Footsteps. I open my eyes, turn my head. They're slow, wary. Boots suddenly appear right by the dead woman, right by the spot I crawled under the car. And they come to a stop.
Fuck.
"Okay." The voice is masculine, deep, gravelly. "You're unarmed – supposedly. Get out so I can see."
Fuck. Fuck you and your small dick and that big-ass gun you have to overcompensate it.
I spare one final look at the puppy huddled against the tyre – it's only a black smudge against the waning light – and I somehow get myself out from under the car, easing my way over the dead woman's body, trying not to get stuck on my way out.
Colourful curses of small penises and big guns fly through my mind as I scramble to my feet, and I keep my arms raised so Dick Face over here doesn't blow my brains out.
He stands before me, rifle raised, the weapon obscuring his face. "Turn around," he says, and being the man with the gun, I do as he asks. Only because he's the man with the gun.
I pivot like a netballer, and suddenly I feel his hands on me, searching, doing a thorough inspection of my body. "Get right in there," I mutter, but I don't care if he can hear me. I'm beyond the point of caring.
"Okay."
I turn back to face him just as he lowers his rifle. End of the world aside, he's one good-looking dude. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and well-built, like he's had a hard, physical life. He has dark hair and eyes the same shade of blue as the midday sky. He has a few old scars on one of his high cheekbones, a faint one across the bridge of his nose, another through his eyebrow; end of the world aside, and based on looks alone, I'd jump his bones.
He seems just as surprised to see me without the rifle obscuring his vision, but the expression passes over his face within seconds. He keeps his finger on the trigger, but thankfully the rifle's no longer aimed at me – though I'm sure it can be within a matter of moments.
"Are you going to mug me?" I ask.
The man shakes his head. "No."
"No." I take a step back, and as though tethered to me, he takes a step forward, the rifle inching upward in an instinctive motion.
The man gives me a wry smile, like he finds this situation amusing. "You think I want to hurt you? Rape you?"
"Why else would you be here?" I demand.
He extends a hand in a placating gesture, but it does very little; he exudes arrogance and cockiness and looks like a predator who's caught his prey. "Let's call it a big misunderstanding."
I'm not convinced. He seems too proud to be someone who makes a mistake; he doesn't look to be the type who would openly admit he's wrong. "Before or after you started shooting at me?"
"After, obviously. I saw you standing there, and then you dropped to the ground by that woman. I thought–"
"Jesus." I run a hand through my hair – through my hair that's caked full of god knows what. "Thank god you're a shit shot."
The man actually smiles, albeit a small one. "I'm sorry," he says, without a trace of sincerity, "about shooting at you."
I manage a tight smile. "I'm only going to accept your apology because you have the gun," I say. "So anyway ..." I move to sidestep him, but he follows, mirroring me, blocking my way.
"What are you doing?" he asks, and he comes awfully close to raising his rifle again.
"I'm leaving." I point to my pack and gun lying on the road behind him, the metal of the weapon glinting against the orange of the setting sun.
YOU ARE READING
What Lasts in Us
Science Fiction**COMPLETED** Several years after the world succumbed to a deadly strain of measles that turned those infected into crazed, mindless cannibals, Charlotte wanders the backroads alone, content with surviving day-to-day. That is until she crosses path...
