There’s no conversation while we make our way, keeping to the sides of buildings, trying to stay undercover. Out of the rain and out of view of anyone watching. The rain has lightened to little more than a shower, but another storm is coming. We crouch at the corner of a wine-tasting room. Across the street, from what I can see, is a yoga studio, an ice-cream parlor, a barber shop, a bakery, a chocolate company, and a restaurant. And on this side is a bookshop, a boutique, a toy store, an art gallery, and a cocktail bar.
However, Main Street goes on for several more blocks. Only the bar and a drugstore farther along seem to have been broken into. This place probably slapped back in days of yore. Signs advertise a street party with food trucks and live music. The date for which has already come and gone.
“Boutique, bookshop, chocolate place for starters?” whispers Naomi.
“Sounds good. And we definitely have to hit the toy store before we head home.”
She nods.
However, we stay in place and watch a while longer. Everything seems normal. Nothing is out of place. There are some vehicles parked to the side and one left in the middle of the street down from us. The driver’s door is standing open and a body is lying on the ground. From this distance, the decay seems about right for a death from the virus. I can’t see any signs of violence.
Thunder crashes in the distance, and we both jump.
Naomi shakes her head. “Come on.”
We head toward the boutique. When the door doesn’t open, I pull the pry-bar tool thing out of my backpack, place it againstthe door, and look up. As soon as lightning makes a jagged path across the sky, I break the glass and thunder covers the noise for us. Hooray for Mother Nature.
Inside, there’s a wide selection of denim, soft cotton tees, vintage boots, long flowy dresses, silver jewelry, and more. And we are not mad. Taking some time for pretty things is fun. Strange to think there’ll be no more new fashion for a while. Whatever was in style when the world ended is what we’ll be wearing for the foreseeable future. Along with the clothes hanging in people’s closets. Damp and decay will decrease the amount over time, but some will survive to be worn another day.
It’s been weeks since I shared a selfie or liked or commented. All of the things integral to everyday life have disappeared. The woman in the mirror has some color on her face from the sun. My hair is definitely wilder without the salon visits. But I am still me.
I find a straw cowboy hat for gardening, days-of-the-week underwear that I don’t know how I have lived without, and a navy-and-white-striped ringer tee. And that’s just for starters. Some warmer wear for when I’m on watch at night also seems smart, and a black silk-and-lace camisole top, because why not?
Guess I should leave room for books, chocolate, and toys. But it’s hard to stop when it’s free and you’ve basically been living in the same pair of jeans for a month. It would also be good not to have to do laundry as often. Handwashing everything takes time. Maybe another bag is the answer. Naomi is likewise busy loading up with goodies.
“Are you ready for the bookshop?” I ask, testing the weight of my backpack. Taking a load back to the truck is not out of the question.
Which is when we hear it…the sound of a baby crying.
Both of us hunker down and listen. And a male voice out on the street says, “Come on out here now. You three ladies don’twant to be trying to make it on your own. Especially not with a kid. It’s dangerous these days. All sorts of people are running around and hurting girls like you.”
We crawl toward the front window. Two men are standing out in the street in the soft falling rain like they’re in a movie. Guess they’re the dramatic type. All we can see are their backs. But they’re both holding pistols at their sides. And while they’re not pointing them at anyone just yet, it doesn’t seem like it would take much. Their stance is wired and ready to go. I do not trust them at all.
The group that they’re talking to are standing outside one of the shops up from us, out of our range of view. A nervous-sounding woman says, “We’re doing fine on our own.”
“Come and see our place down at Sonoma,” says the man doing all of the talking. “I promise you’re going to love it.”
It all sounds so horribly fucking familiar. What he’s saying and the way they’re standing and everything. Porter must give these guys a script or something.
“We’re not going to take no for an answer,” says the man, gesturing with his pistol. “Time for you to put that knife of yours down, honey. Now. None of us want things to become unpleasant here. But they will if you don’t do as you’re told.”
And fuck this asshole. No way can we stay safe in hiding and let these women be taken.
Naomi and I share a look and head toward the shop door. It’s like my blood has turned to ice. But I don’t stop moving, slow and steady. Keeping low, we open the door. The sound of glass breaking beneath our boots is covered by the noise of the rain.
“Porter might even let you keep the baby,” says the man. “I don’t know. It really isn’t so bad back at camp once you learn your place.”
Crouched on the concrete sidewalk with one knee down for balance, I draw my pistol. His back makes for a nice solid target.
One of the women standing a few shops away notices our appearance. And the man who isn’t talking begins to turn our way to see what’s garnered her attention.
My pistol kicks hard in my hands.
The man who did all the talking makes a noise like all of the air just got shoved out of him. I fire again, and he falls to his knees before face-planting on asphalt.
It all happens so fast.
Meanwhile, the other guy is raising his gun in our direction. Naomi fires once, twice, and misses. Her target isn’t as wide and static as mine. And the guy gets a shot off, though his aim isn’t great. Something flies past my face, however. The heat of it leaving a line of fire on my forehead.
