Breadcrumbs For The Nasties (Book 1): Megan (17 page)

I smiled. “Thanks.”

He nodded.

I told him what he wanted to hear. “Tomorrow we’ll cut my hair.”

It was the last thing we said that night.

In the morning,
Blueeyes
checked my shoulder. “Not broken. You’re lucky.”

When he was done, he cut my hair, trimmed it so short I couldn’t feel it on my back or push it up and over my ear. It felt strange, uncomfortable. I didn’t feel like myself.

He rubbed the top of my shaved head and grinned in his half-smile sort of way. “Looks good.”

I could learn to live with it.

Before we left the shed, I made him cut his beard. “It’s too long. Something might grab it.”

He agreed. He looked different when the hair was gone. He reminded me of Father. We did our best to avoid packs of
gimps
that day, but occasionally put down a straggler. My leg stopped hurting a few hours later. The pain in my shoulder dulled. While my back was sore, it wasn’t sore enough to make me complain. I was alive. That’s all that mattered. I spent most of the day playing with my head, running my fingers through what remained of my hair. I couldn’t remember ever having short hair; I always liked it long, like Mother. 

It was growing on me.

For the most part, the day was uneventful. Afternoon arrived quickly. In no time at all, we found ourselves on the outskirts of town.
Gimp
numbers dwindled. For nearly an hour we saw nothing. With night approaching, we happened on an isolated group of them, five or six, plodding aimlessly from one side of the street to the other, dead eyes in sunken skulls. Half of them looked too worn, too old to be dangerous. Their bodies had decayed to the point that some muscles became useless. They could barely lift their legs, shuffling more than stepping. When I asked
Blueeyes
how long
gimps
lived, he said it
depended on how much they ate.
Eating slowed the decay of their bodies. If they ate regularly they could, potentially, live forever. 

When I asked him how long he would live, he ignored me.

Instead of responding,
Blueeyes
ducked behind a nearby car, back to the steel. Instinctively, I followed. We remained there for a minute, hunched in silence.

When he finally spoke, he seemed annoyed. “What are you waiting for?”

I was confused. “What?”

“Target practice. Won’t get any better if you don’t shoot.”

My confusion disappeared, replaced with excitement. We’d spent so much time running and hiding. I hadn’t shot
Pointycrunch
in days. I missed him. He missed me. I lifted him from my shoulder and retrieved an arrow from the sack strapped to my back. When I had everything I needed, I moved to the front of the car, extended my arms over the hood, and took aim. Reality set in quickly. I was overanxious. The
gimps
were further away than I thought, further than anything I’d shot. There was no way I could hit them, not from that distance.
Pointycrunch
was disappointed. We were both disappointed.

I relaxed my grip. “They’re too far.”

Blueeyes’
response was predictable. “No, they’re not.”

“I’ve never hit anything that far away.”

“Exactly.”

I wanted to shoot
Blueeyes
and cursed him under my breath. He was wrong. They were way too far.

“Were losing light, Megan.”

I really wanted to shoot him. 

When I realized we weren’t going anywhere until I tried, I relented. Closing one eye, I focused on the tallest and slowest of the group. It was a man, dead flesh peeling from a crumpled skull, wisps of gray hair whipping in the breeze. One of his arms was hanging from his torso. His shoulder was an open wound, useless. With his back to me, I noticed that his neck was twisted at an awkward angle, nearly bent backward. It had to be broken. He was a mess. He was also moving away from me.

My shoulders slumped. “I’ll never hit him from here.”

“Bow can shoot twice that far. Trust me, I made it. Stop thinking. Do it.”

I shook my head, gritted my teeth, and huffed. I wanted to stomp my feet. The look on
Blueeyes’
face wasn’t helping matters: so self-assured, as if I was
silly
for doubting him. The muscles in my back tightened. I readjusted my grip and pulled the bowstring back as far as I could, so far I felt it in my shoulder. I followed the movement of the
gimp,
the shuffling of his feet, the bobbing of his skull. 

Blueeyes
was watching, moving closer. I could feel him over my shoulder, lining up the shot from behind me, breath on my neck. “Shoot where he’s going to be, not where he is.”

