6. Chapter 6
Chapter six
Shelby
I’m tired, hungry and practically limping along when the sun starts to descend in the sky.
The glorious orange-gold rays are lost on me though because, ironically, I’m almost right back where I started and with a snort, I spy the iron gate that I drove through when I escaped earlier in the distance.
Has Ben’s brother been by? Did he find Ben? Is he looking for me even now? With a shiver, I avert my gaze, hoping to my marrow that the fucker moved on without some misguided attempt to save me.
“What now?” Nora asks and I glance back following her gaze. We’ve gained a little ground because those things don’t seem all that fast but it's only a matter of time before they catch up.
“There’s a road beyond that house,” Cason says and when he points toward the home in question, I hide my wince because he’s pointing at my fucking house.
I can’t go back there. No, no fucking way.
“If we cut through the field,” he continues, “we can join up on the other side.”
“What then?” Nate mutters while I tap my finger against my thigh.
This is it. I was hoping to stay with the enigmatic man who basically hijacked my truck, but I can’t. I can’t go back there. I left my soul on the floor of that old farmhouse filled with antiques I didn't buy and covered in secrets I will not share with these people.
Technically, I’m a murderer. Does it matter now? I don't know but Cason's still a damn cop, so I suspect it would matter to him.
“C’mon,” Cason says, waving his arm.
Shit. Fuck. Damn. The curses bubble on my tongue and I bite my lip to stem the tide as I slide down the side of the hill, my sweaty, still wet shoes sinking into the dirt.
Behind me, I hear the grunts of my counterparts and silently decide to walk with them until we reach the edge of the property before making my excuses.
The group, exhausted, trudges through the wild grass, brushing my hips at some points. The spring sun is long gone but sweat still gathers in my pits.
When I glance back, I find Bean in Larry’s arms and stifle a smile at the dichotomy between his huge body and her tiny form.
The closer we get to the invisible line that I know only too well because Ben used to drive around it and point out where I was and was not allowed to go, the harder it is to swallow. My heart pumps a tempo behind my ribs and I rub my slick fingers down my pants before licking my numb lips.
The ache in my bones is a reminder, do not go back but maybe, just maybe we’re going to pass along the outskirts instead. There’s no reason to go to the actual house.
Maybe, I can make this work, I think until Cason’s shoulder brushes mine and he says, “We should find something in that house to dress your wounds.”
Speechless, I say without thinking, “Wounds?”
Of course he wants to go inside the house. Of-fucking-course.
“Shelby," he says, "you’ve been nursing your side since I met you. Your ribs? Are they bruised? Broken?”
Bowing my head so he can’t see the panic in my eyes, I shake my head and mumble, “It's fine. I fell.”
The silence that greets my statement is deafening and I slowly exhale. How many times have I said that in the past and how many times have I gotten the same response?
“You can't keep going like this,” he says.
I've endured far worse I want to say but bite my tongue. It may be the end of the world, but I’ve still got to cover my ass. Still, I stew over his statement and my humiliation until before I know it, we’ve crossed the boundary.
With my eyes straight ahead, I stare into the distance, Ben’s voice ringing in my ears. “Here where the tree grows. Here, where the riverbed ends. Here . . .”
By that time, I was cowed enough not to argue but still delusional enough to think that I could save him, it, the fucked-up situation I found myself in.
I almost miss that naive girl because she was a lot more fun than the one walking with her shoulders bowed in and a scream caught between her lips.
What am I doing? It's a valid question but I have no answer as the farmhouse comes into view.
Thankfully, I don't see Randy’s car but when I study the landscape, I note that the barn door is ajar with the light on inside. He must have checked the house before raiding the barn where Ben used to keep extra supplies.
The two-story home looks tired in the waning light, and I eye the glow from within, another indication that Randy was here before hiding the shiver that crawls up my spine when the fading gray shutter bangs against the house.
At the base of the porch, I pause with my heart in my throat. Meanwhile, Cason walks right up those steps, approaching the matching gray door, and although currently closed what lays beyond is not something I want to revisit. This is when Nate says, “Wait. What are you doing?”
Although the sound of his voice grates on my nerves, I admit, I want someone to talk some sense into Cason because clearly, it's not going to be me. I can barely breathe as it is.
