It was morning, and Salina and her thugs stood in the motel parking lot, arms folded, hips cocked, bristling firepower and oozing arrogance from every pore.
Nestor could not believe his luck had turned bad once again. What had he done to deserve this? Why must these people continue to haunt his life? A life he wanted to live in as much peace as one could in a world cursed with the walking dead. And why had Jubal allowed Salina and her men back among them? Maybe their “leader” wasn’t as smart as Nestor had first thought. Anyone with common sense would make sure Salina and her type stayed as far away as possible. Even the man’s own people—Mother, Amara and the rest—did not look thrilled with his decision.
Maybe Nestor should strike out on his own. After all, he seemed to be the only one around here with any common sense.
“Listen up,” Jubal said, clapping his hands so that he drew everyone’s attention.
Muttering, his people shuffled forward, as did Salina’s gang.
Nestor stood his ground, leaning in a motel room doorway. No way was he going out of his way to listen to someone who put up with evil people like Salina.
“Nestor, are you with us or not?” Jubal said when he saw the baker hadn’t moved forward with the rest of them.
“Yeah, c’mon, chubby,” Morris said with a stupid smile on his stupid face. “Join the party!”
Nestor reached into his waistband and yanked out his automatic; he held it high, near his ear. “In case you hadn’t noticed, mister. I have a gun too, so let’s keep the snotty remarks to ourselves, shall we?” He lowered the gun because he didn’t want to fuck up again, like when he had accidentally shot Amara. He just wanted them to know he wasn’t going to take their shit anymore. The gun shook in his hand. He hoped they didn’t notice.
Amara.
She had said nothing to him since she’d been wounded, but he also knew that she knew he had been the one to shoot her in the leg. Who else could it have been? That Preacher weirdo only used knives as far as Nestor could tell. In his gut, he knew she had been the shadowy figure he’d fired upon in last night’s panic. He had fucked up—again. And it was just a matter of time before Amara told Jubal about the incident. Then Jubal would kick him out of the group for good.
Well, Nestor wouldn’t wait around for that to happen.
“What are you going to do with that, Nestor?” Jubal said. His voice was cold and steely. “Why don’t you put the gun away before someone gets hurt? There’s a little girl here, for Christ’s sake.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m the one who always gets hurt!” Nestor shouted. With his free hand, he touched the bandages that Heather had wrapped around his neck. He wasn’t sure from where he had summoned the nerve to talk back to Jubal, but it had felt good. Maybe he was finally done taking shit from people. From anyone.
“Put the gun back in your pants, Nestor, so we can talk—please.”
He considered it.
He watched them all. He saw Mother moving with a limp, rolling his eyes and turning away as if disgusted by the mere sight of Nestor. He watched as Heather pulled her daughter close to her side. And Robin looked at him as if he were some sort of fungal growth that she’d found between her toes. Amara stood like a statue, as usual, all pompous and arrogant even with bandaged wounds spotted red with oozing blood. And Salina’s crew sneered at him just like always. Even Philly, who was in such bad shape he couldn’t leave the back seat of their vehicle, was laughing at him through the open window.
And Jubal? Jubal looked like a man who could barely control his anger. Which Nestor had to admit, frightened him more than anything, making him feel very uncomfortable and sort of stupid. The baker put the gun back in his pants and took a few steps forward, staring at the ground.
“Thanks, Nestor,” Jubal said, his voice warming again. He turned his attention to include the others. “We’ve all been through a hell of a lot and have all been wounded in one way or another. You cannot live in this world now without suffering. We’ve lost our old lives and our loved ones, so the most important thing now is for us—for all of us—to watch each other’s backs, to look out and care for each other because, whether we like it or not, we are all we’ve got.”
Someone gave Jubal the raspberry—a sound of disgust. Nestor glanced up and saw Philly licking his lips, glaring at Jubal like he wanted nothing more than for the shorter man to drop dead right there in the parking lot under the cloud-shrouded sky.
“Yeah, huh. Maybe we shouldn’t be shooting each other in the leg then neither. How ‘bout that, smart man?”
Nestor knew Philly was referring to when Jubal had shot him in the leg, but the baker couldn’t help feeling guilty himself for clipping Amara last night. Even though it had been a total accident, he knew that the tall, freakish woman probably hated him for it. Sure, she behaved like she always did, but deep inside she had to resent him something awful. How could he ever look her in the eye again? Or Jubal for that matter? Knowing what he’d done.
“Why don’t you shut your damn mouth?” Mother barked back at Philly. “Before a motherfucker shuts it for you? That’s what got you shot in the leg in the first place: you and your goddamned at-ti-tude.”
