Domino Falls (15 page)

The dinner bell was ringing.

Cliff's voice suddenly blared from Terry's radio:
“We got company—and lots of it. Get back NOW.”

Terry fumbled with the radio. His hand was shaking slightly. “Copy,” he said.

“Go!” Piranha said. “Get out! I'll be okay from here.”

“Bite me,” Terry said.

Breathing hard, they both flung open the cabinets. Eye supplies rained on them. Cleansers. Wipes. Eye drops.

“Saline solution!” Terry said, excited. He shoved at least twenty small clear bottles into his bag.

“Contacts . . . contacts . . . contacts . . .” Piranha was whispering. “Come on . . .”

There were so many gunshots outside, Terry wondered if Cliff was facing off against pirates instead of freaks. Or both. Another snapping round of gunfire came from another direction—
inside
the store. Riley and Bobby had found trouble too.

Terry eyed the narrow doorway. There was no other way out of the storeroom. If they got penned in . . .

Two large wall-mounted cabinets in a far corner were locked. While gunfire raged outside, Piranha pounded at them with his rifle stock, and one of the doors finally fell open. They pried open the second door.

Rows and rows of neatly stacked tiny boxes.

“Yes!” Piranha said. “Thank God for Bausch and Lomb! I need a fourteen minus-twelve, man. Anything close.”

Terry tumbled every box he saw into his bag, but most of the numbers were nowhere near twelve. Lots of fives, sixes, sevens, eights. A few nines . . .

“I can't believe this,” Terry whispered. “They're not high enough.”

“You better be at the door, Brokeback, or you're out of luck!”
the radio warned.

Piranha reached up high for the last few boxes, bringing them close to his face to try to read. When he took off his sunglasses, his eyes were as red as a freak's.

“Got it!” he said. “Elevens and twelves. This is as high as they go here!”

Piranha jammed fistfuls of boxes into his bag.

“We're coming!” Terry told Cliff over the radio.

They ran.

Five dead freaks lying just inside the bay doors told them what to expect
outside.

The truck had changed directions, facing the other way, all on board. Everyone except the driver was firing at the shamblers and runners converging on the truck from every alley and street in sight, dozens. At least twenty stilled freaks littered the alley like twisted marionettes.

As soon as Terry and Piranha stepped outside, the truck started driving away, picking up speed.

“Get over here!” Cliff bellowed, waving.

There wasn't much in Terry's bag, but it was slowing him down. The truck was moving too fast for a jog or a sprint. Terry was running full out, his legs pumping. He felt Piranha behind him, but if Piranha stumbled over something, then what?

No time to look over his shoulder, but Terry heard runners behind them, tireless feet pounding against the asphalt, matching them step for step. Gaining.

And the truck was farther away. Bullets whizzed hot in the air as the scavs fired at the freaks giving chase. Cliff and Riley held out their hands over the edge of the bed door, in impossible distance. Terry saw their mouths moving, saw the guns smoke and spark, but he heard only his heartbeat and the stampeding feet of the freaks.

He touched the truck's chrome. Felt an iron hand wrap around his, tugging.

Terry was flung face-first into the truck, bumping his head
against something hard in a burlap bag. He heard Piranha's heavy panting, and then Piranha tumbled on top of him, knocking his head again. But they had made it!

Terry peered back for his first good look at what they had left behind. The street was filled with runners, like a marathon. There had been a nest nearby—maybe as many as there had been at the Barracks. If they'd gotten close enough, the freaks could have pulled them all out of the truck. The team had waited until it was almost too late.

“Holy . . .” Terry whispered.

Cliff, Meat, and the others were patting them on the back.

“Can't shoot worth a damn, but you can run!” Meat said. “You see that, Cliff?”

“Yeah, they can move,” Cliff said. “Let's see what they almost got us killed for.”

Here it comes,
Terry thought.

Cliff reached into Piranha's bag. “What's this? Contact lenses?” The Gold Shirt grinned at both of them. “Jackpot, newbie! Do you know how much these are worth?”

Terry and Piranha bumped fists.

Terry never,
ever
wanted to go scavenging again.

8:30 p.m.

H
ey!”
A man's voice, sharp in the empty moonlit street.

