Page 9 of Day Death (Brutes of Bristlebrook Trilogy)

“This is America!”

Frantically, I bend, only just snatching them up before a heavy boot crunches down on top of them.

The megaphone grows louder, the lights become blinding. Red, blue, red, blue. “Return to your vehicles. Remain calm. Looting will not be tolerated.. .”

A supermarket window breaks, followed by a triumphant, chaotic roar, and someone knocks me from my crouch onto my hands and knees as they stampede forward.

On second thought, livestock usually gets slaughtered.

Or—at this rate—trampled.

I’m tossed, shoved, and it takes everything to haul myself to my feet and break free of the crowd. I flatten myself against a wall, lifting my shirt with a whimper. Bruises are already flowering in aching jabs over my soft stomach and my left thigh is numb where someone kneed me. I flex my fingers—half-crushed but still functioning.

“ Return to your vehicle ,” the officer outside snaps into the megaphone. Now that he’s not reading the script, I realize how young he sounds. “No—no looting!”

Another window shatters, this time closer—a different store—and I kick myself for stopping even for a moment.

Run. Move.

My thighs burn as I push against the crowd, trying to go back the way I came. The evacuation point might be past the supermarket, but the supermarket is a powder keg starting to burn, and I refuse to be there when it goes off.

A large man slaps me, and I stagger back against another wall, clutching my face. Shocked, painful tears spring to my eyes at the sudden, livid pain bursting along my cheekbone. He shoulders through another woman, not even pausing.

“Order! Everybody, remain calm !” the voice on the megaphone shouts. “No, stop ?—”

Gunshots explode from the parking lot. A brief, blistering burst that stirs up a wave of shouts and screams. “I told you to keep order !”

Shaking, I run my fingers along my tender cheek, confused, frightened tears escaping me.

I didn’t do anything.

Why did he hit me?

I didn’t do anything.

There’s a beat of silence in the megaphone, then a muffled clatter. A squeal.

Then a new voice growls into the megaphone. “Get fucked and die, piggy.”

Bang.

The single burst is deafening. Vile.

My hand stops massaging my cheek, and I feel the thud of the slumping, weighted fall in my chest.

Did they . . .?

Surely they didn’t just . . .?

There’s a hollering, raging roar in response, and all I can picture is the gruesome pig’s head on my book cover, bleeding onto my bed. Young boys dancing around a pagan fire.

They killed him. They killed Piggy.

The screams around me turn vague and waspish. The clouds part enough to give a silvered, otherworldly glow to the buildings and winding streets. To the terrified faces of people running past me, screaming.

They killed him.

They’re killing .

I back away from the supermarket, away from the crowd swarming into the supermarket and engulfing the police car like a wave. I take off back into town, away from the madness and the killing, rounding corners with skidding, desperate speed.

Buildings flash past me like towering trees. Hot air whips my cheeks. It is a jungle. That’s what they call it, isn’t it? An urban jungle?

I was wrong. The predators aren’t half a world away. They’re friends and neighbors, and they weren’t a herd at all.

They’re a pack.

I jump up a flight of stairs, sobbing when my weak legs quiver, threatening to give out when I reach the top step. A bearded man runs past me, clutching a bag, and someone tackles him from behind. They tumble down the concrete steps with crashing, bone-cracking violence.

Oh God, oh God.

A sick moan escapes me as I force myself to move.

It’s a hunt. A killing. But there’s nothing urbane about it. There’s not even a semblance of ritual or... or meaning . It’s just fear and self-preservation. Just predator and prey, resources and need.The core of survival. Rule number one.

Kill or be killed.

I sob as I dart past another limp body, its neck awkwardly angled over a welcome mat. Rummaging, gnashing sounds crawl from the black depths of the store.

They killed Piggy.

No—I’m Piggy, with my glasses and my fumbling, soft body.

I’m next. Of course I’m next.