“Shut it, all of you!” Salina shouted in such a piercing tone that everyone just stared at her. She looked angry enough to take them all on, her chest out and arms spread wide, as if ready for battle. “We must let bygones be bygones. We must move on. We can’t constantly be at each other’s throats all the time and expect to survive, just like the man said. Now why don’t we all calm down and let Slate have his say.”
Silence filled the parking lot. Somewhere a bird chirped. Nestor wondered if it was a zombie bird. Probably not; whatever happened to humans didn’t seem to affect animals, at least not that Nestor had ever noticed.
“Thank you, Salina,” Jubal said in a calm voice. “If Salina can forgive, I think she sets a good example for the rest of us. We’re all survivors and I’d like for us to become a team. Now, we’ve already lost a good man, the man who told us about Sanctuary—Tommy Cho—so in his memory, let’s not bicker and let’s not lose any more people. We’ll bury our friend with the silence and respect he deserves and then load up these vehicles and move out of this godforsaken place. Because we’re going to Iowa—and Sanctuary.”
When Jubal had finished, no one really looked happy but they all did as the man asked, shuffling off in separate directions, mumbling to each other in low tones, going about the business of burying Tommy and loading the vehicles for the journey ahead of them.
Nestor had calmed down and decided he’d do as Jubal requested. Besides, he didn’t feel like setting off on his own just yet, even if he did feel guilty about what he’d done to Amara. And if Sanctuary was as nice as Tommy had made it sound, there was no way he wanted to miss out on that. So he’d just follow Jubal’s orders like a good boy, and even put up with Salina and her idiot followers.
For now.
* * *
It had taken all morning to bury Tommy, the duty falling to Jubal—who insisted on helping even with his newly acquired bad back—Salina, who only had a sore jaw and ankle after all, and Heather.
The rest had made themselves busy in other ways; packing their belongings and getting the vehicles ready.
Jubal watched his breath form little clouds as he stood over the grave, still panting from the effort.
“You ready to move out?” Salina looked impatient. Jubal wondered if part of her attitude came from the presence of Heather. Salina had made it clear that she wasn’t Heather’s biggest fan. Not that Jubal cared. He was convinced that almost everything Salina said was a lie designed to serve some selfish purpose.
Jubal looked down at the freshly turned earth. “Give us a minute.”
Salina huffed, and walked away.
Heather moved closer to Jubal and took his hand.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
He didn’t need to ask what she meant.
“It’s not my first choice,” he said.
“Then why are we doing it?”
“Why?” Jubal laughed. It was a thin sound and completely devoid of humor. “Look at me. I can barely stand up straight. Mother’s lucky he’s not crippled. Amara’s lucky she’s not dead. And Tommy…”
Heather squeezed his hand. “This wasn’t your fault.”
He started to speak, but she cut him off.
“You feel responsible for everyone around you. I knew that the first time I saw you, down in Mexico. But you’re not responsible for this shit, Jubal. You can’t be. We all made our choices, Tommy included. Sometimes bad things happen, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“But that’s just it,” he said. “If things go bad now—or worse, I guess—there’s not much we can do about it. There really is strength in numbers.”
“Do you trust that woman?”
“Hell, no.”
“Thank God,” Heather said. “She wants you, you know.”
Jubal smiled for what felt like the first time in months. “Can you blame her?”
“No.”
Jubal was suddenly uncomfortable. He looked away. “Even if she does want me, it’s only about her need to use people.”
“Wow.”
“What?”
“That’s pretty deep for a small town cop.”
“Knock it off or I’ll be forced to demonstrate how we used to frisk the prisoners.”
“Promise?”
Jubal cleared his throat. “We better go. Just remember that I’ve got my eye on all of them.”
“I know.” Heather released his hand. She knelt next to the grave and placed the palm of one hand on the dirt. “Goodbye, Tommy. You were a good guy.” She stood and wiped away a tear.
Jubal stood for a little longer, staring at Tommy’s final resting place. He had never been particularly religious, but at that moment, he said a simple prayer.
Please, God, don’t let any more of them die.
* * *
Morris parked the Sunsteeler next to the two Jeeps in the motel’s parking lot. Nestor watched from the open door of his room, reluctant to get too close to Salina and the rest. If they pushed him, he was likely to pull his gun. He also knew he would be the one who got hurt in the end. That’s the way it worked for him, at least since the world changed. Once a happy and productive man, Nestor had been reduced to a pathetic loser. And the only thing he could come up with was waving his little gun around like a frightened little mouse. Pathetic.
He touched the bandages around his throat. The cuts burned and itched.
Good. He deserved the pain. He deserved much worse.
