“He was.” There’s a tug in my chest, but the tears don’t start this time. I wonder, after all this death and sadness, if my tears just dried up. “What about you? Your family?”
Brenna just shrugs. “I never had a family, really. Hey, this car lot’s a little farther out than I thought,” Brenna says, distracting me. We stop to drink some water. I guzzle mine greedily before I hear Brenna curse.
“My water bottle’s got a hole in it.” She holds it up. A few drops fall from a pin-sized hole in the bottom of the bottle and onto the ground, splattering the pavement.
I shake my canteen, but I’ve drunk all my water. “Hang on,” I say. Water’s usually not hard to find, if you know where to look. I stop, flip my pack from over my shoulder, and check my supplies. “I’ve got a filter, but we’ve got to find a source.” I scan the horizon with my binoculars. “There’s a farmhouse over there,” I say, pointing. “Maybe there’s a stream or a well. If you think we have a few miles, maybe we should hit that.”
“You think it’s safe?”
“Safer than you passing out in this heat and me having to wheel your ass around. Let’s go.”
We make our way quickly over the parched, scorched ground, slowing down as we get close to the farm’s gate. Before, it must have been a lovely home. The gingerbread trim is still intact, as is a porch swing, drifting back lightly in the almost nonexistent breeze. But it’s only a shell of a house now. The paint is peeling, and the windows have all been shattered. Trash litters the yard—empty cans, wooden chairs, an old trampoline. Brenna leans over and picks up a pink hairbrush.
“Think I can trade this for something?” she asks, rubbing her shaved head.
“Well, I don’t think you’ll be using it,” I say, grinning. “Hey, let’s stay away from the house. There might be a well back here.”
“Hell no,” Brenna says, walking up on the porch. “Let’s see what else is inside.”
“Brenna, I’m telling you, the place could be—”
Quick as a flash, a figure shoots out the door. Before Brenna can move, the attacker has her by the neck and holds up a rusty kitchen knife. It’s a woman, thin, with dark rings under her eyes.
“Occupied,” she whispers hoarsely. She’s so filthy, it’s impossible to tell her age, but she looks at least as old as my mother. Her hair is plaited in two greasy gray braids.
Brenna yells in frustration and struggles to free herself. The woman holds the knife closer to her neck.
“Be quiet, girl!” she shrieks between clenched teeth. “Do you want those things to come? I have nothing to lose by killing you.”
“Except that I’ll kill you,” I say, purposefully loud. The volume puts her on edge.
The woman narrows her eyes and looks at me.
“How?” she sneers.
“It will take me exactly one second to take out my gun.” I lay my hand on it at my side.
The woman grits her teeth but holds tightly to Brenna. “What do you want?”
“Water,” I say. “That’s it.”
She looks at me warily.
“I’ll stay right here with your friend while you get it,” she says. “And don’t think about going inside. My man’ll kill you in a second.”
“Well, she’ll kick his ass,” Brenna says. “I’ve seen her level dudes bigger than whoever you’ve got back there.”
The woman looks at me again. I notice that her hand is shaking. She’s terrified of us, that we’ll bring the Floraes.
I nod and slowly make my way around the house. The well, like she said, is easy to spot. When I look inside, the water is murky but filterable. “Found it!” I yell.
There’s a grunt from the front of the house. When I look in the direction of the noise, I let out a small breath. The entire back of the house has been burned away. There’s no way anyone could be inside.
“It’s just gonna take another minute,” I call, then silently make my way to the house. Without taking the time to look around, I walk through to the front and rush through the door, grabbing the woman’s arm and yanking the knife away from Brenna’s neck.
The woman doesn’t scream as she tears at me. She’s survived this long by being quiet. But within a second, Brenna has her pinned to the floor. To my surprise, she doesn’t struggle at all. She just lies there, limp, on the rotting porch. Up close her face is red and cracked, her nose permanently red, as if she’s been crying for years.
I check the front windows to make sure there’s no one lurking around. Through one of the downstairs windows, I can see one room that survived the fire. Purple walls and what looks like a poster of a teen star from Before. I can’t help but smile when I realize who it is—Kay, holding a microphone, her eyes shut, her short hair streaked with blue and her body wrapped in a spangled leotard. It’s hard to think of the Kay I know as the same person as this clichéd teen superstar. My eyes dart around the rest of the room. It’s mostly trashed, but I can make out some other items. A broken princess mirror, a canopy bed on its side.
A girl must have lived here, Before.