I shove sideways to avoid a father dragging his clinging child. My glasses almost fall again, and I snatch them off my face, holding them as I run. Someone shoots out a window beside me, and I stagger back, changing direction.

It’s all a blur. Murky and unedged and nightmarish again, but I can’t lose my glasses.

Suddenly, I recognize the street. The hazy poster for the local production of The Hunchback of Notre Dame .

The charming, familiar double doors.

When I see the library, tears burst out of me in violent, urgent relief.

Blinded, blurred, seeing the familiar filigree is almost enough to make me fall to my knees. It’s my library. My home. My safety and sanctuary.

It’s still and silent and untouched, despite the nauseating chaos roaring up and down the street, and I limp toward it, biting back hiccupping sobs that won’t stop racking me.

Two men slam their shoulders against door of the convenience store across the road, but they pay me no mind, so I fumble for my keys.

“Hey! Hey, that’s my store!” Mr. Johanson appears from behind a building, his shirt torn, and eyes fiery hot. He has a shotgun.

One of the men throws his hands up, falling away from the door, but the other doesn’t stop. Quickly, I try to find the key on the chain, but it’s dark and they’re all so similar. They slip between my violently shaking fingers, and I curse under my breath, sniffing back a cry.

There’s a tussle, a loud shot behind me, and I squeeze my eyes closed as I press my forehead against the double doors, locking my mouth tight against a wailing cry.

It doesn’t matter.

A woman screams to my left. Screams and screams and screams.

I force my teary eyes open, looking at her as she stares at whatever lies behind me. Screams at it. Screams like she’s being rearranged at her core.

She’s waifish and young.

She has glasses too.

“Come here,” I call softly, my voice hitching. The words are out before I know what I’m saying. It’s so hard to force my voice above a whisper. “Here, with me. It’s safe. I can... I can get in, I just...”

The keys slip between my fingers, and I catch them an instant before they fall.

I look up, but I can only see her back as she disappears toward the supermarket.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

I sob again.

And suddenly, a heavy shoulder falls against the door in front of me.

I recoil, a strangled shriek stunned from my throat before I... I squint. Hurriedly, I shove my glasses back on, my heart rolling around my chest in strange, shocky ways.

There’s no holy nimbus surrounding him now. No bright flashlight sweetening his slightly awkward features and amused eyes.

But I recognize him.

“Deputy?” I whisper.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like we’re out for a coffee date and he’s being gently self-deprecating.

“Wednesday through Sunday, and every incoming apocalypse.” He nods at the doors, rubbing something white and fluffy between his fingers. “I hear you say you can get in?”

Up the street, a pack of people are hollering and shooting out windows, one by one.

“Probably a good idea to hop to, if you can,” he adds.

My pulse throbs at my wrists, my throat, with nerves and relief and urgency and so many other feelings I can’t put my finger on.

He looks normal . Not crazed and mindless with fear. He’s not hunting .

He’s looking at me, not through me, and that one fact alone makes me feel less like a fading ghost and more like a person again. More like me .

“Right,” I breathe. “Right, of course.”

I step up to the door, my fingers only slightly steadier as I find the next key, then shove it in the hole.

It jams, and I squint.

No, not that one.

I glance at the deputy, but he’s watching the street. If he’s impatient, he doesn’t show it—just keeps watching the pack of men stalking closer through the street.

Swallowing, I fumble for another key, and urgency licks at my skin.

It doesn’t even get past the first bite.

“Damn it.” I gasp.

I feel him look down at me as I take up the next one.

“So, you brought your work keys for Armageddon?” he asks casually. “I really hope you’re getting hazard pay for this.”

A pained, pealing cry lights up the night, but he doesn’t budge. Just tucks away whatever was in his hands.

Wildly, I look around, then try to shove the key in. I miss the hole. Try again and miss that time too.

Come on, Eden .

“I—” I frown, trying to focus on the question as the cry cuts off with ominous sharpness. “They’re just m-my keys. I had to lock up my apartment.”