He was a coward, and that had nearly killed Amara. It also led to the death of Tommy Cho, though indirectly. If Nestor hadn’t shot Amara, she would have been able to stop the killer, or at least prevent him from murdering Tommy.
Nestor was filled with guilt and it had settled on his chest.
Maybe I’ll have a heart attack. It would serve me right.
He heard Morris and someone else—Ned, perhaps—laughing at a comment. They were probably ridiculing him. Drawing in a breath, he left the safety of his doorway and walked to the next room. He glanced at the parking lot. Morris was staring at him. He muttered something, which drew fresh laughter from Ned and even the wounded Philly. Salina smiled, shaking her head. Nestor looked down at the sidewalk until he was in front of the door.
A massive cramp seized his bowels. He didn’t want to do this.
And that was exactly why he was here.
“Come in.”
He pushed the door open. Robin sat on the end of one of the beds.
“Hi, Nestor,” she said. “Is my Mom back yet?”
“What? Uh, no. I don’t believe so.” Sometimes, Nestor found it hard to be around Robin. She reminded him of his own daughters at that age. Those had been the happiest times of his life. His wife and daughters, three beautiful and smart women who looked up to Nestor and had loved and respected him.
He looked at the other bed. Amara was there, propped up by pillows. Her color was bad and her eyes seemed to have receded into her skull. The shoulder where she had been stabbed was wrapped in a bandage made from a bed sheet. She wore a t-shirt and a simple skirt, to accommodate the thick bandage on her upper leg.
The consensus among the group was that the bullet had torn up a lot of muscle, but had passed through without breaking any bones. Thank goodness for small favors. It would still be a long time before she would be kicking Salina in the head again. If the diagnosis was correct.
“Robin, honey, do you think you could let me talk to Amara alone for a moment?”
She shrugged. “She knows you shot her.”
Nestor was stunned into silence. It was bad enough when he carried his secret around like a sharp stone lodged in his throat. But to have it blurted out in front of Amara by a child...
Amara stared at Robin. “How do you know this? I said nothing.”
The girl shrugged again. “I’m gonna wait outside for Mom.”
Amara watched her leave, a curious look on her ashen face. After a second, she turned to Nestor. “Sit down.”
Nestor lowered himself on the spot Robin had occupied. He could feel the dampness on his palms. At the same time, he could barely swallow, as if his throat was filled with dust.
Even though she was a shadow of her former vital self, there was power in Amara’s large brown eyes. Nestor felt pinned against the lumpy motel bed.
“You came here because you need to talk,” she stated.
Nestor nodded.
“Then talk.”
He tried. He really did. But when he moved his lips, nothing came out except for a strangled cough. His lower lip started moving on its own, trembling. Then the tears came and he was powerless to stop them.
Amara didn’t speak, but through the blurred mess of the world created by his tears, Nestor saw her face soften ever so slightly.
When the sobs subsided, Nestor whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’m so ashamed.”
Amara struggled to sit up. Her tortured effort threatened to bring on a fresh wave of tears. Somehow he held them back.
Once she was upright, she slowly scooted along the edge of the bed until she faced Nestor. It took her a few seconds to catch her breath before she could speak.
“When I was a child, I demonstrated the ability to foresee events. It wasn’t something I could control or could access reliably, but word spread from my village and men from the government came. They took me away from my family to a stone building in the desert. For the next three years I was trained as a warrior, even as the doctors experimented on me. They wanted to use my ability to gain an advantage over their enemies, you see?”
Nestor nodded.
“After three years, I left that place and returned to my village.”
“They just let you go?”
Amara was silent for a few seconds.
“No,” she said.
“Oh.”
“When I returned to my village, it had been razed. The homes were ashes. And everyone, including my family, was dead. It had happened three years earlier.”
She sighed. It was a soft sound, and Nestor did not know if it was from the pain of her wounds or from the memory.
“I left my country that night. I wandered for a long time, ending up in this country, just in time to see the end of the world.”
“Why…why did you want me to know this?”
“So you would see I was made into who I am quite against my will. I was forced to become a warrior. But you were not. You were happy. You were a good man leading a good life. You were not a warrior. You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”
“You’re…forgiving me?”
“Yes.”
This time he couldn’t stop the tears. He slapped a hand over his mouth to cover his sobs.
“The world is a bad place now, Nestor. If you let it steal away the things that make you a good man, then it’s a worse place. Please don’t let that happen. And never be ashamed of who you are.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“However, one must face the reality of this new world. For you, that means learning how to shoot a gun. Do we understand each other?”
Nestor nodded.
“Good,” Amara said. “Then help me stand so we can put this place behind us.”