I steadied my arms, held my breath, and fired. The arrow connected with the
gimp’s
upper back, jerked him forward, and tossed him to the mud. I missed his head by at least a foot. 

I was amazed I hit him at all. “Damn it.”

“Watch the language.”

Damn it. 

Blueeyes
handed me another arrow. “Try again.”

With the first
gimp
slow to get up, I turned my attention to another. I’m not sure if it was a man or woman. I suppose it didn’t matter. It wasn’t either anymore. Whatever it was, it was dressed in a trench coat, bottom frayed and faded, filth a decade old. I lifted
Pointycrunch
and readied myself. 

Blueeyes’
hand fell to my shoulder and slid across my bicep to my elbow. His fingers made adjustments. “Keep your arm straighter.”

With his other hand he lifted my head. “Chin up.”

My arm was strained, shoulder throbbing. Both of
Blueeyes’
hands fell to my waist, fingers pinched. My back straightened. His voice lowered to a whisper. The inflection was something I’d never heard from him, almost encouraging. “Ignore the distance. Distance doesn’t matter. Ugly son of a bitch might as well be five feet away, standing right in front of you. All you have to do is reach out and touch it. Just touch its head. If you don’t, you’re done for. It won’t give you a second chance, Megan. If you miss…you’re dead.”

I released the arrow. It sliced through air, through flesh, skull, and eye. The
gimp
fell. 

Blueeyes
handed me another. “Hit the rest and I’ll be impressed.” He wasn’t smiling. He never smiled. 

Still, it felt like he was smiling. 

I dispatched the next three
gimps
with ease, a single shot for each. One of my arrows entered through one ear and exited the other. I was especially proud of that. By the time the
gimp
I’d hit in the shoulder was back on his feet, I dropped him to the mud.
Blueeyes
was already standing, tightening the straps of his backpack, heading in the opposite direction. Only one
gimp
remained, a woman with her back to me. She looked slightly
fresher
than the rest, long dark hair, blotchy skin mostly intact. I watched her move, the way she shuffled, the gait of her step. I was so anxious for her to turn, so proud of myself for what I’d done that I didn’t notice her clothes or the specific tint of her hair. I should have noticed. I certainly wasn’t paying attention to the bracelet dangling from her arm. The details were lost, meaningless. In that moment she wasn’t even a
her.
She wasn’t a
gimp
and she wasn’t a monster. I wasn’t scared of her and she couldn’t hurt me. She was unimportant, a
thing.
She was target practice. I wanted to kill her. 

I wanted to kill her so badly.

The moment she turned, my shoulders dropped.
Pointycrunch
slipped from my fingers, fell to the dirt. Something inside twisted, lurched. A lump of awful, balled and congealed, wedged itself in my throat, refusing to budge. Everything went numb. Everything turned fuzzy. I couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, I was crying. Suddenly, I was running. I was running to her.

Blueeyes
yelled, screamed. I don’t know what he said, didn’t care. I could hear him behind me, chasing, boots splashing in the mud. I hopped over a fallen garbage can, through a bit of broken fence, arms pumping, chest heaving. I was less than thirty feet away when she saw me. The lump in my throat erupted, spewed from my mouth as an incoherent gurgle. Our eyes met. She recognized me. I swore she recognized me. I could see it in her eyes. Behind the milky overcast there was
something.
I saw it, felt it. When the tears from my eyes hit my lips, I tasted it. Her arms raised, fingers twiddling. When she opened her mouth her dimples came to life. 

Those dimples.

Blueeyes
snagged my shirt and held tight. My feet took to the air, suddenly above my head. When I hit the ground, I hit hard. The fall knocked the wind from my lungs and opened a gash on the back of my head.
Blueeyes
was on top of me instantly, struggling to contain my flailing limbs and screaming for me to stop fighting. I wanted him off, wanted him away. I balled my hand into a fist and punched his stupid face. I kicked him in the chest so hard I hoped I broke his ribs. I clawed his cheek with my fingers, jabbed my thumb in his eye.

“No! Get off me! Get off!” 

When he pinned my arm to the mud, I bit his hand and tasted blood.

“Stop it! God damn it, Megan!” 

“No!” When the bite didn’t bother him, I kicked his groin. “Let me go!”

