Mrs. Renshaw digs around in the bag again. The crinkling sound masks the noise the tape makes when I give my wrist one final twist, breaking the adhesive bond. Water runs down my forearm and drips out the other side of the tape, causing a jolt of fear to surge through me. I hold my breath and shift my hips in my seat just in time to catch the stream on my thigh. It lands on my jeans almost silently, and I exhale.
Leaning forward, I pretend to take another sip from the cup, holding it in place with my chin so that I can let go of it with my hand. I manage to wriggle it free from the now-useless tape as Mrs. Renshaw swallows another mouthful of fries.
“Now …” she mumbles, rummaging in the bag and pulling out a King Burger wrapped in shiny yellow paper. She peels the wrapper back on one side and holds it toward me. “Open up and say—ahh!”
Mrs. Renshaw lets out a shriek as my to-go cup flies toward her face, spraying water in all directions like a loose fire hose. She drops the food and squeezes her eyes shut, shielding herself with her hands. It buys me just enough time to reach into the back of my jeans, grab my Daddy’s Beretta, and hit her upside the head with it as hard as I possibly can.
Her eyes snap to mine but only for a split second before they glaze over and roll up under her eyelids. Mrs. Renshaw slumps sideways in her chair, knocking over the Burger Palace bag along the way. Golden fries spill onto the oil-stained floor as I clutch the gun between my thighs and struggle to unwrap my left wrist.
Mrs. Renshaw moans and makes a smacking sound with her mouth as I free my left hand and start on the tape around my ankles.
The moaning gets louder as I free my right foot, but when I go to work on the other side, a hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
I scream and try to pull my arm away, but all that does is jerk her body closer to me. Mrs. Renshaw is still slumped over sideways, and her wig has fallen halfway off, but her eyes are open and trying to focus on me. A trickle of blood flows from her temple down to the corner of her eye, turning the white part bright red. Then, it darts from my face to the gun between my legs.
Shit!
Her grip around my wrist tightens violently as she strains with her free hand to grab the weapon. My heart pounds like a desperate fist against my ribs as I snatch the gun out of her reach. Then, it stops completely as I bring it down like a hammer on the top of her head.
Crack.
Mrs. Renshaw’s body goes limp, landing in my lap before sliding down my legs to the floor.
Oh God.
I roll her off my feet so that I can free myself. The Burger Palace bag crinkles loudly underneath her, and my stomach growls. Once the duct tape is off, I hold my breath and roll her onto her side, pulling the pulverized burger out from under her lifeless body.
I know I should check for a pulse, but I … I just can’t.
She’s fine, I tell myself as I shove the flattened sandwich into my hoodie pocket. She’s gonna be fine.
Running over to the wall, I reach up to hit the automatic garage door button, but the sound of Wes’s voice stops my hand in midair.
“Supplies. Shelter. Self-defense.”
I picture his face the way it looked on the morning of April 24, when we woke up and realized that the world hadn’t ended after all. His exhausted green eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with red. His battle-worn face, covered in dirt and ash and stubble. His blue Hawaiian shirt, smeared with Quint’s blood. And I hear his pep talk again, too, but this time, I listen. I really listen.
“All you gotta do is say, Fuck ’em, and survive anyway,” he said, wiping the tears from my filthy cheeks. “That’s it. First, you say, Fuck ’em. Then, you figure out what you need to survive. So … figure it out. What do you need today?”
“Food,” I whisper to myself.
“Good. Do you have any?”
I picture my tree house full of cans and vitamins and nod.
“Supplies … check. What else do you need?”
“A way to get to you,” I mumble, dropping my forehead to the wall next to the garage door button.
“A vehicle. That can be your shelter, too. What else?”
“An army to help me get you out.”
“That would be nice, but let’s start with …” I picture Wes tapping the handle of the revolver sticking out of his shoulder holster with a smirk.
“My daddy’s gun,” I sigh.
“Self-defense. Supplies, shelter, and self-defense. That’s all you need.”
I remember the way Wes smiled at me after that little speech. His tired green eyes didn’t even crease at the corners. There was a sadness in them I’d never seen before. A resignation that made me nervous.
“See?” he said, letting his fake grin fall as two miserable mossy eyes stared right through me. “You got this.”
“No,” I corrected him. “We got this.”
I don’t know if I believe those words any more than I did on April 24, but I take a deep breath and push open the kitchen door anyway.
Because Mrs. Renshaw was right.
When you’re a mama, you really will do anything to protect your family.
And Wes is all the family I got.
Rain
I open the door just a crack and listen for people inside. Footsteps, drawers opening, anything to help me figure out whether or not the coast is clear. The house is eerily still other than the sound of a man’s muffled voice
