Chapter 12 On The Move
TWELVE
ON THE MOVE
LYLA
For the past ten days, the cabin has been both my prison and my refuge.
Ten days since the compound. Ten days since I nearly bled to death.
Ten days of healing, of breathing in the musty scent coming off the quilt lying over me and listening to the others chattering outside while my ribs try to piece themselves back together.
Ten days of Joanie’s nonstop talking.
She’s barely left my side, popping in and out of the room like my own housemaid with far too much energy.
She’s taken it upon herself to educate me on everyone in the group, even though I told her I met most of them already.
I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t want to get close to them.
In this world, the likelihood that all of them will survive is slim to none.
It’s better to not get attached, but I will let Joanie talk away if it makes her feel better.
“Earl and Edith are the old married couple,” she says now, her tone bright and animated as she sits cross-legged on the floor beside my bed. “They’re in their seventies. Edith was a librarian.”
Huh. How did a librarian become such a badass?
Joanie continues. “Earl used to be a firefighter, retired before all this crap went down. That’s how they know Jacob.”
“So Jacob was a firefighter?” Of course he was.
My mind conjures the image—him carrying me over his shoulder, smoke swirling around us, his jaw set with determined focus as flames rage in the background. My hand . . . and his very firm backside.
Heat creeps up my neck, spreading to my cheeks.
I smack my hand over my eyes with a groan.
“Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, clearing my throat and forcing my hand back down. “Sorry. Keep going.”
Joanie grins. “So Jacob wasn’t just a firefighter,” she says, her voice dipping into a conspiratorial tone.
“According to Earl, he was the fire chief. Says Jacob was the best firefighter he had in years.” She pauses, then deepens her voice, pitching it into an impressively gruff imitation of the old man himself. “ ‘In my unbiased opinion.’ ”
“Not bad,” I admit, giving her a mock-serious nod. “You might have a future in voice acting if this apocalypse thing ever blows over.”
Joanie beams and leans back on her hands. “Told ya I’ve got range.”
I raise an eyebrow, my lips curling into a small, amused smile. “Is that right? And then there’s Clair and Poppy?”
Joanie nods enthusiastically. “Clair grew up in the same town and used to be an elementary school teacher before . . . you know.” She waves a hand, as if the apocalypse is just a minor inconvenience. “And Poppy’s ten. Loves to draw.”
She pauses, her expression faltering. “I, uh . . . might not have been keeping my swearing down around her though.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. The movement sends a bolt of pain tearing through my ribs. I clutch at my side, groaning as I try to catch my breath.
Joanie’s face drains of color, her wide eyes fixed on me in panic. “Shit! You okay?”
I grimace. “I’m fine. Just swell. Keep going.”
Joanie hesitates, her eyes scanning my face for any sign that I’m bluffing. When she seems satisfied, she continues. “Well, there’s Pete and Jessica.”
Her face twists into an expression of distaste, and I can’t help but grin. “Oh, I remember her.” How could I forget the woman who called me a lost cause? I may have been in and out of consciousness, but I still heard that loud and clear.
“Yeah,” Joanie mutters, her eyes narrowing. “She’s a real treat. I don’t know what her problem is. Whenever Leon gives me food, she just glares at me.”
My smile disappears. “She hasn’t done anything to you, has she?” I have no problem knifing someone, ribs or no ribs.
Joanie shakes her head. “Nah, she’s just a bitch.”
“Joanie, for the love of—”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine! She’s a piece of a stinking pile of poo. Better?”
“Smartass,” I mutter.
Joanie grins, her eyes twinkling. “I learn from the best. Anyway, the rest of them, you already know. Trish, Leon, and Barbara, Jacob’s mom.”
In the depths of my mind, tires screech, followed by the unmistakable sound of a fiery car crash.
“Barbara,” I repeat slowly, my voice slightly strangled. “Badass Barbara. The woman I have seriously considered asking to adopt me . . . is Jacob’s mom?”
Joanie blinks. “Yeah? Why do you sound so shocked?”
Oh, I don’t know, Joanie. Maybe because I shamelessly flirted with her son and asked him out, while looking like a punching bag, right in front of her.
See, this is why I never drink or do anything that might compromise my filter.
