Chapter 11
Once we start moving, the noise of Nurse Patrick’s old truck gets softer, but we’re definitely attracting attention.
As we pull out of the parking lot, two carriers run toward the truck.
Their attempt to catch us is futile, though.
I watch as their relentless bodies get smaller and smaller the farther we go.
The city is a mess. Stalled cars and permanently dead bodies litter the streets and sidewalks, and Nurse Patrick does his best to maneuver his way around each obstacle.
Occasionally though, we have to double back and choose another street.
As we pass by the neighborhoods in the heart of the city, I see curtains snap closed and faces peer through blinds as survivors look to find the source of the noise.
As we pass one house, I see a man cautiously step out onto his front porch with a shotgun and one angry finger pressed to his lips, warning us to shut the hell up.
We keep moving, attracting the occasional carrier, but we have no trouble outrunning them.
I look through the glass over Nurse Patrick’s shoulder and peek at the gas gauge.
One-third of a tank. In a truck like this, that won’t get us very far. I decide to worry about that later.
At our slow, careful pace, it takes us forty-five minutes to make it just ten miles south of Peoria. Finally though, we pull into the parking lot of the sporting goods store and find the lot nearly completely empty. I poke my head through the back window of the truck.
“Take a lap around the building. Let’s see if anything is lurking out here.”
Nurse Patrick nods and makes a wide arc, driving slowly around the building.
We’re all on watch, peering around every corner, looking for movement, but everything is quiet.
Satisfied, Nurse Patrick backs up the truck so the tailgate faces the main entrance, then silences the engine.
We file out of the truck, and I look at the reflection of our strange group in the store’s sliding glass doors.
We’re not ready for this. The bedposts in our hands feel ridiculous now that we’re outside of the center.
I see Lucia is empty-handed, so I give her a nudge.
“Get your screwdriver. Don’t let go of it until we’re back in this truck or you find a better weapon. Understand?”
She nods and pulls it from her front pocket.
I pause, wondering if Nurse Patrick will take the lead and tell us what to do next. When he looks at me, I sigh and accept that, despite having no idea what I’m doing, I’m going to have to call the shots.
“Okay. We stay together in there, no matter what. We need weapons, food, and water,” I say.
“Gas cans too,” Nurse Patrick adds. “We can fill up the gas cans when we find a station. And we should each have at least one or two pairs of good hiking boots.”
I nod approvingly. “If there are carriers inside, get behind me and Nurse Patrick. If there are people inside, run back to the truck. Got it?” I say mostly to Keisha. Everyone gives a quick nod. “All right. Follow me.”
The automatic door slides open as we step closer, and I wonder to myself how much longer conveniences like this will last. The store is lit up as if it were any old day, but the eerie silence is a reminder that nothing about today is normal.
We step through the doors carefully, weapons ready, and scan the area for carriers, but the coast seems to be clear.
I decide to work the store counterclockwise.
I nod to the right and start walking toward the shoe department as the group follows quietly behind.
I scan the displays and quickly find what I’m looking for, a sturdy pair of size 7 hiking boots.
I pull two pairs from the shelves, putting one pair on my feet and tucking the second into my backpack, silently urging the rest of the group to do the same.
I pull several pairs of thick socks from the racks and stuff them into my pack as well.
I look around to check on the group’s progress and see that Keisha has found her size and is helping Lucia try some on.
Nurse Patrick wrestles with Jan’s feet as she sits helplessly in a heap on the bench.
He hasn’t even found footwear for himself.
I tap my foot, annoyed, but nearby, Keisha flashes numbers with her fingers while giving Nurse Patrick a questioning look.
At first, I have no idea what she’s doing.
Then he flashes a one, followed by a zero.
Size 10. Of course Keisha thought of a way to try to help him.
She finds two pairs of boots in his size and sets them down gently.
He gives her a grateful smile. I set aside my annoyance at the group’s slow pace and follow her lead.
Ginger is standing idly, staring at a rack of blue shoelaces with yellow stars.
I eye her feet and guess a size 9. A pair of pink size 9 hiking boots sits on the sale rack, and when I push them into her hands, her eyes light up and she does a little bounce on her tiptoes.
Before she can squeal, I put a finger to my lips and motion for her to try them on.
A perfect fit. I pull another set of size 9s from the rack and tie them to the strap on her backpack.
Then, I grab the star shoelaces off the rack and hand them to her.
She acts like it’s the best damn day of her life.
A few feet away, Keisha smiles approvingly and gives me a little nod.
I wish it weren’t true, but I really do care about what Keisha thinks of me.
It wasn’t always that way though. When Keisha came to the Pegasus Center a year ago, she was just one more girl on the floor.
I looked forward to reading her chart, out of sheer curiosity, but I didn’t ever plan on being friends with her.
I just wanted to know her weak points and which buttons to push, just in case I needed to pull some strings or use her to get out of a sticky situation. When I read her chart, that changed.
Keisha, like most of us, was a ward of the state.
Her mother surrendered her at age eight after a long battle with addiction and multiple interactions with child services.
The constant accusations of abuse and neglect must have grown tiresome because she finally quit fighting for her daughter.
From ages eight to thirteen, Keisha “failed out” of several foster homes.
Between thirteen and sixteen she was kicked out of a few group homes too.
As a last resort, they sent her to the Pegasus Residential Treatment Center with a diagnosis of oppositional defiant disorder and a long history of impulsive and “overly sexualized behavior.” As it turns out, her dismissal from each and every foster home was a result of that inappropriate sexual behavior.
Sometimes it was an older foster brother; other times, a foster father.
Her chart says she even had “inappropriate relationships” with both male and female staff in her group homes.
What struck me as odd was that they never used the word “abuse” in the chart.
Instead, they seemed to blame her—a child—for what was happening.
The system can be harsh, but I had rarely seen it twisted like that.
After reading her chart, I realized she was not someone to be manipulated; she was someone to learn from.
Keisha can read people just as well as I can, and she doesn’t mind manipulating them.
In that way, she’s a lot like me. The difference between me and her is that she manipulates people to survive.
I manipulate people just to see if I can.
Just to see what I can gain. Somehow, after everything Keisha has been through, she still has a soft heart.
So, I watched her.
During her first two months at the center, I watched how she interacted with the staff and the other girls.
I watched her facial expressions and tried to mirror her body language.
I learned a lot of tricks. Then, one day everything changed.
Her birthday was coming up, and Ms. Michelle was asking her what kind of cake to order from the cafeteria for the big day.
I watched in awe as she negotiated her way from a dry, over-iced cake to a bedroom swap with Haley.
The moment Ms. Michelle agreed to allow it—only this once—Keisha locked eyes with me from across the room and gave me the most stunning grin.
She’d just become my across-the-hall neighbor, and when she gave me that smile, I was sure she’d done it on purpose.
That’s when I knew she’d been watching me too.
The night she moved in I heard her cough, cough, then sneeze.
It sounded so out of place that I got out of bed and went to my doorway.
Just as I hoped, she was standing in her room across the hall waiting for me.
I knew I’d just made my first best friend.
From that day on, we were inseparable. I’d never had a best friend before and never really cared, but Keisha eventually became someone who mattered to me.
So, when she nods her approval as I help Ginger, I feel a little warmer.
On the bench to my left, Nurse Patrick ties a double knot in January’s new boots and gives me a thumbs-up.
We tiptoe down the aisle toward the next department and find the camping gear.
We each grab a large canteen and a set of camping utensils.
Sleeping bags, fire starters, and wind-up flashlights are next.
There’s even a rack of freeze-dried foods, and we pack as much as we can into our bags.
The more gear we collect, the better I feel. We keep moving.