“Checking it out,” Cason says and Nate mumbles something under his breath but subsides to my disappointment.
Standing at the back of the group, I watch through a tunnel while Cason knocks on the door. Of course no one answers. The man of the house is indisposed. Ha!
When he gets no response, he draws his weapon before pushing the door open. The others follow him inside while I stand frozen at the first step.
I don’t blame them. We’re all exhausted, and this is the first chance we’ve had to rest. My muscles burn from our escape, but my brain is screaming to run, just keep going.
However, I know I can’t do this alone and that’s what propels me up the steps when nothing else could. As soon as I pass the threshold, the quiet inside is so out of place through the whoosh in my ears that I stumble to the wall.
Despite knowing that Ben is gone, I still expect him to round the corner with accusations in his eyes. How dare I bring strangers into our home?
The thoughts swirl through my brain as I stop at the entrance to the living room and look around the small space with new eyes. Everything here is old, worn and stained. Ben didn't care about replacing anything while he focused on building his business.
At the time, I admired his work ethic and desire to have a better life. Little did I know that this would be my prison before too long.
The only things that represent us or me are the brilliant yellow carpet under the window, where Bo now sleeps, his tail twitching, a byproduct of my days in the dorms, a gilded mirror over the fireplace and a single metal rose I saved from my high school days.
This is only because I never explained that it came from the boy that I thought I would someday marry who broke my heart into a million tiny pieces.
It was a reminder not to settle. One I didn’t heed as it turned out.
My eyes are drawn to the blood staining the floor between the couch and the hallway. Strangely, no one mentions it as though in this crazy new world, the evidence of a violent altercation is the norm.
Nate collapses to the couch, wiping his brow.
Beside him, Larry steps into the kitchen with Bean on his heels and I tilt my head when I hear the faucet.
Is he drinking out of the Cristal glasses we received as a wedding gift?
Or maybe the chipped coffee mug I gravitated toward because it matched my broken life?
“You, okay?” Nora asks and I whip around with wide eyes. When she raises a brow, I nod before turning away and closing my mouth on the words that want to tumble free.
Welcome to my fucked-up home.
Eyeing Cason, who wanders down the hall toward the bathroom, I suck in a breath when he passes the wall, covered in bloody handprints. Was it only a few hours ago that I stumbled down that hall? It feels like a lifetime now. What if Cason checks the closet below the stairs?
Instead, he veers toward the bathroom, and I stop behind him, staring at the remnants of blood that didn’t wash down the sink. As though he can magically link that blood to me, I back away until he says, “Okay, let’s see what we’re working with.”
“Um,” I say pausing when he holds out his hand.
“Can you lift your shirt?” he asks, and I search his eyes. They’re clear and direct which should be comforting but any sort of delusion that I held about trust died a painful death a long time ago, right along with the version of me who thought she was free.
Sensing my unease, Cason carefully sets his weapon on the counter before leaning against it with his hands relaxed at his sides. Although I see what he’s doing—treating me like a wild fucking animal—it works, and I slowly raise my shirt before looking away.
I don’t want to see his expression of horror or pity. Instead, I stare at my reflection and bow my head.
Of course, he knew I was injured. My fat lip isn’t exactly a fashion statement, not to mention I lost my sweatshirt probably at the bowling alley when I exchanged it for the shirt I’m now wearing.
As a result, it’s easy to see the raw abraded skin on my wrists and let’s not forget the shiner my now dead husband left as a parting gift on my eye. The full effect of my beating greets me in hues of purple and black, surrounded by the marks that never truly faded.
Hell, if Cason looked closely enough, he’d no doubt see the scars beneath and my eyes drop to the jagged white lines marching into the waistband of my jeans.
That was the time I was foolish enough to take birth control pills and hide them from my husband.
I haven’t been back to a doctor since because I couldn’t be trusted not to consider things my husband forbade like preventing a child from entering a world fraught with anger and ugliness.
Thankfully, I never got pregnant and when I think about it too closely, I wonder if Ben didn’t ruin my chances that long ago day.
Shuddering under the memory, I glance at Cason’s face in the mirror but all I can see is the bulge in his jaw. After a moment he says quietly, “I need to touch your ribs.”