Is he mocking me?

Mocking me now ?

He unhitches his gun from his holster as someone darts too close, and holds it cautiously against his thigh.

I glance at the hardness of it, the rough sprawl of his hand, then discard another key as my stomach trips. He’s warm next to me. Steady. He might not be flashing a guiding, angelic light around, butI feel it anyway—the soft welling of relief as I let him take over.

I keep my eyes on my task. I can afford to, now.

He’s watching my back.

My own, two-person herd.

My hands are steadier with the next key I try.

His careful surveillance is at odds with his easy, drawling voice. “No, no, it’s very responsible of you. The keys are cute. Hey, can you clear my late fees while we’re in there? I want a clean slate for the end of the world.”

Okay, maybe he’s not that reassuring.

“ Is this the end of the world?” I ask shrilly.

Not that key either.

I drop it fast, moving on to the next.

He shrugs. “Well, look, I ain’t any kind of expert—but when over fifteen major locations get blown into pixie dust, it sure feels like it to me.”

I pause and stare up at him, my lips parting.

Fifteen .

Not one or two. Not that one or two is good. It isn’t. But fifteen . Fifteen is...

I close my eyes for a brief, throat-closing moment. Eden, you fool .

This is too big to be fixed. Not in a few years.

Maybe not ever.

Someone shoots across our street, and the deputy stiffens, snapping the safety off his gun to shoot back in three punching shots that make my ears ring.

We’re done.

“Oh God. This is the end of it, isn’t it?” The next key I stab in feels like it might work for a useless second before it doesn’t. Why do I have so many keys ! “No. No, it can’t be. I’m not ready. I’ve never taken a shot. I never saw Europe. I haven’t skinny-dipped on a summer night, or.. . or had a fling with an acrobat.”

“Nah, you don’t want to skinny-dip. Not on a summer night anyway. Too many mosquitos,” he reassures me, but I’m hardly listening.

Only two keys left.

“I haven’t had anywhere near enough sex,” I hiss.

He snorts, then laughs, pulling up his gun and rolling his back against the doors to look down at me. I feel his eyes twinkling over my face, replacing the stars that should be in the sky.

“Well, now doesn’t feel like the most appropriate time to rectify that, but?—”

“Oh, shut it,” I growl.

Then instantly blush, mortified at my horrific manners, but he only grins at me. Nodding at my keys, he indicates for me to keep moving.

“You know, usually if you beckon someone to safety, you should already have a safe place to beckon them to,” he confides, and I narrow my eyes.

I pick up the next key, refocusing on the door. “ Usually , if a deputy tells you to go on to safety , they don’t send you into a war zone .”

The key slides into the lock with a soft snick .

But his attention is locked on my face, his lips quirked in amusement. “It’s my first week on the job.”

“Hey, is someone there?” a drunk, belligerent voice calls, and the deputy looks up.

“Is that a convenience store?”

“Safer than the supermarket.”

The deputy’s mouth firms, but he knocks up a patient brow for me. “Do you want me to just break a window? I can just break a window if you need help.”

I lift my chin. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

A gun fires right as I turn the key, and the library doors burst open.

We fall inside, and the deputy secures the heavy double doors behind us, locking us in darkness.

Inside, it’s cool and calm, and the sounds of the chaotic world and blistering gunshots are muted by the library’s thick walls. The musty, comforting bookish scents wash over me. Parchment and glue, old and new, they embrace me like relieved friends.

A light flickers, then holds, and I turn to see the deputy rest the flashlight atop the curved information desk. It’s not much, but the flaring, silver glow is more than we had outside.

I drop my heavy bag off my shoulders with a soft oof , then eye the doors. They’re re-locked and thick. Not easy to break into. Not that I can think of many people who’d care to break into a library.

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “Do you think Mr. Johanson is okay?”

His brows lift. “Mr. Johanson?”

“He owns the convenience store,” I whisper, my arms wrapping around my middle.

