Chapter 10
Emma’s been home for a week and spent the majority of that time curled up with her mother, the two of them sleeping like cats.
The kid was skinny and dehydrated, in no shape to do more than rest. It’s only a miracle she survived at all. Told them she milked the cows like they used to do back home. The cult actually taught her something useful, but even a broken clock is right twice a day.
Wyatt keeps himself busy with fencing in the woods and setting traps around the property.
Addison’s worried about pulling her weight despite his assurances that there’s no shortage of tasks.
“We’ll both be productive soon,” she told him. “She’s getting stronger every day. I just can’t leave her yet.”
What he doesn’t say is that he’s glad, on some level, that she’s forced to relax. She’s run herself ragged, and that can’t be good for the walnut she’s carrying.
Then there’s the uncomfortable truth that he sort of likes taking care of them.
It produces a weird but pleasant feeling in his chest when he’s able to provide.
Gotta be some caveman throwback lurking in his genetics that has him latching onto any semblance of domesticity.
He’s well aware that his reaction ain’t a good thing, but he plans to ride this train of fake normalcy for the time being.
It’s nothing but an illusion. Reality still remains a nightmare curling in on the edges of their brief respite.
At least today, he’ll have the distraction of an overdue mission to a gun range that he spotted on his way into town.
“How is this place untouched?” Addison asks when they find the parking lot empty a few miles outside town.
“Not on the main road. Anyone who knows about it is probably dead already.” He turns to Emma as they approach the door. “What do we do first?”
“Knock on the glass to see if there’s any rotters,” she answers, like she’s speaking in front of the class at school.
“Go on, then.”
If Addison minds that he’s giving her kid orders, she doesn’t show it. She’s letting him steer this boat when it comes to how to stay alive in this mess, and he’s both glad for that and terrified he’ll fuck it up.
Emma taps her fist on the glass and jumps damn near a mile when a runner crashes into the door with a growl. She hides behind him like he’s a safe place to be when the shit hits the fan. There’s that weird, warm feeling in his chest again. He’s rarely been safe for anyone before he met them.
He really needs to get a handle on the nonsense swirling around his head.
“It’s alright,” he says. “That’s why we knock. The good news is there’s only one. Stay by the car. Me and your momma are gonna kill it.”
Addison’s eyes widen, betraying how nervous she is. These runners aren’t as simple as casually stabbing one in the head. They require a team effort when there’s a chance to set one up.
She positions herself on one side of the glass door with a hammer from the shed, and he waits on the other side with his knife.
“On three?” she whispers.
He nods, hating that she’s the bait and hoping his plan isn’t about to get her killed.
In reality, it happens fast. She smashes the glass, and the runner crashes through it, aiming straight for her.
That gives him an opening to sink his knife into the back of its head before it takes more than two steps.
It feels like forever until it’s motionless on the ground, and Wyatt can breathe a sigh of relief.
“Now that’s some fucking teamwork. Are you good?”
Addison shrugs. “Just one more traumatic experience to add to the list.”
“That’s the spirit!”
They start up the generator out back after finding the rest of the building clear. Then they’re free to pursue a goldmine of rifles and handguns.
What he’s more excited about, though, are the snowballs in the breakroom.
“Heads up,” he calls out, tossing them both packages of sugary desserts. “Did you have these on the compound?”
Emma tears into hers, stuffing half the thing in her mouth at once before her mother can reply.
“Oh, sure, we kept them right next to the…” She picks up an empty wrapper, reading the label. “Nacho-flavored chips?”
“Well, this here is a delicacy. It’ll give you a sugar high that rivals cocaine.”
“What’s cocaine?” Emma mumbles around her mouthful of coconut and chocolate.
Addison sends him a good-natured glare that says she wasn’t so sheltered that she isn’t at least mildly versed on the most common street drugs. “Nothing, baby, finish your snowball.”
He huffs, finishing his own dessert cake and wondering if everyone in her dysfunctional little pack was given a rundown of what to avoid in the modern world should they ever be evicted from the fold.
She’s never seen a snowball, but she knows what crack is, and once again, he wonders if he’ll ever get a real idea of what her life was like in that place.
