Jocelyn laughed at the obvious. “Would you like to hold it?”
He nodded, and she reached behind, drew the sword, and gave it to him. He held it in his right hand.
“It’s heavy,” he said, struggling to hold it upright.
She laughed again. “Try using two hands.”
He nodded and held onto the hilt with both hands, waving it around in the air like he knew how to use it, but he didn’t. He seemed to be doing pretty well with the wrapped wrist. “Have you attacked any zombies with it?”
“I’ve killed two. I cut off their heads with one swing. I think I can do the same with other zombies, though I discovered stabbing them doesn’t slow them down much.” She hoped her tone appeared matter-of-factly and not boastful.
He looked wide-eyed at her, absentmindedly moving the sword in her direction.
“Careful with that thing. It’s sharp.” Jocelyn cautioned. He brought the sword back and looked sheepish. “Sorry . . . It has to be sharp if the sword can cut off a head in one blow.” She needed to establish her worth. “It’s not the sword so much as me. I’ve done enough training that I can chop their heads in the one blow.” The strength of a draugar helps as well. “It would probably take three or so swings for someone without the training.”
“Wow,” he said as he gave her back the sword. She sheathed it behind her back while he just stared at her for a few seconds. “You seemed to have trained for this.”
Was her grandfather aware this was coming? That he would be dead, and I would fight the draugar? Still, he couldn’t have known about my becoming a half-draugar . . . could he?
“You’d be useful,” Alexander continued. “We would love for you to join our little group.” He gestured over to Vin. “Vin here is an expert with guns and Kempo—in fact he’s an instructor.”
Vin rolled his eyes. “I can make my own introductions, Alexander.”
Alexander shrugged. “Sorry, Vin.”
Marty interjected. “I hate to break this up, but we need to talk as a group. Now. And it’s better we do that inside rather than outside.”
“You’d better have something good,” Vin said.
“Oh?” Marty raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got something better to do with your time?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Day Eight
Jocelyn didn’t know what to make of Vin or Alexander. Could she trust them with her life? And did she need them to get to Colorado Springs? If she encountered the draugar one at a time, she could handle them on her own. But what if she encountered more? What if there was a whole horde? Of course, Vin and Marty and Alexander would not be enough against a horde, and she would have to avoid draugar if she were to survive. How would she do that?
First things first. She needed to get those meds. But as they made their way toward the employees-only area of the market, as they passed the pharmacy on the right, Jocelyn became anxious. She desperately needed those meds now, but she didn’t want to draw attention to her plight so no one would find out about her illness. Normal people with normal medical conditions wouldn’t head straight for the pharmacy. Besides, if she looked for them now, would someone discover which medication she took? Would Alexander be smart enough to recognize it? Would Vin?
Jocelyn realized that her best course of action would be to join this group, even if temporarily, until she could secretly go into the pharmacy, probably in the wee hours of the night. Although Marty might be able to run interference while she found her meds now, she still thought the risk of being detected as having a severe mental illness was too high to chance it now.
She glanced at her watch; it was already after six, and darkness was less than two hours away. She hoped there would be a time when no was awake, like if she were on watch.
The emergency lights were on, which meant generator power, and she guessed that meant they had no heat, which explained the pile of burnt wood and ashes under the store’s overhang out front.
When they arrived at the break room, a middle-aged woman, an older Asian man – she guessed Chinese – and a very young girl greeted her. The girl slept on a couch, her head resting on the lap of the middle-aged woman, who was reading a paperback novel.
The Chinese man played air-piano with his eyes closed while seated at a long table.
Vin coughed, and the woman looked up from her book. The Chinese man stopped and looked at her too.
The woman gasped and said, “Oh, my gosh, another survivor. And an armed one.” She turned to Vin. “See, I told you we should canvass the town.” Then she frowned. “Does anyone know this woman?”
Vin scowled. “Janice, Jize, this is Jocelyn. Marty brought her from his ridiculous travels; he says he has something important to say.”
Jize rose from his seat with the grace of royalty, approached her, and took her hand in both of his, one palm covering the top, the other, the bottom. “Pleased to meet you. I am Jize Chen. Please call me Jize, if you will.” He bowed.
The name Jize Chen rang a bell with her, even though she couldn’t quite place it. Oh, wait, air-playing a piano . . .
“Are you Jize Chen, the concert pianist?” Jocelyn asked.
“So you know of me,” he confirmed as he brought his head back up and looked her in the eyes. He gave a somewhat forced smile. “I would love to give you a private concert, but I’m afraid I’m fresh out of pianos. They don’t fit in my pockets very well.”
She gave a slight chuckle.
