Chapter Eleven. The crisp predawn air bites into my skin as I creep along the side of the dorm, Mugsy’s comforting weight pressed against my back

The crisp predawn air bites into my skin as I creep along the side of the dorm, Mugsy’s comforting weight pressed against my back. I search for signs of anyone who could derail my escape. There are none. In the hazy shadows that fight the dawn’s first rays, I am alone.

A chill assaults my skin, last night’s rain having chased away the mild air of yesterday. This is the real September making her presence felt, letting me know she is in charge, not me. If she chooses to grace me with her benevolence, I am grateful. If she chooses to rain her wrath down upon me, well, that is her choice. This is her world now, not mine. I am simply a squatter.

I try to ignore the ice forming in my veins as I leave the cover of the two barns and walk the open field toward the footbridge spanning the shallow creek that slices the farm in two. My breath turns to mist as it merges with the morning air, suspended briefly in cotton puffs before dissolving into nothing. I focus on the path before me, on freeing myself of the mess I have gotten myself into. This farm is just a stop along the way home. Nothing here matters. My stepmom’s chicken noodle soup, my niece’s latest dance routine, my sister’s fascination with 1930s gangsters, my dad’s hopelessness with anything electronic, those are the things that matter. My determination warms me against the cold.

The farmhouse looms at the top of the hill. I cross the footbridge carefully, hoping the elderly wood won’t creak and give me away. I manage to clear the bridge with little noise, and thank my newly svelte frame for the preservation of my stealthy departure. Fifty pounds ago, that wood would have groaned like a MINI Cooper trying to carry an elephant.

The sun is starting to break over the farm’s eastern edge, stealing the cover of night. I quicken my pace. As I near the farmhouse, I know it is the last major hurdle between me and freedom. The house is peacefully dark, every window consumed by a still blackness. Seeing no signs of life, I creep quietly but confidently past the front half of the house.

“Running away so soon?”

Shit.

The morning light has not yet penetrated the recesses of the wraparound porch, and Buck’s face is obscured by shadow. His silhouette is clearly visible to me, however, and I curse myself for having been careless. He leans forward in his wicker chair, resting his forearms on his knees as he stares me down. His eyes shine even in the darkness, boring into me.

I straighten up, squaring my shoulders toward him. I’m not about to let him shame me.

“I’m not running. Just getting back to what matters.”

Buck comes down the steps, blocking my path. He searches my face, and I fight down a flush of humiliation. We stand that way in silence for quite some time, him refusing to back off, and me refusing to back down. His gaze is unyielding, and I try to match it.

I know I am doing the right thing.

I know.

Finally, he relents. He takes a small step back, sliding his hands into his pockets. I ignore the disappointment he tries to hide.

“If that’s what you want, then I guess you should go.”

I nod, any words I might say stuck in my throat.

“Might as well at least take some supplies.”

Buck turns, heading into the house. I stay where I am, not quite knowing whether I should wait or follow him inside, but lacking the energy to choose either. My indecision becomes its own answer. My feet grow roots in the shallow grass below the porch, and I stare up at the porch, finding solace in the gaps between the wooden slats. Sometimes emptiness is the only safe place you can hide.

I hear the faint clatter and shuffle of Buck working his way through the house, ostensibly gathering things I will need but making no overt haste to complete his task. His delaying tactics might make me laugh, the image of him puttering through the house like some old codger searching for a lightbulb might even make me outright guffaw, if I wasn’t in such a hateful mood. Buck, however, isn’t what I am hating.

My self-loathing is interrupted by a new sound carried faintly on the breeze that has kicked up without my noticing. I turn to find Zeke and his dog-pound stalking by, packs and duffels slung over their shoulders. They each glare at me as they approach, except for Zeke, whose eyes are trained five feet in front of him.

What should be obvious takes me a few beats to figure out. I can’t take my eyes off the set of Zeke’s jaw, the muscles twitching there just under the surface as the three men near. I feel the pulse of it in my head, rhythmically pounding a solemn, ferocious song. Somewhere behind me the screen door claps shut, and Buck’s boots thump down the aged wood.

He sidles up next to me, silently watching the parade of angry souls. I don’t really expect him to explain what is happening, nor do I need him to by now. My addled brain has finally caught up. Buck is sending the boys packing. Last night had been the final straw.

Oh great. Traveling companions. This should be fun.

If they notice my own impending departure, they don’t mention it. They don’t mention anything at all, a fact for which I am grateful. I just want them to pass without incident, to leave me and Buck and the farm far, far behind. I know it shouldn’t matter, but I am relieved they won’t be staying on the farm after I leave. Even if that means possibly running into them outside the farm’s protective gates.

“Fucking dyke.”

Spoke too soon.

Buck tenses beside me, and I feel the answering tension coil in my belly. I really, really hate that word, although I suppose it isn’t the word I hate as much as what assholes like these mean by it.

