Shit!
Her grip around my wrist tightens violently as she strains with her free hand to grab the weapon. My heart pounds like a desperate fist against my ribs as I snatch the gun out of her reach. Then, it stops completely as I bring it down like a hammer on the top of her head.
Crack.
Mrs. Renshaw’s body goes limp, landing in my lap before sliding down my legs to the floor.
Oh God.
I roll her off my feet so that I can free myself. The Burger Palace bag crinkles loudly underneath her, and my stomach growls. Once the duct tape is off, I hold my breath and roll her onto her side, pulling the pulverized burger out from under her lifeless body.
I know I should check for a pulse, but I … I just can’t.
She’s fine, I tell myself as I shove the flattened sandwich into my hoodie pocket. She’s gonna be fine.
Running over to the wall, I reach up to hit the automatic garage door button, but the sound of Wes’s voice stops my hand in midair.
“Supplies. Shelter. Self-defense.”
I picture his face the way it looked on the morning of April 24, when we woke up and realized that the world hadn’t ended after all. His exhausted green eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with red. His battle-worn face, covered in dirt and ash and stubble. His blue Hawaiian shirt, smeared with Quint’s blood. And I hear his pep talk again, too, but this time, I listen. I really listen.
“All you gotta do is say, Fuck ’em, and survive anyway,” he said, wiping the tears from my filthy cheeks. “That’s it. First, you say, Fuck ’em. Then, you figure out what you need to survive. So … figure it out. What do you need today?”
“Food,” I whisper to myself.
“Good. Do you have any?”
I picture my tree house full of cans and vitamins and nod.
“Supplies … check. What else do you need?”
“A way to get to you,” I mumble, dropping my forehead to the wall next to the garage door button.
“A vehicle. That can be your shelter, too. What else?”
“An army to help me get you out.”
“That would be nice, but let’s start with …” I picture Wes tapping the handle of the revolver sticking out of his shoulder holster with a smirk.
“My daddy’s gun,” I sigh.
“Self-defense. Supplies, shelter, and self-defense. That’s all you need.”
I remember the way Wes smiled at me after that little speech. His tired green eyes didn’t even crease at the corners. There was a sadness in them I’d never seen before. A resignation that made me nervous.
“See?” he said, letting his fake grin fall as two miserable mossy eyes stared right through me. “You got this.”
“No,” I corrected him. “We got this.”
I don’t know if I believe those words any more than I did on April 24, but I take a deep breath and push open the kitchen door anyway.
Because Mrs. Renshaw was right.
When you’re a mama, you really will do anything to protect your family.
And Wes is all the family I got.
Rain
I open the door just a crack and listen for people inside. Footsteps, drawers opening, anything to help me figure out whether or not the coast is clear. The house is eerily still other than the sound of a man’s muffled voice in the distance. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but his Southern drawl and grandstanding tone make me think it must be Mr. Renshaw … until the phrase, “violatin’ the laws of Mutha Naychuh,” rises above the white noise.
Governor Steele.
My heart sinks. They’re probably all gathered around the TV, watching today’s execution.
And tomorrow, they could be watching Wes’s.
No! The thought practically pushes me through the door into the kitchen. My guilt over what I just did to Mrs. Renshaw dissipates when I see what she’s done to the place.
Mama’s watercolor landscapes that used to hang on the wall in the breakfast nook, the stained-glass sun catchers I made as a kid that she had propped up in the window, her collection of fridge magnets from places other people had visited—all gone. Now, it’s nothing but roosters. Everywhere. A metal rooster crossing sign, stained black from the flames that destroyed her own kitchen. Ceramic rooster cookie jars with the glaze all melted off. Glass rooster salt and pepper shakers that are so cracked they couldn’t hold a grain of either one. Mrs. Renshaw must have dug every damn rooster she could find out of the ashes of her kitchen and shoved them all in here.
A hate I have never felt before begins to swirl inside off me. I exhale it through my nose like dragon smoke. It seeps through my pores like steam from a hot sidewalk. It clouds my vision, turning everything I see as red as the comb on a rooster’s head.
It takes all of my self-control to stay silent as I walk over to the breakfast table. I want to stomp and growl and rip that metal sign off the wall so that I can use it to smash every other rooster in this room. But I breathe through my mouth and avoid the squeakiest floorboards as I tiptoe over to Mrs. Renshaw’s purse on the kitchen counter. It’s a big, ugly sack of a thing with rhinestones all over it, but when I lift the flap and look inside, a crystal rooster keychain stares back at me … along with a key fob that says GMC on the back of it.
I close my eyes and say, Thank you, but I don’t know who I think is listening.
Mama maybe?
It can’t be God. He deserted us months ago.
Opening the drawer next to the oven as quietly as possible, I reach in and take out the can opener.
“Bailiff! Bring out the accused!”
Crap!
The execution’s almost over. I have to hurry. I close the drawer and slide the can opener into Mrs. Renshaw’s purse, and then I slowly lift the bag off the counter. I make sure that nothing inside jingles or rattles as I drape the strap over my neck and across my body. Then, I turn.
And find Sophia Elizabeth Renshaw staring at me from five feet away.
“How did you—”
I dart forward and wrap my hand around her mouth, peeking into the dining room and up the few stairs to the living room where her dad and brother are staring with wide eyes at the glowing screen.
POW!
They both jump in their seats as I pull my head back into the kitchen.
“Sweetie …” I scramble to come up with an explanation that will make sense to a ten-year-old, but as I stare into her deep brown eyes, wide with fear and confusion and blind trust, all I can think to say is, “I love you. So much. Don’t ever forget that.”
Sophie blinks twice and then nods a little into my hand.
“I have to go now. Do me a favor and don’t tell the guys you saw me, okay? They’ll be mad.”
Sophie nods again, pulling her eyebrows together, and I drop to my knees to hug her.
“Once again, I’m Michelle Ling, reporting live from Plaza Park. Today’s Green Mile execution event was brought to you by Garden Warehouse. On behalf of Governor Steele and the great state of Georgia, stay safe out there, and may the fittest survive.”
“Dude,” Carter groans from the living room. “They have got to start making those holes bigger. Did you see the way that guy smacked his head on the way down? Ugh.” I hear the squeak of my couch cushions and know my time is up.