He’s a grumpy man, but he always said good morning when he saw me. Sometimes it felt like I was invisible from waking to work, until he muttered that greeting.

The deputy gives me a curious look, then peers out the window. His face pales. “Hmm. Balding? Neck rolls and a torn red... Oh. Actually, I don’t think the shirt is red. Hey, is he skinny with tattoos? Or tall? Goatee? Goatee has a good jump on him, I?—”

“Balding,” I confirm, trepidatious.

What does he mean, red shirt ?

“Oh.” He winces. “Yeah, he’s definitely...” He catches my expression and coughs. “Fine. He’s great .”

My hand flutters to my throat, my mouth dropping open as I try to work up a response. My horror, all the nervous dread of the last few hours bubbles up in something likehysteria.

“ Oh ,” I huff a wild laugh. “Oh, that’s just... That is just .. .”

I choke, then hold up one finger and turn around, wondering if I’m going to throw up.

My muscles—such as they are—are wobbling under me, and I lean against the desk. It’s not like I’m not active in my job. Mildly, at least. I’m on my feet fairly often. But there’s ‘library active,’ and then there’s ‘fleeing for your life active.’

And I know bad guys don’t typically offer warning when they’re, you know, nuking cities and all, but I really would have appreciated just a few weeks to at least start practicing my marathon running. It seems like part of the survival starter pack, doesn’t it? Knowing how to run? If you can’t run, you’re as good as...

I stop.

Mr. Johanson is dead.

He didn’t even have time to run.

The thought stops my internal complaints, and my eyes drift shut.

That young policeman is dead.

The body on the welcome mat, its limbs all in a sprawl.

“Are you okay?”

Behind my eyelids, I can only see that body.

“I.. . I never knew that necks could bend at that angle,” I tell him in a hush.

My gorge rises, and I only just fall to my knees and toss my glasses aside in time to vomit noisily on the floor. Then again. It drags up my throat and out my mouth hot, violent rushes. It’s foul. Sour and wet, and the taste of it clogs my nose and tears stain my face as I retch and retch, and soon I don’t know when the vomiting stops and my crying starts.

Something knocks against my chest like it’s trying to gain entry.

“Oh God. Oh God, oh God,” I gasp between hitching cries. “What is happening?”

“You say that a lot, huh?” the deputy remarks, and I startle, turning to stare at him with tearstained eyes. His jaw catches the light as he tilts his head in question. “You religious then?”

His gaze dips, and I start stiffening warily before I glance down.

My grandmother’s cross sits between my breasts.

I lift my hand to it and squeeze, dazed and hollow and... lost.

I shake my head once. “No. No, not anymore.” Sniffing, I add wetly, “It belonged to my grandmother.”

He nods, his face soft, and the cool air takes on a private swirl.

In the gentle light, I can see he’s around my age—mid-twenties, maybe. He’s not exactly handsome, but there’s a warm appeal to his expressive face that makes me forget it quickly. Something confiding and honest in his eyes that makes my cheeks heat.

I think it might be the longest anyone has looked at me in years.

Then he glances away, clearing his throat, and regret stings sharp.

“You know you have a little, uh...” He swipes at his chin, and I lift my hand.

There are . . . chunks.

Mortified, I squeal, turning my back on him. Clambering to my feet, I rush over to the information desk and pluck several tissues, wiping my face.

“This your water?” he calls, and there is far too much amusement tucked into his question for my liking as he tugs my bottle from the side pocket of my backpack.

“It is,” I confirm tightly.

He passes it to me over the desk, then fetches my glasses from the floor beside my.. . pile . I swish the water around my mouth with a wince and surreptitiously spit it into a mug. I think it’s Susie’s, but she never washes it anyway, so it serves her right.

When he wanders back, he leans over the tall desk, but he doesn’t hand my glasses back. He plucks up a length of twine from out of the children’s craft box we use every Friday and begins tying an end around one metal temple tip.

