Page 51 of Hunted By Fae

I don’t compete the way she wants to.

I’m slower to reach the top shelf, and when I do, a smile warps the scarf wrapped around my face.

The leather duffel bag fastened to my belt is empty. But not for long.

I fill it with everything I find.

But with only a wisp of light from my shotgun balanced below, I can’t quite make anything out. I know by touch that the first two boxes are filled with cans, which I take until my duffel bag gets too heavy, and the third box is filled with crinkly packaging.

I just hope this is a goldmine I’m filling the duffel bag with, and not dog food.

Once the duffel is tugging down on me, I descend the shelves, back to the concrete floor, where my boots flatten softly.

Ramona is down from her climb already, zipping up her own duffel bag.

I throw a look up the aisle.

I’m the last to finish.

Bee is righting her weapon, and beside her, Emily is tightening the strap of the bag to her belt.

We carry them like that for a reason.

Easy to drop if we need to, like if we’re being chased. It’s deadweight at that point.

I watch as Emily comes down the aisle first.

Behind her, Bee switches off her torchlight.

Emily’s whisper is soft, “If we head for the chemist, we can split up there. One pair for the pharmacy, the other for pads, tampons, wet wipes.”

Bee agrees, “Watch your partner’s back.”

Ramona looks at me, a question—are we partners?

But Emily snags her with a jerk of the chin, and Ramona is quick to follow her down the aisle.

I aim my torchlight at their heels and shadow them, Bee right behind me.

Then—I pause.

Bee jolts behind me. Still, silent, the steady breeze of her breath brushes over my shoulder.

She doesn’t chide me for the sudden stop.

Instead, she traces my hooked gaze—right to the row of plastic that’s hanging on the hooks between the shelves.

Firming my grip on the pump of the shotgun, I reach out my hand, uneasy.

It’s hard to make out the label with the light angled away, down the aisle. But I know what I saw.

CB radios.

Radio frequences are interrupted by the blackout. Stations aren’t operating anymore. But that’s mainly because everyone is either dead or on the move.

I don’t know if these are any good, but I slip one off the shelf anyway, and force my pinkie through the hook hole in the plastic. It cuts at my flesh, and my teeth bare against the sharp pain.

Bee reaches forward and takes it from me. She bags the twin handheld radios.