“Fucking fuckers,” he says before dropping in front of me.
My eyes have started to adjust, and I glance around the room. He’s got an industrial-sized flashlight turned on and aimed at the ceiling. Bedrolls are strewn around the room, all empty, and the floor has been cleared of debris and appears startlingly clean.
After my thorough perusal, I glance back at him to find him observing me as well, his bright blue eyes curious. He’s middle-aged, creased and crunchy with dirt, and although his odor is less offensive than the zombies, it’s not by much. His hair is so dirty that it’s slicked back with natural oils and appears dark brown, hanging over a face lined with so much dirt, it’s hard to see his actual skin tone.
From my seated position, I can tell he’s definitely bigger than me, with solid arms under short sleeves and crusty jeans encasing legs currently crisscrossed as he sits on the floor.
We observe each other in silence for a moment before I start to scooch back again. “Easy there, little lady. I have no desire to hurt you.”
He holds his hands before him as if to show he’s not dangerous, but I’m appropriately wary as I mutter, “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
Still, I stop up short because I’m worn down, desperate, and I need for another human being to be someone safe on a visceral level. I suppose this means I am willing to give him a shot. Besides, he underestimates me if he thinks I’m a “little lady”, which will work to my advantage if I need to defend myself.
“Where is everyone else?” I ask, nodding to the empty bedrolls.
“Out searching for food and water, I expect,” he says.
“Hmm, have you been here long?”
“Long enough. How about you? Where are you coming from?”
“Around,” I answer stubbornly, to which he chuckles. “We’re at an impasse then.”
I smile uneasily and mutter, “I guess we are.”
“Are you hungry, thirsty?”
I nod cautiously, and he reaches over into a pack next to his bedroll, pulling out a bag of beef jerky. Opening the bag, he offers it to me, and I slide out a couple of strips. I try not to appear desperate, but I’m so hungry that it feels like my stomach is eating its way through my insides.
Holding the delicious treat, I throw dignity out the window and gobble down the jerky in two seconds flat before crossing my hands over my stomach to pretend nonchalance, although it’s clear I’m fooling no one.
“Hmm, hungry but clean,” he observes, and I bristle but say nothing. “I’m going to assume you’re running from something. The question is, are you the bad guy, or are they?”
I snort and look away. Of course, it’s evident to me, and I want to rage for days about how wrong ‘they’ are, but I don’t know this man. He could be an informant or something, even if he’s filthy and his digs could use an upgrade. Would Shepherd keep people on the outside as spies?
“Name’s Thomas.”
“Lola.” I return and then kick myself because it’s not like my name is common. Idiot.
“Nice to meet you, Lola. Are you looking to stay?”
“Um, no. I don’t think so.” I need to keep moving and find a way back into that damn compound because, after everything that fucker did, I won’t stop until I blow that place and that fucker to kingdom come.
“Okay, well, you can stay for now. Rest.” His blue eyes shine like bright jewels as he stares at me intently, and my hackles rise. Why does he want me to stay?
“I should go,” I say.
Pushing up from my crouched position, I wince at the pain in my hip where I fell earlier, and a quick search with my fingertip reveals blood. Excellent, after all of this, the fights, the struggles, the sheer will to survive, I’ll probably meet my end ingloriously from some sort of grisly infection.
“You’re injured. Look, you can stay. We don’t want to hurt you. We don’t want to hurt anyone. But,” he raises a finger in the air, “we’re not afraid to defend ourselves. You understand?”
I ease at his words, the honesty more convincing than the niceties. “Yes, I do.”
“I think you do,” he returns before pulling out stale crackers and offering half a sleeve. I eat a few and put the rest aside because I can survive with small amounts of food, but I can’t survive without water. I need to conserve what I have.
He offers me a wet wipe he pulls out of a pouch, and I pull my pants from my body, disturbed by how easy it is to do now that I’ve lost so much weight. It stings, and I wince, but I wipe the wound down because I’ve had worse, and this is just a shallow cut that’s bleeding a lot.
Next, he hands me a bandage, and I place it over the worst of it and let my pants go before drinking from my water jug as I eye him again.