the bowl full of spackle. He studied the wall above the
entry where someone had painted a blue badge. A unit insignia he guessed. On it
was a white creature with the body of a horse, the head of a dragon and wings
like a Pegasus. Written in blue, on a curled herald at the bottom of the
shield, were the words: Master of Space . And though he hadn’t paid too
much attention to mythology in school, he had a hunch that the thing might be a
Griffin.
Taryn stared across the
table and addressed Wilson directly. “Kinda the tall, dark, and quiet type,
huh? Only the dark part... not so much.” She smiled and laughed at her own
joke.
“With skin like this,
SPF two thousand doesn’t cut it,” he said. That was easier than you
thought, Wilson , is what he didn’t. Before his mojo disappeared, and while
he had a scant amount of forward momentum going in this — talking to girls
thing —he recounted their journey from the Viscount in Denver to the gates
of Schriever.
Seeing an opportunity to
bring Casanova down a notch, Sasha elaborated on their stop in Castle Rock and
all of the gory details of her run in with Sam the undead butcher and her
involvement in Operation Arm Removal.
With a fresh trace of pink
painting his cheeks, Wilson downplayed his adverse reaction to the dead
appendage clutching his red mane, but didn’t waste the opportunity to talk up
his skill at driving, which he credited for getting them all to Schriever in
one piece. Strangely enough, neither he nor Sasha mentioned Pug’s murderous
spree or the dominos that had fallen since. Sasha, he guessed, didn’t want to
expend the energy. His motive was different. He didn’t want to spoil this
moment by dredging it all up. Two days was two days , he thought. Soon he
would forget about the past and get on with living. He just wanted to heed Mom’s
advice and be himself .
Sounding neither
repulsed nor impressed by the epic tale, Taryn quietly said, “Sounds like you
two ran the gauntlet.”
“Now that you know our
story, how did you end up here?” Sasha probed.
Taryn looked up and
fixed her gaze on the redheaded teen.
On the receiving end of
a look she couldn’t interpret, Sasha squirmed. She was beginning to regret
prying into the new girl’s business. But Wilson was her brother, she reminded
herself, and it was her job to evaluate anyone he had eyes for—whether
he liked it or not.
Taryn regarded the
people around her. The place was hopping now. Then her thoughts raced back to
Grand Junction Airport, Dickless and the others who had died after the planes
brought the plague. Some were her friends—most were not. She needed a diversion,
a second to decide if she wanted to spill her guts here in front of strangers,
or choose a more appropriate time and place to recount her week and a half in
hell.
“I totally understand if you don’t want to talk about it. And I’m really sorry if anything I said upset you,” Sasha said. What have you got to hide, Miss Tattoo? a
silent voice in her head whispered.
Taryn stood up abruptly,
looked toward the kitchen, but said nothing.
You blew it, Wilson, the condescending naysayer in his head told him.
Silently Taryn policed
her trash, piled it on the tray, and walked towards the garbage cans. And as
she retreated Wilson watched, trying his best not to look at her rear end. He
failed miserably.
Once Wilson was certain
Taryn was out of earshot, he unloaded. “Thanks a lot Sasha . I had
something good going there until you had to go all graphic about you and the
zombie butcher. And you definitely didn’t need to tell her all about
that zombie hand stuck in my hair. Think about it Sash... if you were in her
shoes would you want anything to do with me after hearing that kinda stuff?”
Touché , Sasha thought. Then, subconsciously, she
reached down to massage her bare ankle which still bore the yellow-green
bruising caused by the big zombie’s death grip.
An uncomfortable silence
ensued between her and Wilson
entry where someone had painted a blue badge. A unit insignia he guessed. On it
was a white creature with the body of a horse, the head of a dragon and wings
like a Pegasus. Written in blue, on a curled herald at the bottom of the
shield, were the words: Master of Space . And though he hadn’t paid too
much attention to mythology in school, he had a hunch that the thing might be a
Griffin.
Taryn stared across the
table and addressed Wilson directly. “Kinda the tall, dark, and quiet type,
huh? Only the dark part... not so much.” She smiled and laughed at her own
joke.
“With skin like this,
SPF two thousand doesn’t cut it,” he said. That was easier than you
thought, Wilson , is what he didn’t. Before his mojo disappeared, and while
he had a scant amount of forward momentum going in this — talking to girls
thing —he recounted their journey from the Viscount in Denver to the gates
of Schriever.
Seeing an opportunity to
bring Casanova down a notch, Sasha elaborated on their stop in Castle Rock and
all of the gory details of her run in with Sam the undead butcher and her
involvement in Operation Arm Removal.
With a fresh trace of pink
painting his cheeks, Wilson downplayed his adverse reaction to the dead
appendage clutching his red mane, but didn’t waste the opportunity to talk up
his skill at driving, which he credited for getting them all to Schriever in
one piece. Strangely enough, neither he nor Sasha mentioned Pug’s murderous
spree or the dominos that had fallen since. Sasha, he guessed, didn’t want to
expend the energy. His motive was different. He didn’t want to spoil this
moment by dredging it all up. Two days was two days , he thought. Soon he
would forget about the past and get on with living. He just wanted to heed Mom’s
advice and be himself .
Sounding neither
repulsed nor impressed by the epic tale, Taryn quietly said, “Sounds like you
two ran the gauntlet.”
“Now that you know our
story, how did you end up here?” Sasha probed.
Taryn looked up and
fixed her gaze on the redheaded teen.
On the receiving end of
a look she couldn’t interpret, Sasha squirmed. She was beginning to regret
prying into the new girl’s business. But Wilson was her brother, she reminded
herself, and it was her job to evaluate anyone he had eyes for—whether
he liked it or not.
Taryn regarded the
people around her. The place was hopping now. Then her thoughts raced back to
Grand Junction Airport, Dickless and the others who had died after the planes
brought the plague. Some were her friends—most were not. She needed a diversion,
a second to decide if she wanted to spill her guts here in front of strangers,
or choose a more appropriate time and place to recount her week and a half in
hell.
“I totally understand if you don’t want to talk about it. And I’m really sorry if anything I said upset you,” Sasha said. What have you got to hide, Miss Tattoo? a
silent voice in her head whispered.
Taryn stood up abruptly,
looked toward the kitchen, but said nothing.
You blew it, Wilson, the condescending naysayer in his head told him.
Silently Taryn policed
her trash, piled it on the tray, and walked towards the garbage cans. And as
she retreated Wilson watched, trying his best not to look at her rear end. He
failed miserably.
Once Wilson was certain
Taryn was out of earshot, he unloaded. “Thanks a lot Sasha . I had
something good going there until you had to go all graphic about you and the
zombie butcher. And you definitely didn’t need to tell her all about
that zombie hand stuck in my hair. Think about it Sash... if you were in her
shoes would you want anything to do with me after hearing that kinda stuff?”
Touché , Sasha thought. Then, subconsciously, she
reached down to massage her bare ankle which still bore the yellow-green
bruising caused by the big zombie’s death grip.
An uncomfortable silence
ensued between her and Wilson
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