Kendra jumped, her heart racing, and Hipshot barked beside her. The steady
clip-clopping
of horse hooves closed in on her from behind, and her body went rigid. A Gold Shirt in a suede cowboy hat rode up, shotgun ready, and Kendra thought of posses and lynch mobs.

“Yessir?” she tried to say, but her voice caught in her throat as a squeak. She wondered what law she'd broken, feeling tiny beneath the man on the horse.

But the Gold Shirt wasn't looking at her. He shined an impossibly bright flashlight a few yards behind her. Another man stood nearly hidden in the shadow from a closed fruit stand's awning. He had his own dog on a leash—a much bigger dog. His dog looked half wolf, half Sasquatch.

“What's your business?” the Gold Shirt demanded.

“I'm just . . . taking a walk,” the man's gravelly voice said, an obvious lie.

“Then take it somewhere else. You over at Marv's camp?”

Suddenly, the man sounded concerned. “No reason to bother Marv with it—”

“In Threadville, we don't walk the streets drunk. We don't follow girls in the dark. I'm writing you up. Move on before I get creative.”

Follow girls in the dark? Kendra's heart jumped. Was that true?

The man walked on, hurrying past Kendra with his dog and a sack over his shoulder. He reeked of alcohol. His dirty skin smelled like a pirate's.

Suddenly, the bright light was on Kendra. She shielded her eyes. Hipshot growled, and Kendra pulled his frayed rope leash close.

“What's your business?” the Gold Shirt said, his voice no more gentle.

Kendra pointed toward the corner. Two blocks hadn't sounded far in the crowded dining hall fifteen minutes ago, but now it was after eight. Lights out. The streets suddenly seemed ominous. “I'm just looking for my friend. They said he'd be—”

“Then hurry up and get where you're going. Don't walk alone after dark.”

“Was he following me?”

Instead of answering, he said, “Where's your sidearm?”

“I . . . don't have my own yet.”

“Get one. Keep moving.”

Kendra didn't like his bossy manner, but she didn't argue. She made a kissing sound for Hipshot, and they kept a steady pace toward the building on the corner. The Gold Shirt didn't say anything else, but his horse walked a slow pace just behind
her. Once she had made it to the front door, the Gold Shirt rode away. Kendra had been happy for his protection, but she was glad when he was gone.

The Hungry Dog was on the far end of Main Street, a corner bar left over from old times. Aside from the wood planks nailed up where picture windows had been, the bar probably looked the same, an old-fashioned English pub with a faded crest over the door. Well-fed stray dogs loitered in the doorway and just outside. Hipshot had learned to keep his curiosity to himself, so he stood stoically while four other dogs sniffed him. When he got annoyed and nipped at a German shepherd mix, the other pooches left him alone.

Thank goodness. Kendra had enough trouble with human politics.

Even with Hipshot trotting at her side, Kendra knew she shouldn't be out alone at night. But the returning scavs at the dining hall had reported that Terry and Piranha were probably at the bar, a rite of initiation.

The Twins and Jackie were off having their own adventure, and all Sonia and Ursalina wanted to do was plot about how to ingratiate themselves to Wales and Threadville. Sonia had been eager to sift through the clothes she'd acquired that day, trying to find a way to look cute. Did she care that Piranha was half blind?

Without Terry, Kendra felt alone again. The intensity of the loneliness surprised her, a heavy cloak that had robbed the taste of food from her mouth. She didn't know how to tell if it was love or just mourning, but she needed to be with Terry, even if it meant walking at night to a bar full of rowdy strangers.

No Credit
was spray-painted on the wood outside the door.
No Cash, Either. 2 Drink Limit
.

The bar was loud enough to be heard for blocks, spewing
off-key, off-beat music. With one guy playing the upright piano, a woman strumming an acoustic guitar, a teenage boy on fiddle, and a long-haired person of ambiguous gender pounding the drum kit, Kendra almost recognized the music. Between songs, the crowd clapped and cheered like they were at a U2 concert. The intro to “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” was so bad that Kendra was afraid to hear the rest.

A burly dude in a fleece-lined denim jacket waited just inside the doorway. Bouncer. It was hard to see his face; the only light inside was from candles and lanterns, so all she saw was a bushy beard. He looked like a pirate, except he didn't stink.

