Kristen Simmons - Article 5

A sound halfway between a gasp and a gurgle overrode the pulse in my eardrums. I lifted my head and saw, in horror, that Chase had pinned Rick against the side of the store and was using the cement wall as leverage to choke him.

To kill him.

Rick’s yellow eyes bulged. He swiped drunkenly at Chase’s tightening grip.

“Chase!” I panted, the oxygen having been sucked from the air around me as I realized his intent. “CHASE!”

He registered the sound of my voice as though waking from a dream. Startled, he dropped Rick, who crumpled to the ground, motionless.

I stared at the body in absolute dread. He was still breathing. He was still alive.

Barely.

An instant later I felt a hard pull on my forearm as Chase lifted me almost completely off the ground. Blood was smeared across one cheek, but his face looked otherwise unharmed.

“Truck. Now. ” His eyes were so black I could not see the deep brown irises around them.

I obeyed. I ran on numb legs to the open driver’s side door and slid across the seat. My eyes remained on the two men lying on the pavement. Chase moved fast, grabbing our supplies and shoving them inside. Within moments, the truck roared to life. The tires squealed as we flew from the parking lot.

THEtruck tore down the empty highway, tires pumping so viciously I thought they would ricochet off.

I was breathing hard, my eyes glued to the back window of the cab for any sign of pursuit, the baton still lifted defensively in my hands like a sword.

“Are you okay?” Chase asked, tearing his eyes away from the curving highway as often as he could spare a glance. His black hair looked gray, the colors of his clothing subdued, all covered by the same thin gray dust that had blanketed the asphalt. But his eyes, dark with concern, were suddenly familiar. They scanned over my body, intent to see if I’d been harmed.

I didn’t get it. He’d been a soldier, automatic and emotionless, just moments ago. He’d tried to kill that man. He would have, had I not distracted him.

I tried to speak, but my throat was too constricted.

“Your arm? What about your head?” he said.

My shoulders jerked in a shrug. He made a quick reach for the nightstick, and I shied away without thinking, leaving a cloud of gray ash in my wake.

He exhaled sharply. “Okay… I won’t touch you.” One hand raised in surrender before returning to the wheel. The lines of his throat twitched.

No, I did not want him to touch me. Not after those hands had curled around another’s throat.

“Were you going to kill him?” I asked, scarcely louder than a breath. I knew the answer, but I would have given anything for him to tell me the opposite. That I’d misread the situation. That I was blowing it out of proportion. I wanted desperately to believe he wasn’t just as cold-blooded as Morris and Randolph and the other soldiers.

He kept his eyes on the roadway, swerving around the larger pieces of trash that had gathered in slopes against the concrete barriers.

“Chase?” It took great effort to swallow. It didn’t seem possible, but somehow my heart was beating even faster than before.

He didn’t respond.

I began to tremble in abrupt recognition of the chill that swept through me. The baton felt suddenly hot in my freezing grip and I dropped it on the floor. My knees curled into my chest. The bench seat seemed too short; we were crowded too close together.

“C-can you slow down?” Everything was moving too fast. And yet it needed to go fast, otherwise all the terrible and dangerous things were going to catch up. Still, I felt like I was barely hanging on.

He shook his head.

The silence that settled over us did grant me one comforting illusion. It provided distance. As the miles passed, Chase slipped farther and farther away.

ASwe exited the Red Zone, it was Chase’s own blood that eventually forced him to pull over. When the sharp twinge of copper permeated the stuffy cab, I remembered that Rick had cut him. The consistent drip of fluid hitting the ribbed upholstery of the seat slowed as the wound on his right shoulder began to clot, but it did not stop completely. I glanced down for only a second, because when I saw how the red smeared on the cracked beige leather, my stomach clamped with worry.

I’d cleared the gravel from the scrapes on my knuckles, but as my fingers kneaded the new jeans that covered my thighs, some of the older wounds reopened, cracking under the pressure I exerted.

My mind kept echoing the same question: What happened back there?

The swing of a shotgun barrel. The glint of light off a sickle-shaped knife. Daddy will take care of you. Shards of a few petrifying minutes that were as clear as if they were still happening. And then struggle.

Recapping this part of the scenario made my chest squeeze inward on itself and my whole body grow cold and clammy. Sometime during that fight the lines between bad and good had become blurred. Reversed.

Not reversed, I reminded myself. Chase had only been trying to protect us. Rick and Stan were still the bad guys.

But I could still see Chase’s detached, furious stare as he’d held Rick’s limp body against the building. No matter how much I told myself he’d been protecting us, I couldn’t be sure. In that moment, he’d forgotten everything. He’d become a machine.

It wasn’t that I was afraid he was going to hurt me; at least I didn’t think so. The old Chase never would have. But the soldier…

Chase killing someone was something I could not be a part of, no matter how perilous it would be without him, no matter what past we’d shared. Whatever part of him was still him, the greater part, the more dangerous part, was always lurking.

By the time we’d passed Winchester, Virginia — a small town still occupied by civilians — I’d made up my mind to leave him.

The semblance of a plan shot through my brain. I still had the change in my sweater pocket from the gas station. I could follow the highway back to Winchester. It was early still, midmorning. I could still reach the carrier on my own before noon.

I had pretty good intuition about people—I would seek out someone trustworthy to help me find a transport station. If it was anything like home, buses left the station at noon on weekdays. Then it was just a matter of blending into the crowds, like I had in high school. Not popular. Not a loner. Middle of the pack. The MM wouldn’t notice me if I kept my head down and didn’t linger too long.

I’d give a new name when I bought the ticket. If they asked for ID, I’d tell them an officer took it during the census, like Chase had told the highway patrolman.

My mom and I had been fending for ourselves all my life. I could manage a short trip to South Carolina, wanted or not.

Near Winchester, I’d asked to stop so that I could use the restroom, but Chase had told me to wait. I’d pointed to the blood dripping from his arm, but instead of tending to the wound, he’d just scrubbed away the puddle with his shirtsleeve.

We crossed into farmland. First rolling fields of fruit-bearing trees, picked clean and nearly camouflaged by the gray dust and the high weeds overtaking them, then corn in equally unattended condition. Abandoned vehicles, red and black with rust and mold, slowed us down. Most were parked off the asphalt, but some had died right in the middle of the lane. Chase eyed them warily as he sped down the highway, looking, I realized, for scavengers hidden in the shadows. Most of the windows in these cars had been broken out and cleared of anything valuable, but that didn’t mean that someone wouldn’t still come treasure hunting.