“Who were you before this?” I ask, waving my hand around.
He laughs, “I am now what I was then.”
I frown and look around, not getting it. He hasn’t changed. Hm. “Homeless?”
“Yep. You’d be surprised how many of us survived.”
“I guess you’d already have the street smarts,” I mutter.
“Exactly,” he says, his eyes lighting with approval.
“When will the rest return?”
“Whenever. We don’t keep tabs on each other. We all come and go as we see fit.”
I lose the last of my tension, hopeful that he means what he says, and I won’t have to kill another human being for being a shit bag.
“Have you heard from others, other communities?”
“Somewhat, but we steer clear of formalized communities, too much politics,” he chuckles at his own joke.
“Too true,” I mutter and then clear my throat. “Have you heard of Shepherd?”
Thomas stops rifling around in his bag and turns to look at me before asking quietly, “Is that where you’re from?”
Dropping my gaze, I nod, growing tense in the silence until I meet his gaze once again, but I don’t see malice or anger or even calculation, just curiosity.
“How’d you get out? I heard they don’t let people leave.”
“I know. I, uh, escaped.”
“We have a few folks who come and go that left there.”
“Really?” I ask, leaning forward eagerly. I need to speak to them, find out if they know more than I do about that place.
“Yeah, don’t talk about it much, though. I think they left people behind,” he says with caution.
Closing my eyes, I turn away as the inevitable tears well. Just when I think I’ve mastered the cold-hearted bitch in me, my stupid emotions come back to smack me around a little more. I would think there would be nothing left to give, but it just keeps coming.
“What about you? You left folks behind?”
“Sort of,” I clear my throat. “I have to go back.”
“What?” he rears back. “Why would you want to do that?”
“To burn that fucking place down,” I rasp.
I hear clapping behind me and turn to find a man and woman standing in the doorway.
“A-fucking-men,” the man says as he saunters into the room before asking gallantly, “And who is this fine lady with the fire and mayhem in her eyes?”
Thomas snorts but responds, “This is Lola.”
“Dear Lola, your words bring warmth to my chilly heart. I’m Augustus, and this is my fair maiden, July.”
“Really?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Hey, it’s the apocalypse. We can have any names we want,” he chortles.