The quiet begins to calm the roiling heat in my stomach.

“It’s protective, you know,” he tells me as the twine loops and loops around my glasses, but he’s looking at my necklace. “Great for grounding. Healing.”

I stare at him curiously a moment, then laugh in a soft huff. “Ah, so you’re the religious one.”

A rain of gunshots falls outside, but it’s muffled, like the violence has been turned down to low as the library cocoons us inside.

He smiles back at me, lifting a shoulder as he begins to tie the twine to the other temple tip. “Naw, I don’t know about all that. Don’t tell my mama. It’s the stone I mean. It’ll give you clarity. Courage when you need it. Good one, that. Lucky thing to have. Especially now.”

I arch a brow. “Protection. Grounding. Healing. Clarity. Courage. All that from just one stone. Remarkable.”

He snorts at my tone.

“Hey, watch it now. You should show some respect.” Setting my glasses down, he tugs something out of his pocket and waggles it at me. “I know all about lucky. Certified expert one might even say.”

Standing, I stare, horrified, at the... the thing in his wide hand. I come around to his side of the desk to get a better look at the grotesquerie on his keychain.

“Good grief, is that?—”

“My lucky rabbit’s foot!” he confirms, his smile tugging up into a lopsided grin.

“Is it. . . real ?” I ask delicately, staring at the adorable, fluffy tuft.

I know the charms exist. They go back a long time.

I just haven’t seen one in person before.

His eyes widen in mock offense, and this close I can see they’re a dark, syrupy brown.

“Of course it’s real! It’s my bunny Lola’s foot. She was the most loyal bunny friend a man could have up until she decided to try hitching a ride on a passing tractor. Got herself good and squished, but her foot was all right. I knew a guy and he took good care of her.” He takes in my dismayed expression with a smirk, leaning back against the desk in a way that draws his uniformed shirt tight over his chest. “It’s all above board. He got all the blood out and everything. Lucky, see?”

I think I might.. . like uniforms. Like really like them. I lift my gaze from his chest, strangely flustered, only to catch the twinkle in his eye.

Hoping he can’t see through me, I purse my lips, glancing away.

I can’t remember the last time someone flirted with me. If that’s what this is. Is that what this is? Flirting ?

It’s . . . kind of nice.

Even if it does involve roadkill.

“Well, it doesn’t seem like Lola had the best luck,” I tell him dryly. “Your charm may be faulty.”

He scoffs. “She gets to spend her afterlife having adventures with me. What’s not lucky about that?”

“I understand the concept of the charm. It’s scientific value I might debate.” I throw my hands up. “The part I find strange is you carrying around the corpse of a beloved pet!”

“Now that ain’t fair. You carry your dead grandmammy’s necklace around,” he points out, and I whirl, incredulous.

“It’s not a dismembered limb!”

“It’s a keepsake, I don’t know what to tell you.”

My next quip, whatever it was, dies in my throat. He’s close now, or I’m close to him. I’m not sure who moved into who, but his elbow is propped on the information desk, and I’m in his space. Close enough to admire the angle of his jaw and the curl of hair against his temple.

It’s warm here. Nice. Like slipping into a bath after a chilly day.

I’ve had so many long, chilly days.

He smiles sadly, like he can see it, and it’s fragile. Delicate. I don’t know what to do with this feeling yet, but I want to protect it. I almost want to beg him not to speak, just so I can sit with it for a few moments more.

Hope is crushed far too easily.

It’s too rare, and too elusive, and it would be absurd to lean into it.

Because what are the odds?

What are the odds that after years of being alone, after my father ditched me before I was born or my mother left me to chase a high I hope to God was worth it, after being abandoned time and again by my husband, after friends edging away when my divorce and bills and work started swallowing my time and happiness, after we’ve been bombed and the world has started crumbling around us... what are the odds that this could be the start of something good .

Can a happy ever after even happen when we’re drenched in so much sadness?