Chapter 22
Keisha boosts me through the window, and I stumble onto the carpet below, stepping on a tiny truck.
I steady myself and do a quick sweep of the room, then close the bedroom door, just in case.
Keisha pushes Lucia through the window next.
Finally, Keisha grabs my arm, and I pull her through.
Behind us, Ramsey pulls himself up and lands on the floor with a thud.
Once we’re all inside, we begin the search. In the boy’s bedroom closet we find several practical things that will fit Lucia’s tiny frame. We shove T-shirts, sweatshirts, and a raincoat into a backpack decorated with trains. She cringes as she pulls it onto her back but doesn’t complain.
When we’re ready to move on to the next room, I open the bedroom door a crack and listen.
We’re met with quiet, so I lead the way down the hall with my machete pointed in front of me.
We quickly find what looks like a teenage boy’s room.
Keisha and I are able to ransack the closet and find a few shirts that will definitely be too big, but they’ll be better than wearing wet, dirty clothes.
We also find some pants that will work if we trim the legs and use a belt.
Behind us, Ramsey has found a new shirt too.
It’s comically small, but it allows him to cover his bare chest. Before we go, we grab several pairs of clean socks from a drawer.
On our way out, Keisha finds a backpack filled with ruled paper and a chemistry book and dumps the contents onto the floor, filling it with our new wardrobe.
We make our way into the master bedroom next.
The woman who once owned this home was definitely larger than us, and Keisha and I decide that we’re much better off with the teenage boy’s clothes.
We pick through her closet, though, and find another sturdy backpack for me.
“We’re done in here. Let’s move to the kitchen,” I hear Ramsey call from the bathroom. “Find anything good?” he asks.
“Clothes and junk,” I reply.
He scans every corner of my face, looking for a lie. Reluctantly, he turns away. “Let’s see if they left any food.”
When we walk into the kitchen I’m overwhelmed by the smell of rot.
The garbage can spills over with pizza boxes and takeout containers.
It buzzes sickeningly with the sound of flies, and I don’t dare go near it.
We open the cabinets, hoping for food that’s easy to prepare.
A few half-empty cereal boxes, some canned vegetables, and some just-add-water boxed meals are all we find.
In another cabinet I find a bottle of vitamins and two sports-style water bottles, then toss them into a tote bag.
We grab a few forks and spoons and a can opener from a drawer and find a small metal pot in a high cabinet.
This is not a family that cooks much. We give up and move on.
In the basement near a pile of Christmas decorations, we find a child-sized sleeping bag and roll it up for Lucia, along with a few light blankets.
Our final stop is the garage. We lift the large rolling door, and light floods the space.
The family car is gone. A tiny bike with training wheels and an old skateboard are the only things we find with wheels.
I was hoping for a set of bicycles so we could cut down on walking, but no luck.
We open an old rusty refrigerator in the garage, find two bottles of water, and toss them in our bags.
I see a few bungee cords and plastic sheets and toss those in as well.
Inside a toolbox I find a small hatchet and hand it to Keisha.
“This looks like it might do more damage than that bat,” I say, smiling as I pass it to her. Her eyes shine, and she grips it tight.
“It’s perfect!” she practically sings. She gives me the same warm look she’s been giving Ramsey all day. I turn away before she can see me blush and grab a lighter and a couple of screwdrivers.
“Whoa!” Lucia says, wide-eyed, as she pulls a tarp off a large cabinet in the back corner. Four fishing poles. I’ve never been so grateful in my life.
“Good find, Lu! Pack those up. See those little boxes on the bottom shelf? Grab those too,” I say, pointing to two tackle boxes. Lucia loads the poles and supplies into a five-gallon bucket for easy carrying.
“I think we’ve packed everything we can use. Let’s move on to the next one,” I say to Ramsey.
“No. We’re going home,” he says firmly.
“No way! You said you’d help us. There’s plenty of daylight left, and we still need more supplies,” I argue.
“I said I’d help you. I helped you.” Ramsey spits on the ground, just missing my boot, and starts walking back the way we came.
Keisha looks over her shoulder at me, and I stare back defiantly, hoping she’ll back me up. “Let it go,” she mouths.
My fist tightens around the handle of my machete, and my eyes bore into the back of his head.
I feel Keisha’s fingertips brush my arm, so I shift my eyes back to her.
She gives a tiny shake of her head and lets her hand fall back at her side.
I think back to what Keisha said when the little boy attacked Ramsey.