No matter what I did or how hard I struggled,
Blueeyes
refused to let go. He was massive and strong, a tower of flesh fighting back, moving with me, always a step ahead. He held my arms, hands full of my clothes. After pinning my legs he maneuvered himself up my body. When he reached my chest I was done for. That’s when I saw her over his shoulder, hands reaching for his back, mouth open and head cocked. She was coming to help me. 

I truly believed she’d come to help.

Blueeyes
sensed her presence the same way he sensed everything. While maintaining his position on my chest he retrieved his knife, turned to face her, and drove the blade into her chest. I screamed so loud I felt it in my chest, in my arms and legs and eyes. I felt it in my heart. When
Blueeyes
lunged at her again I lunged too, snagged his arm, squeezed and pulled. Instead of connecting with her head, he hit her shoulder.

“Damn it, Megan!” 

When he tried again, I did the same. The knife slid into her side, black blood spitting from the wound.
Blueeyes
knocked me to the ground and stood from my chest. I locked my arms around his midsection. Hanging from his back, I rammed my head into his spine, scratching anything exposed. When he stumbled backward and landed on top of me, something in my chest cracked. I couldn’t breathe. When she came at him again,
Blueeyes
kicked her in the stomach, knocking her to the mud. He tried to stand, but I was still holding on, refusing to let go. I didn’t care that I couldn’t breathe. It didn’t matter that something was broken in my chest. I couldn’t let him hurt her. With my legs around his waist, I climbed his back, coiled my arms around his neck, and squeezed. When I dug my elbow into the open wound on his shoulder, he growled. 

Blueeyes
wanted to hit me. I could tell he wanted to hit me. He probably wanted to kill me. He was cursing, arms flailing, desperately trying to shake me loose and coming up empty. His fingers went for mine, peeling them from the flesh of his neck. By this time she was back on her feet. I could hear her moaning, swiping at
Blueeyes,
clawing his jacket with filthy digits. The instant
Blueeyes
pried me loose I was airborne, weightless, flying over his shoulder. The ground smacked me harder this time. I bit my tongue, tasted blood. My shoulder popped. My left side went numb. Everything blurred, flashed black, then came back again.
Blueeyes
was above me, struggling to keep her from removing a chunk of his neck with her teeth. One of his hands slid down his side, reaching for a second knife strapped to his leg.

“N-no…s-sh—” I opened my mouth, squeaked. He couldn’t hear me. I could barely hear myself. My voice was gone, lungs empty, chest on fire.
Blueeyes
retrieved his blade when she latched onto his arm and bit down. He snarled, nostrils flared, eyes wide. He was going to kill her. He was going to kill her
again.

My mouth exploded. “She’s my mother!” 

Blueeyes
paused, knife in the air, Mother gnawing on his forearm, blood seeping from the corners of her mouth. Instead of stabbing her, he cracked the butt of the weapon against her jaw. The blow knocked her loose, broken teeth spilling from her lips. His foot connected with her knee, shattering bone and bending it backward. She fell forward, face first into the mud, moaning the entire time.
Blueeyes
dropped his weight onto her back, knee to her spine. He snagged a handful of hair, mashed her further into the filth. When he looked at me, he was panting, covered in sweat, Mother flailing beneath him. He seemed furious. He was disappointed. He was sad. Mother’s head twisted sideways, caked in mud. Her eyes moved to me, stayed there. When she reached for me, I reached back.

“Megan, don’t…”

Her fingers brushed mine, gently violent, distant but familiar—so achingly familiar. 

“It’s not your mother.”

I ignored
Blueeyes.
I didn’t care what he thought, cared even less about what he had to say. It was her. It had to be her. I wanted it to be her so badly that it didn’t matter that it wasn’t, not anymore. The instant our hands met, she grabbed my wrist, twisted, and pulled, held so tight I felt it pop. Her mouth opened, screamed, snapped at my fingers.
Blueeyes
stomped her forearm with his boot. I heard the bones break, an awful snap I’ll never forget. She barely noticed. When he stomped again, she finally let go. 

Blueeyes
pressed his elbow to the back of her head and shoved her face to the mud, muffling her moans. He looked at me, at my quivering lips, at the tears in my eyes. “Walk away, Megan.”