Page 84 of Hunted By Fae

Freak.

The freak speaks: “I can’t stay awake another minute,” he says, and the puffiness of his eyes and the swallowed yawn that tenses his voice tells me he isn’t lying. “The others are out cold. Take watch?”

I nod, then fasten the CB back to my belt.

His gaze latches onto the radio. Then, he shifts his attention to the map sprawled out over the bed.

“She’s safe?”

Again, I nod and fold the map. “They’re crashing at some apartments before they head back.”

Carlos thins his mouth, a betrayal of his disappointment. He doesn’t like it.

I don’t, either.

But try telling Bee what to do.

This girl gets something in her mind, and nothing is going to stop her. She’s fucking formidable.

Me? I give up at a strong gust of wind.

The only thing keeping me going out here is Bee. Maybe I don’t think she can handle it if I gave into the occasional temptation of opting out.

I’m not suicidal by nature.

I’m just… tired.

Very, fucking tired.

Maybe I’m not as hopeful as she is that this will work, or that we will survive long enough to find our way back to Britain, then the light lands.

It all just sounds so fucking crazy to me.

Even all this time later, seeing the fae with my own eyes, living in their darkness, my mind rejects it.

Could be my brain’s way of self-preserving. If I disconnect from the truth, the facts, because they are too ugly to face, then I’m safe from myself for another day.

I wonder if I’m permanently detached now, broken in a way, or just officially soulless.

Those thoughts carry with me to the roof.

I’m relieved to find the little camp that Carlos set up for his shift: Tarp pitched like a tent by the door, layered with hospital blankets and a waterproof sleeping bag.

Not too shabby.

Better than being out in the open, that’s for sure.

I settle under the tarp, the sleeping bag wrapped around me, and I’m suddenly a toasty burrito.

Goddd, what I wouldn’t do for a burrito—and I don’t even like them. Tacos, nachos, curry, even pasta… I dislike them all, but I would scoff down any one of those in a heartbeat.

People think that’s weird—or they did before the blackout, before the apocalypse. But the biggest reaction I got was when they would find out how much I hate pizza.

It’s just mush. Layers of mush.

Gross.

Still, I would demolish any and all of that, stuff myself full with anything that isn’t canned.