“We still need him.” I still can’t imagine why.
He’s basically been useless. I’m the one who’s been protecting her.
But I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down.
Just as I leave the garage to follow her lead, a loud noise off in the distance freezes me in my tracks. That was definitely a gunshot.
I duck back into the garage, waving for Keisha and Lucia to do the same as the sound of an engine grumbles from the direction of the blast. Ramsey doubles back to us, fear flashing in his eyes.
The engine gets louder by the second, and the unmistakable shriek of a carrier rings in my ears.
Another shot pierces the air, followed by loud whoops of laughter.
We carefully lower the garage door, leaving a few inches of space between the door and the concrete slab, and wait for these idiots to pass, hoping they don’t draw too many carriers out into the open.
I pull my machete from its sheath, then lie on my belly, watching the road from the cold floor.
It doesn’t take long for a huge black pickup truck to come into view in front of the garage.
The truck slows. Two men cackle from the cab with the windows down while two more do a victory dance from the bed of the truck, holding their shotguns high in the air like championship fighters.
The driver lays on the horn. “Wake up, you dead bastards!” he shouts over the noise.
It doesn’t take long before we hear the shriek of another carrier. This time, it comes from the woods behind the house.
Suddenly the walls surrounding us feel far too fragile, and I itch to make a run for it. Keisha must be able to read my mind, because she grabs my hand, anchoring me to her. I take a deep breath and try to find the patience to let the feeling pass.
Another shriek. Then another.
“Here they come! Call yer shots, boys!” the driver shouts with a twang.
“The blond. Right kneecap!” calls one of the men from the bed of the truck. The blast of a shotgun fills the air, followed by more loud cheering.
“Red T-shirt! Kill shot,” shouts the other. Another blast peppers the left side of the garage door and tiny beams of light penetrate the walls around us. Lucia’s eyes go wild. She slaps her hand over her mouth and presses herself into Keisha.
“You dumbass.” The driver laughs. “He’s getting too close. Travis, take the red T-shirt out.”
Another blast cuts off the carrier mid-shriek. “Finish the blond while you’re at it,” he instructs.
Another blast.
“Got ’em!” the passenger shouts. “Looks clear. Let’s see what we find.”
The roar of the engine goes silent as they get out of the truck and walk up the driveway toward the house we just looted.
Shit. They’re coming to look for supplies, and I have no doubt they’ll check the garage.
“Who are they?” I whisper to Ramsey.
“Some assholes I went to high school with,” he says, gritting his teeth.
“Be. More. Specific,” I say sharply.
“The Bowen brothers. Travis and Thomas. And their cousins, Jared and Keith,” Ramsey answers, clearly annoyed. “Meatheads. All of ’em took one too many hits on the football field. Not a lick of sense left in any of ’em.”
My head swims, trying to think of a way to get out of the garage undetected without losing our new gear.
“Are you on good terms with them?” Keisha asks.
“Naw,” Ramsey says, spitting on the dusty garage floor.
“Did anyone see if they took the keys to the truck?” I ask.
“They did. I was watching,” Lucia whispers. I sigh impatiently. I’m running out of ideas.
Inside the house, something shatters and loud cheers erupt. Reckless idiots.
“How friendly do you think these guys are going to be when they find us hiding with every useful item from this place?” I ask Ramsey.
“Not very. They’ll take everything you got, for sure,” he says. “Moral of the story is we need to get out of here fast.”
We can’t outrun them. We can’t hide in the garage. After all the noise, every carrier within a mile is on their way here, so the woods behind the house aren’t safe either.
The back door slams. We’re out of time. “Check the garage,” the driver says.
I scramble to my feet, pulling Keisha up as I go. “Lu, get under the tarp,” Keisha whispers, pointing to where we found the fishing poles. Lucia hesitates and clings tighter to Keisha. “Go!” she urges. Lucia obeys, tears already welling in her eyes.
“You too,” I say.
“Not a chance,” Keisha answers, but it’s too late to argue with her. Someone throws open the rolling garage door. The sun temporarily blinds me, and I squint, desperately trying to stay oriented.
“Well, what do we have here?” the driver says, smirking. “Ramsey Johns! We’ve been looking for you, boy,” the driver says with false cheer and a sarcastic smile.
Ramsey cringes, and a flash of panic crosses his face. Confused, I tighten my fingers around the handle of my machete.
“Where’s my sister, Ramsey?”
“I don’t—”