“Uhm . . . Can I come in?” Kendra said. “I'm looking for . . .”

He waved her inside. “You're older'n fourteen,” he said. “Old enough to work, old enough to drink. Hell, you might not live to twenty-one.” His voice and face were way too jovial, but he wasn't joking.

“Ain't all she's old enough for!” a nearby man called, and his table laughed. Kendra refused to look in his direction. She was glad she'd worn her heavy jacket to dinner, and tried to shrink inside it.

“Keep Lassie leashed,” the bouncer said.

Keep your customers leashed,
Kendra thought, clinging tightly to Hipshot. There were more dogs inside, sniffing at tables or sleeping across the walkways. Only a few of the dogs were leashed close to their masters; the others seemed like regular customers.

In Domino Falls, dogs were truly man's best friend.

She'd almost given up on finding Terry when she heard a familiar laugh from a group of men huddled at a small round table near the dartboard.

“So I said, ‘You gonna shoot her or kiss her?' ” one of the men finished, and the table of men laughed in unison, nearly
falling over in their hysterics. Terry and Piranha were laughing harder than the rest. Someone patted Piranha on the back.

There was no room at the table for her, so Kendra hesitated. Terry and Piranha were bonding with the guys they worked with. Would Terry want to see her now?

The answer came when Hipshot barked. Terry looked over at her, and his face broke into a grin. He climbed over Piranha and the man at the end of the table as he came to her. He leaned down to peck her lips, like they were an old married couple.

“What are you doing here?” he said, still grinning, breathless. His face was ruddy. “This place is kinda rough.”

“Tell me about it. But I wanted to see how your scavenging went.”

“She just grazed me,” Terry said, turning over his shoulder to share a private joke. Scav humor. The table laughed again. Terry steered Kendra toward the bar counter, tugging at his pocket. “Oh! Let me get you a drink.”

For a moment, Kendra expected Terry to pull out his wallet, maybe an ATM card. Instead, he pulled out a two-pack of AA batteries. He winked at her. “These are like gold bars. You'll need to get stamped. Two-drink limit. Some kind of town law. If you want a buzz, there's vendors with warm beer and weed out back.”

Kendra didn't need any buzz other than seeing Terry in one piece, still here, but Terry had reached the shiny bar. Kendra saw eyes hanging on the pack of batteries, which he was holding high enough for everyone to see. Was Terry limping slightly?

“Gimme one for the young lady, Louie!” Terry called. “Keep the change!”

Patrons in the crowded bar grinned, but Kendra noticed steel in some of the smiles. Showing off wasn't a good idea in front of people who had lost everything.

A foaming mug slid to him across the bar right away. Terry grabbed it for her. An unsmiling bartender absently stamped her palm with a red smiley face.

“Cold beer!”
Terry said, still amazed by the sight. “Whooo-
hooooo
!”

“You can have it,” she said, but he might not have heard her. She'd never seen Terry so wired, and she didn't think it was from the alcohol, even if he'd had more than one drink. She held the mug but didn't sip from it.

“Was it scary?” Kendra said.

Terry nodded and puffed his cheeks full of air.

“What about Piranha?”

“He got new contacts. Wearing 'em now.”

“You going back out?”

“Not if I can help it,” Terry said. He moved closer to her ear, and in the glow of a candle on the bar counter, she saw his troubled eyes. “No respect for the dead,” he said.

Ugh. Terry and Piranha had been scavenging corpses, not just dodging freaks. He must have showered a long time, or she would have smelled the day on him.

“I'm sorry,” she said, and nuzzled his cheek.

“I'd love a cold beer,” said a woman who sidled up to Terry. She was maybe in her late twenties and model thin, as tall as Terry. Her face and hair seemed plain, but she'd chosen her jeans and tight-fitting turtleneck with care. Her blond hair floated on a cloud of perfume. Kendra's stomach soured at the way she pinched Terry's bicep.

At least a dozen other women were at the bar too, and several were gazing at Terry. Kendra hadn't wondered how Terry looked to other women, but suddenly his wavy brown hair and broad shoulders made him a target. Not to mention his double-As.