Because, apparently, the second my brain takes a hit, I become painfully blunt and terrifyingly honest. Normally, I have at least some self-restraint.
But no—semiconscious, bleeding-out Lyla? She shoots her shot without hesitation.
Nope. Not sharing that humiliation.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “It’s just surprising. I wouldn’t have guessed Barbara had a son like Jacob.”
Joanie eyes me. “A son like how?”
“Just one that looks like him.”
She pauses, tilting her head, her eyebrows inching up.
Then it clicks.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, her voice full of disgust. “Please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
If she’s going to be nosy, I might as well lean into it. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say, stretching back against the pillows. “But I will admit he is one gorgeous stack of pancakes.” Even if I do want to drop-kick him in the throat.
Joanie gags, shoving a pillow over her face. “I hate you.”
I chuckle, but the truth is, Jacob has been stopping by my room every morning and night. Always checking in. Always watching. Making sure I’m healing or, more likely, making sure I’m not plotting with Joanie to drive off in the middle of the night with all the supplies.
The man has serious trust issues.
Joanie groans, throwing her head back in mock agony. “Also, please don’t say pancakes. I miss them so much.” Her dramatic despair lasts all of two seconds before a sly grin spreads across her face. “But, you know . . . I might start calling him that. Just to piss him off.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“He’s so funny when he gets all angry. Like, his jaw tightens, and his eyebrows do this twitchy thing.” She attempts to mimic it, but she just ends up looking like she’s having a stroke.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “That’s not even close.”
“It is!” she insists, doubling down. “Yep, ‘Pancakes’ from here on out. It’s perfect.”
If she actually starts calling Jacob “Pancakes,” I’m half-convinced she’ll be running for her life within the hour.
Joanie’s eyes glaze over, and I realize she’s not thinking about Jacob anymore. She’s practically drooling at the thought of actual pancakes, her expression turning wistful in a way that’s both adorable and mildly concerning.
“Joanie,” I say, my tone sharp enough to snap her out of it. “You’re starting to look like you might cry over syrup.”
She blinks, startled, then laughs, the sound bright and unapologetic. “Fine, fine. But pancakes, Lyla. Pancakes. I’d trade my soul for one right now.”
I can see some dribble starting to form at the corners of her mouth and I’d rather not get drenched in syrup-loving memories. I shift, steering us back to reality.
“Joanie, is he really dead?”
I’ve avoided asking her this since I woke up. Trish hovered the first few days, always checking vitals or reminding me to drink more water, which made privacy a joke. Then Jacob started showing up—never announced, always full of questions.
But the truth is, I already know the answer.
I’ve known since I opened my eyes.
I just didn’t want to hear it out loud.
Her smile falters, the mischief draining from her face.
She looks away, her fingers finding a loose thread on her sleeve and twisting it absently.
“Probably,” she says after a beat. “I went back a couple days ago with Leon and Jacob. Just to make sure no one survived or was following us. We didn’t see anyone in the office. ”
She pauses, her shoulders tightening. “If he was there, he was eaten. Or turned.”
“If that happened, there’d be evidence.”
She shrugs, gaze sliding away. “There was blood everywhere. No way he walked out of that.”
I study her face, searching for cracks in her story, or in her resolve. “You’re sure there was nothing left in the office?”
Her eyes lock on mine. “Yeah. Nothing.”
If he had been eaten or turned, the note I left would still be there.
Fuck.
The asshole must still be alive. If he’s still breathing, I can’t leave. Not yet.
The door creaks open, the sound slicing through the quiet. My head snaps toward the noise, tensing automatically, but it’s just Trish.
She steps inside, her sharp eyes sweeping over me and Joanie like she’s gauging us for damage.
“Hello, Sunshine,” she drawls, amusement lacing her tone. “Since you don’t look quite as ghostly anymore, it’s time we get moving.”
I shift, propping myself up on one elbow, wincing as my ribs protest. “Where are you going?”
“We’re heading to my family’s farm in Montana.”
“Montana?” They can’t be serious. “We’re in Virginia, and you want to trek through a sea of infected, trigger-happy psychos, collapsed highways, and whatever other nightmares are out there .
. . instead of hunkering down here? Why risk it?
” I pause, shaking my head. “That could take weeks—months—if you can’t find gas along the way. ”