Роберт Уилсон - Days Since... - Jenny - Day 986

From west to east, a sustained wind shifted snowflakes from rooftops to tree branches to bushes to the ground—an effort to bury the world from above. Deserted, the street lay untouched, blanketed in white powder underneath tree limbs stripped bare from autumn’s task. Beside the snow-covered cars along the curb, metal poles jutted out from beneath the snow like stubborn weeds. A man with a shotgun slung across his front wiped one of the parking meter domes clean. “Time expired,” he read before looking back to his companions, both with rifles in hand. “Not for us though.”

“Hey Griff, they say what they wanted?” one of the lesser men asked. “Pretty important if it’s a face-to-face, right?”

“They want to resume trade again now that they’ve bounced back from their little…” Griffin stifled a snicker. “Setback.”

“You happy with what happened?”

“Happy…?” For a second, he considered whether or not it was true. “Naw, not really. Can’t complain about them getting knocked down a peg, though.” Reconsidering the implications of the statement, he turned, scolding them, “But don’t start thinking they won’t try something. Weakened or not, O’Brien held the Butcher under his command and shouldn’t be taken lightly. I know he’s up to something. Just not sure what yet.”

“I’m more worried about the ones that took him out.”

“There’s always a bigger fish.” Griffin smiled. “The Butcher found out the hard way.”

The men swallowed before nodding, then marched onward, storefront to storefront, their bootprints stretching a mile behind them.

Up ahead, below an awning at the end of the block, a cigarette passed between frigid hands. The strangers’ rifles leaned against the brick wall while puffs of smoke wafted into the air. Both men read cocky. Both without a care in the world. Their faces turned toward the approaching group, and three distinct raps sounded against the framed glass door to the coffee shop.

The creak of a window from the shop’s second floor caught Griffin’s attention. A muzzle protruded from inside, and all three of the men turned their palms toward the sky.

The blonde stranger crooked an eyebrow. “You Griffin?” Smoke rolled from his mouth.

Griffin nodded, squaring up to the man.

“Leave your weapon there,” the other stranger said, gesturing toward his own. “Not hiding anything, right?”

“Nope.” Griffin set his shotgun’s barrel to the brick and stepped forward, pressing his hands to the glass door. Without hesitating, the man slipped behind him, handsy with his pat-down. Quick. Intrusive. Then it was over.

Shaking off the discomfort, Griffin straightened his clothing. “You get a good enough handful down there?”

“He’s good, huh?” The blonde stranger swept a piece of hair back under his sock hat and popped a single cigarette from its pack. “Looks like you could use a smoke to help you relax.”

Not amused, Griffin simply glared at the men then deadpanned, “Me and your boss have business. Time to get the fuck on.”

“Your men gotta wait outside with us.”

A string of bells jingled as Griffin pulled the door outward. He framed himself in the jambs, cautiously taking in the situation. To his left, in the meager daylight, sat O’Brien, his feet propped atop a long, green crate at the foot of his table. A brisk smile, discreet. “Sit,” he said. “This’ll be brief.”

Griffin scraped the metal chair across the floor to sit. “Been good?”

“Good enough. You?”

“About the same.”

O’Brien straightened in his chair, taking his feet from the crate. “Got something for you. Got more like it if we can come to an agreement.” He opened the crate. Inside, a bazooka, a few rockets. “Go on.” With a dip of his chin, he urged Griffin to grab it. “See how it feels.”

Griffin’s chest shook—the laughter stuck in his throat. “You serious?” Beaming, unable to help it, he lifted the bazooka from the crate and onto his shoulder. “Thought it would’ve been heavier.”

“Simple to operate. It’s finding the rockets that’s tricky, but all this is yours if you want it.”

“What’s the catch?” Griffin set the impressive weapon back into the crate.

“No catch. This one’s on the house.”

Griffin furrowed his brow but said nothing.

“Trading with us has always been sort of a… guilty pleasure of yours. Believe me, I get why you’re hiding your dealings with us from your camp. We can be an unsavory sort. Not everyone tolerates what we do.” He licked his lips. “But, there is another bazooka and nearly ten more rockets for your camp if you can help me out with something.”

“Winter’s a bit tougher to give up food and fuel.” Griffin exhaled his frustration. “I want to, believe me. We’d be untouchable with two of ’em. I just—”

“Let me stop you right there. I’m not asking for any of that. We’re rebuilding the Butcher’s operation. You know what I need.”

Griffin lifted his gaze, eyeing a ceiling fan overhead.

“A young one. Healthy. Do that and the other shoulder cannons yours too. Like you said, you’d be untouchable with both.”

A sinister grin consumed Griffin’s face. “I know just the one.”

“Give us a couple days, and we’ll be there to pick her up.”

The floorboard let out a sharp crack. Matt’s head spun around, his eyes wide as he mouthed, “Be careful!”

Jenny couldn’t help but wince. Her head creaked up and down with a slow nod. She forced a hand to her chest, trying to keep the pounding of her heart from echoing beyond her body. Deep breaths. She pressed each subsequent board lightly with her boot, testing each one before moving forward.

Matt waved for her to hurry. Jenny threw her hands in the air. “Which is it?” Her whisper was fierce.

“Both,” he snapped back. Matt reached for her, and Jenny grabbed hold—their pulses racing together, hand in hand. She mirrored each of his steps toward an open door at the end of the hallway. “Stay close…”

No shit.

Jenny kept low behind Matt as he peeked through the gap in the door, attempting to clear the bedroom before deciding on whether to enter. The bathroom and office down the hallway were passed by—there was nowhere to hide. Matt gave her hand a squeeze and tried to ease his way between the door and its frame. The door moaned as his oversized coat caught the doorknob, pushing it inward. He pulled Jenny through and faced her. “Through the window there.” He tried to bring her with him, but she freed her hand from his.

“We need to hide.” Her eyes scanned the bedroom. The gap below the bed was too small. Too predictable. “What’s in here?” She opened the door. A closet—a nest of laundry filled the bottom—the smell of mold and body odor. Above the pile, a steady trickle of water from the ceiling pecked at a windbreaker jacket. Can’t afford any noise. Not a sound. She pitched the jacket to the side.

“That closet’s a bad idea.” Matt raced over to the window and jerked it open. A gust of wind swept through the opening, carrying a drift of snow that spread across the floor. The sudden breeze caused Jenny to shudder. She looked over to Matt—his intentions made clear with one foot lifted from the floor and rising toward the sill.

“Where are you going?” she hissed.

He set his foot down. “It shouldn’t be too bad a climb down from here,” he said, craning his neck through the open window. “We’ll just drop down on the garage’s roof and to the ground from there.”