My face flames and matching his low tone, I say, “They’re not broken.”
When he swings around, I meet his dark stare. I have no idea what’s going through his head, but I suspect it’s nothing good.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his brows furrowing when I nod. “Any other injuries?”
“No,” I mumble, shaking my head. To say it’s awkward right now would be an understatement but I appreciate his attempt to put me at ease.
“Shelby?”
“Yes?” I whisper.
“Is . . . do we need to worry about this?” he asks, and it takes a moment to process what he’s saying before the light dawns.
“Oh. Um, n-no.” He doesn’t ask for particulars and I don’t volunteer.
Instead, he turns to the cabinet and starts rifling around. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him what he’s looking for when he produces a bottle of acetaminophen and hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I say and with a nod, he sweeps past me while I stare after him bemused. What’s he thinking behind that fierce frown?
Cason
After walking for hours through stretches of forest and acres of farmland, my feet throb and I have a dull headache forming at the base of my skull. Considering the distance covered, I’m surprised the majority of the group made it, but this is just the beginning.
We need to make transportation a priority because walking is not my preferred method of travel on a good and today is not a good fucking day.
It was easier to focus on survival within the city limits but once we entered the trees, thoughts of Rosanne kept trying to pull me under. Strangely, it wasn't the scene in the bedroom but the day I met her which rose with every beleaguered step forward.
Barely seventeen years old, I was the loner in a sea of students who had known each other for their entire lives.
As a transplant, I held no hope of finding connections, especially considering the world I couldn’t escape.
Still, I was helplessly drawn to Rosanne even though I knew with every breath of life she gave me, it slowly pulled the spark from her.
It was never anything dramatic but over time, the fissures began to form and my desperation to hold onto something slipping through my fingers changed the course of our lives, despite my best intentions.
The worst part is that even now, I can’t fucking breathe knowing that she’s no longer here to keep me going. I would have died for her but in the end, she didn't feel the same. How do I process that steaming bag of putrid shit?
Shoving it to the darkest recesses of my mind, I focus on the present, which is a relief, and at the same time really fucking diabolical because this isn’t exactly a Sunday picnic.
Somehow, I’ve gathered a misfit band of survivors whose chances of actually making it are slim. This isn’t me being cruel. This is reality.
Right now, Shelby is the weakest link and I’m trying to set aside her injuries but it’s impossible because every time I look up, she’s there, staring at me with her wide blue eyes.
Half the time, they’re dark with suspicion and the other half .
. . well, I can’t define it, but it scares the shit out of me.
I’m not her savior. I’m not anyone’s savior. However, with each layer revealed, it’s become easier to see what this woman has endured.
Maybe she is a fighter. It’s situations such as these that define a person and the woman who sat beside me while we fought our way here is alive, despite the pain she must be feeling.
I assume based on the wedding ring adorning her left ring finger that it was her husband who did the dirty deed. Why?
It’s a question I’ve asked myself in one form or another since I started with the force years ago. There are no good answers. Some people are just born bad.
What I can’t ignore, no matter how hard I try, was the look on her face when she pulled up her shirt and revealed the bruising beneath. What a fucking cluster.
Is she going to make it? I don’t know because while I sense an inner strength about her, I also see her struggle.
Unfortunately, there isn’t time to figure out who you’re going to be and I can't babysit her. It’s eat or be eaten—literally.
What all this says about me, I refuse to analyze beyond I’m on my own and I prefer it that way.
Except when I glance back at the end of the hall and see Shelby folded into herself, her tiny frame dwarfed by the room around her, I concede, I can’t leave her behind, even if my brain is screaming at me to go and not look back.
Time is of the essence because there’s no telling what we’re facing and without resources such as food, water and a safe place to hunker down, we’re doomed. This is why I plan to go south.
The only family I have left will no doubt be heading there and while I hate the bad news I’ll be bringing, I can’t turn my back on the only people who accepted me all those years ago. This despite the fact that I’m bringing a group of strangers who may not be welcome.
That’s an issue for another day though. As it stands, I don’t even know if any of them will survive long enough to get there anyway. We’ve already lost one and the day isn’t fucking over.