Chapter Two
“I’M NOT GOING TO SHOOT you,” says the man holding a gun to my head. He nods to the balisong in my hand. “Are you going to try anything with that?”
I shake my head and whisper “No,” as if the idea is outrageous.
Like, okay, I may have hurled myself across a parking lot for Quaker bars, but I had a chance to make it back to the truck unseen. Or so I thought. Right now, I’m in no position to fight.
“Smart,” he says.
He keeps the gun aimed between my eyes as he bends down, picks up the wrapper from under his boot, and tears it open with his teeth.
I’d guess he’s in his mid-twenties, but his handsome face is weathered, with the shadow of a beard dusting his jaw.
A smile curls across his lips as he takes a bite, chocolate wafting off his breath. His face is mere inches from mine.
If I had the upper hand, I’d shove my hand into his mouth and yank the bar out. Just to piss him off.
“My name’s Jasper, by the way. What’s yours?”
I say nothing. Eye him up and down.
You look more like a Jackass than a Jasper.
“Well then,” Jasper says, brushing himself off as he stands. “Why don’t we go see what’s in the truck?”
When I neglect to answer again, he stuffs the crumpled wrapper in his pocket and offers me a hand.
Big shocker here: I don’t take it.
I push myself to a stand and cross my arms. A small act of defiance.
The Egals (us) and Macs (him) have a treaty.
We live in the Split, a protected community inside the now-empty Lake Jocassee, divided by a concrete interior wall.
It’s modeled after the Berlin Wall, but they never taught us about that in high school, and Mom was a yogi.
So I think of our situation more like a yin-and-yang symbol—except the Macs don’t come into our territory, and we don’t go into theirs.
The same is true outside the Split. We have a treaty, and Jasper’s in violation of it.
Cherokee Foothills Highway is our dividing line: Egals get to search for supplies east of the road, and the Macs go west. They’ve been blurring those lines lately as we run lower and lower on supplies.
Three years into the apocalypse, and that’s bound to happen, I suppose, even when there’s barely anybody left.
Jasper walks behind me with the gun’s nozzle against my back, a sweet little kiss between my shoulder blades. Peter, Milo, and Fred stand next to the truck, wearing expressions like Kota, what the fuck? But as soon as we reach the truck, the boys surround me like a shield.
“Get inside the truck,” Peter orders. He steps to the front of the brigade, facing Jasper head-on. Mano a mano.
A smirk creeps onto Jasper’s face. “What else have you got hiding in there, bud?”
Peter’s nostrils flare.
Oh, god. Did he just bud Peter? This isn’t going to end well.
“Kota,” Peter warns.
“Won’t let your girl choose for herself?”
No, Peter likes to choose for me.
My fingers curl around the passenger-side door’s handle, but I don’t pull it open. Not yet.
I peer through the window. Indy’s head rests on the dashboard, like he can’t handle watching this scene play out. Well, I can’t not watch.
“Back off,” Peter grunts at Jasper.
“Fine,” Jasper says, his surrender surprising me.
“Wouldn’t want to waste bullets on a group who’s going to get themselves killed.
” Milo glances at Fred, who still hasn’t retied his shoelaces.
“And I don’t particularly feel like attracting the attention of more zombies.
This pistol could wake the dead down in Georgia. ”
Jasper steps toward me, checking out my kangaroo pouch. “Hand over those bars, and I’ll be on my way.”
This time, Milo speaks. “Dude, there’s like a hundred on the ground over there.” He points to the spot across the lot where the box tore open.
“Right,” Jasper says, “but I want those. What would your people do with only two dozen bars, anyway? I know how you Egals ration supplies. ‘Equally.’ ” He puts air quotes around the word. “So, what, everyone gets one bite each? Where’s the fun in that?”
Peter’s had enough. He brings his knife, still steeped in Indy’s blood, to Jasper’s throat. “Get out of here.”
Though Jasper has lowered his gun, it’s still cocked, and his finger twitches on the trigger. “I don’t want to call the zombies, man, but I’ll do what I have to.”
“So will I,” Peter counters. “For my people.”
Jasper scoffs. If this situation weren’t so dire, I might, too.
The next few seconds are filled with tense silence as the two men stand off. Wind murmurs through the air, its whispers weighing heavy on my shoulders.
If Peter died, you’d be free. If Jasper died, you’d remain safe. What is it you want, Kota?
Milo, Fred, and I spectate as we await the outcome. This must be how it felt to watch dueling cowboys back in the day. Stand, stare, still, draw!
But before either one of the idiots makes a move, squealing tires rip through the lot. I whip my head to the left. A Jeep zooms in from around the back corner of the building, charging through dangling power lines and chunks of concrete. The car goes airborne as the driver surges over a pothole.
“My ride,” Jasper says, smiling wide. There’s a squelching crunch as the Jeep crushes the freshly dead zombie’s body. “I’ll take those Quaker bars now.”
“You sure as shit will not,” Peter says, regaining his resolve. He reaches around, yanks open the car door, and shoves me inside.
What the hell? I think as I land in a heap on top of Indy, his body crushing the bars in my sweatshirt. My legs, still jutting outside the car, keep the door propped open.
I may be small, but Indy is most certainly not. There’s no room for two in this passenger seat.
“Sorry,” I whisper to Indy, pushing off him. I stand up and glare at Peter.
Jasper finds great amusement in this display.
A laugh erupts from his lips as the Jeep comes to a screeching halt before us.
The driver flashes the headlights twice before rolling down the windows and popping her head out.
The woman appears a few years older than me, with a sharp bob brushing her chin.
She looks like a dipped ice cream cone, with jet black roots melting into platinum blond.
She honks. Once, twice, three times. The sound echoes throughout the parking lot.
“Sorry about that,” Jasper says. “My friend here has a tendency to be loud.”
Honk.
The zombies will be here in no time.
“Let him have the damn bars,” I say to Peter, unloading my sweatshirt and kicking them over to our enemy. The defeat on the boys’ faces is palpable. Sure, we’re losing food. But more than that, we’re letting the Macs win.
“There’s an empty box in the back,” the woman calls from the car.
Jasper tips an imaginary hat at us, then pulls a box out of the Jeep and loads up. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Milo, Fred, Peter, and I watch in silence as Jasper sweeps the bars into his box.
“Get in, loser!” the impatient woman says, revving her engine.
Jasper hops into the Jeep’s passenger side seat, and the two speed off toward the rest of the bars. They quickly load up and drive off, leaving us in a cloud of fumes.
Indy unrolls the window and peeks his head out of the truck’s front door. His pale face, still covered in blood and bruises, now wears a smile. “Well,” he says, sucking in a breath. “That could’ve gone worse.”
“Shut up,” Peter says, unlatching the truck’s back door for the second time. “Everyone in. We’re leaving.”
The boys do as they’re told, and I head to the driver’s seat, the only place I have power.