“Are these snowballs your favorite dessert?” Addison asks while trying on a pair of boots from the retail section, frowning down at her own feet. “Maybe these are too much…”
“They suit you,” he offers, browsing the gun display. “And no, my favorite dessert is cheesecake. No toppings. Just thick, rich cheesecake.”
She keeps the boots on.
“We never had much dessert. Decadence was frowned upon. But every year for the summer solstice, we would have fruit salad with mayo and cream cheese.”
He pauses with a slight grimace. “That sounds more like a punishment than a real dessert.”
“Well, we can’t all have endless snowballs at our disposal. Though I might like to try a cheesecake one day. It sounds lovely. Have you had cinnamon rolls?”
It’s an oddly placed question, as if they’re a rare food in the wild.
“Sure. From a box or from scratch, there are no bad cinnamon rolls.”
“I haven’t. There was this one scene in a movie where the whole family sat around a table eating gooey hot cinnamon rolls for breakfast. It looked so…
domestic. Happy. I always wondered if they really are that good.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them since.
It’s not like we couldn’t have it, but a dessert like that would be indulgent. ”
“Heads up.” He tosses her a crinkly packaged Honey Bun. “Not anywhere close to the same, but that might hold you over until you get the real thing one day.”
She rips into the snack with a flourish, giving Emma half. “Oh my, that’s…that’s very sweet.”
Her big eyes have grown twice their size, and he chuckles. “There’s enough artificial flavors in that to take out a horse. Like I said, it ain’t the best replica. The real thing really is that good. It’s criminal you’ve never had one. We’ll have to fix that.”
She dismisses the comment as flippant. There is no chance they’ll be baking cinnamon rolls any time soon.
They claim pocket knives, jackets, and several other supplies before Wyatt settles on a pistol small enough to fit Emma’s hands. Sets her up in the back room after showing her how to load it and points her in the direction of the bad guy on a paper target.
Addison’s having some sort of out-of-body experience beside him if the look on her face is anything to go by. She told him she was on board for this. Nearly begged him to get her kid ready for the outside world, but it’s clear she’s struggling to see it play out.
“I learned how to shoot when I was a bit younger than you,” he says absently. “My uncle took me out in the woods and said I could either shoot my own foot off or shoot something to eat. If I didn’t bring home dinner, I could go without.”
Emma turns to face him, bringing the gun along with her.
“Stop!” he growls, one hand on her arm so she doesn’t shoot him square in the stomach. “Look at what you’re doing. If you point that at someone, you’d best be trying to kill ‘em.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Her lower lip is already wobbling, and he feels like a jerk, but he can’t help either of them if the kid shoots him by accident.
“Don’t be sorry. Learn from it. Line up your shot and squeeze the trigger. Squeeze, don’t pull.”
When she gathers the courage to shoot, the recoil knocks her backward hard enough that he has to throw an arm out to keep her from stumbling.
The target only flutters while the bullet sticks in the wall behind it.
Emma is a soft soul. She needs encouragement and praise, or she’ll assume the worst. He knows what that’s like because that was him at her age. Blowing smoke won’t help her, though. Her only choice is to toughen up, so he doesn’t lie and say it’s the best first shot he’s ever seen.
He wants to, but shoves that down and reminds himself that she’s still got it better than he ever did. His first time out, his uncle didn’t only pin dinner on his success, he made him sleep outside until he brought home a kill.
“Again,” he says, plopping down a box of ammo. “Until you’re out of bullets.”
It would be a waste of resources if they didn’t have plenty here to loot. She needs all the practice she can get. It takes half the box before she hits the paper. Once it happens, she lands two headshots in a row.
Two out of forty bullets, but it’s a start.
“Now we’re talking!” he grins, patting her on the back with a swift thump.
“I wasted all the bullets.” She frowns.
“Remember when I said my first time out, I had to catch something for dinner or starve?”
She nods.
“I didn’t catch a damn thing. Hit nothing but thin air. Almost shot my own foot off. First tries are rough. You keep going. Keep getting better. Now go on and shoot some fake ducks in the simulator. You did well, kid.”
She does smile then, her eyes twinkling with pride, before she leaves them to play a video game in the corner.
“You’re up next.” He hands Addison a shotgun.
“Do I have to shoot my dinner tonight?” she jokes.
“Yep, and then you gotta make sausage out of it by yourself.”