Still, I choose to ignore the slur. What does it matter, anyway? They are leaving, as am I. I feel Buck’s gaze upon me. Whether he is waiting for my action or asking me for permission, I don’t know. Either way, I give a small shake of my head. It just isn’t worth it.

I’m not sure which of the two dogs spewed the words, although I know it didn’t come from Zeke. The voice is all wrong. If I had to bet, I would put my money on the shorter of the two, the one with an extra-snide twinkle in his eye just for me. I feel so fucking special.

At least Kate doesn’t have to hear this shit anymore.

That thought cheers me, at least a little.

“You boys need anything else?” Buck asks, as if compelled to try and take care of the men even as he banishes them.

Zeke stops, his boys coming to an abrupt halt behind him. His head is slow to turn, but when it does his eyes are full of fire. I can feel flames lick my skin. I have a sudden urge to call for the fire department. Or maybe just make fire-engine noises.

Oh yeah. I’m perfectly sane.

“We’re fine.” Zeke seethes, staring Buck down.

For the fire in his eyes, his voice is like ice. The contrast shakes me. I can’t wait for them to get the hell out of here.

“I’m sorry it had to turn out like this.”

Damn it, Buck. Just shut up and let them pass.

I know Buck means well, but all he is doing is stoking the flames. The last person I knew who tried to make peace with the devil paid for it with his life.

Zeke’s jaw tightens to the point I think it might explode from the pressure, but he remains silent. His only response is a terse nod. I almost have to give him credit for his self-control. Almost.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” one of the men screeches at Zeke, breaking the implied order of silence.

Zeke turns, glaring at the man, but to no effect. The tall one has decided to join the mutiny.

“We’re really just gonna let this shit go down? Let him kick us out over some dyke bitch?”

“That’s enough. Zeke, you and your boys best be leaving. Right fucking now.”

If Zeke’s voice had been ice, Buck’s is an Antarctic midnight. From the looks on their faces, I have a feeling they have never, ever, heard the head of Burninghead Farm curse.

Zeke seems less impressed. A barely suppressed rage is brewing, and I wonder if Zeke will be able to control it. Or if he even wants to.

After a moment that verges on extended, Zeke turns back toward the road as if to resume his exit. His brothers follow suit. My exhale of relief is short-lived, however, when Zeke pivots and strides directly up to Buck.

“This is a new world, Buck,” he sneers, the words slithering off his tongue like lacerations. “This world belongs to the strong, not the weak. You and your little family are never going to make it if you’re not prepared to make the hard choices.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Look around. The old world is dead. And I say good riddance. There is no room for equivocation, or experimentation, or deviation,” Zeke seethes, his venomous gaze now directed at me. I refuse to give in to the chill that sweeps through me. “There’s only one way for the new world to survive, and it sure as hell isn’t by letting the few women who are left reject their God-given roles.”

Something snaps inside. I step forward, invading Zeke’s pulpit before my mind officially decides I’ve had enough. Zeke meets me there, effectively pushing Buck out of the debate.

“What are you gonna do, little girl?” Zeke spits out the words, towering over me with an inhuman glee.

“Come on, Zeke. Just go now. Please.”

Zeke ignores Buck’s plea, as do I. My blood rages with the memory of death and violation.

“A few months back I met some guys like you, Zeke,” I say, my voice a mixture of icy calm and molten will.

I will not back down. I am done with backing down.

“They thought they knew what was best. Especially for the women. Sow the seeds and inherit the earth, right Zeke?”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but I see it. He knows exactly what I am talking about. He leans in, his breath heavy on my face. Heat rises in my cheeks, anger spinning in my head, making me dizzy with its force. But I hold my ground, unwilling to do anything less.

“One day,” he breathes, “one day you’re going to get exactly what’s coming to you.”

“Been there, done that, Zeke. But if you want to try, bring it on.”

I don’t know why Zeke doesn’t take a swing at me, but the blow doesn’t come. I push for it. Maybe even want it. And he and his friends certainly could take me. Maybe they are afraid of Buck. Maybe they are afraid of what the rest of the farm will do when they find out.

Zeke turns, finally, after I’ve seen what little is left of my life flash before me at least twice, and storms off down the road that leads away from Burninghead Farm. After a couple of stutter steps, the other two follow.

I watch them go, watch the shadows their retreating forms cast in the early morning sunlight lengthen and fade in the dust, watch their bodies dissolve into a hazy apparition and then disappear altogether.

My breathing slows. At first I think I am just releasing the fuel that was driving the fire beneath my skin. I turn to Buck, whose face is lit up with pride and a little bit of awe. I have to admit, I am pretty proud, myself. I stood up to Zeke, and I feel good. And whole. And extremely nauseated.

And then, the world goes black.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-31