered and spilled—there was no stopping them. I imagined her last thoughts, imagined her clutching that picture. Had she known it would be her last night to live?
Why hadn’t I stayed with her?
If she hadn’t died in her sleep, then I could have been there to hold her hand, to see her . . . to see her through it.
Curling on my side, I wept, trying so hard not to make a sound.
Jackson suddenly shot upright. “You need to stop crying.”
I kept crying.
With a harsh oath, he grated, “Out here, there’s no room for this. You’re too soft, Evangeline.”
Yes, Jackson had only just begun to recognize what a weighty responsibility he’d taken on today—and now the reality was setting in. I sat up, swiping my forearm over my face. “I c-can’t help it.” Sooner or later, he’d get sick of me.
“Your mère died in grace. What more could you want for her? I only hope to go out so clean.”
I cried harder.
“d.a.m.n it, Evie!” His brows drew together, his lips thinned. “To h.e.l.l with it. Cry all you like, but I doan have to watch it!” s.n.a.t.c.hing up his bow, he stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door.
I stared after him, miserable, listening as he strode through the s.h.i.+p. But just as suddenly, he started back toward the cabin. I heard him slide down outside, sitting against the door. He exhaled a gust of breath.
I continued to cry; he rose to pace.
What felt like hours later, he flung open the door. “You know what PEWS is?”
I shook my head dumbly.
“Perimeter early-warning system. It’s a way to hear enemies creeping up on you. Like the crackling sh.e.l.ls out on the deck.”
“O-okay?” Tears were streaming down my face.
But he wouldn’t look at me, just started pacing again. “You can crush up lightbulbs outside your door, any kind of gla.s.s. A groaning staircase works just as well. That’s part of the reason I always try to roll two-story houses. When I’m driving, you’re goan to be looking for places for us to overnight, so keep that in mind.”
I tentatively nodded.
“Now, Baggers can smell water from miles away, so they still flock to old bodies of—”
“Then wh-why are we in a s.h.i.+pyard?”
“A s.h.i.+p on blocks is too good to pa.s.s up. Bagmen are like rabid wolves—they can hunt, but they can’t figure out how to use a ladder. Besides, every overnight has its own drawbacks. Any house with an open door? You have to wonder if a Bagger got in there first, like a moccasin coiled in your boot. Public building? You can’t spit without hitting a fire exit. Fire exits equal Bagman entrances.”
“Y-you know a lot.”
“I do, Evie,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know that Bagman scratches aren’t contagious, but their saliva or blood in your own will turn you in less than two days. I know that the only way to kill them is beheading or a shot to the brainpan. I’ve seen ’em all dried-out and chalky, till you think they got to be dead—but if you toss a bucket of water on ’em, they’ll come slithering across the ground to bite you. I know that they’re not allergic to sun like everybody thinks. They just doan like it ’cause it dries out their slimy skin. Enough of an incentive and they’ll brave the sun. I’ve seen ’em out past dawn licking dew from cars, or even from the ground.”
As I s.h.i.+vered to imagine such a sight, he canted his head at me. “You paying attention? I learned this stuff, but I’ve paid for it. Giving it to you for free.”
I would grasp at anything to occupy my mind. “I want to learn more.”
“All righty.” He hauled his backpack to the bed, taking a seat across from me. “Now, this here’s my bug-out bag. Only critical stuff and survival gear.” He dumped its contents onto the cover, his bearing seemingly proud ?
My gaze flicked over energy gel-packs and protein bars, a canister of Morton salt, a Swiss Army multipurpose tool, a travel toothbrush, lighters, medical tape, a windup flashlight, glow sticks, three mini bottles of liquor, and a canteen.
Some items were more surprising: a small hammer and bag of nails, an envelope of photos that he didn’t seem keen for me to see, and a pistol, snapped in a holster. “We’ll turn your backpack into a bug-out bag too. And every night, we’ll sort our resources.” At my questioning look, he said, “So we know what to be looking out for on the road.”
My tears were drying. “Like what?”
“If your bootlaces get busted, we woan pa.s.s by a corpse with decent lace-up boots.”
I swallowed. This was my life now. “If you have a pistol, why do you carry only a bow and arrow?”
“Only?” he scoffed. “This is bolt-action.” He reached for his weapon, showing me a magazine clip with six short arrows inside. “It’s quiet, and the arrows are reusable. Not so great against militiamen, but perfect for Baggers. Besides, that pistol’s only got one bullet—hanging on to it in case I get bit.”
“Oh. When do I get my shotgun back?”
“Try never.” I glared. “I’m goan to saw off the barrel. Carry it along with my bow for black hats. But here, I’ll help you get started with supplies.” He handed me the three mini bottles.
I raised my brows. “Jack Daniels?”
He met my gaze. “Is always good to have in hand.”
I set them away, too tired and emotionally raw to deal with his innuendo.
But he scooped the bottles up, dropping them insistently into my lap. “Doan scoff at the liquor, Evie. What else on earth can disinfect, catch an enemy on fire, and get you drunk? Tell me, what could you use the empty bottles for?”
“Um . . . gla.s.s for a PEWS?”
The corners of his lips curved just the slightest bit.
Chapter 22
DAY 230 A.F.
DEEP IN MISSISSIPPI
I sat in the parked car, surrounded by old corpses, watching Jackson fight through a windstorm. He had his bow at the ready, the shotgun slung over his shoulder, and a plastic gas tank tethered to his belt.