The Girl at the End of the World (13 page)

Still…

I let out a deep breath, letting my body relax under his weight, not pushing against his arms anymore. “Maybe there’ll be a way around it,” I said.

“Around it?”

“Maybe we can outsmart him. Get away and save Dolores, too.”

“I thought you didn’t care about her.”

“I don’t. Not really. But maybe you’re right. You know? I mean, so many people have already died. It doesn’t make sense not to help the few who have survived.”

He smiled at that.

“Think we could get this gun out of my back?” I asked.

He relaxed his grip on me just a little. “Promise you won’t fight me?”

“I promise,” I said.

He nodded then and raised himself off me just a little, half lifting one of my shoulders to start turning me over so he could access the gun.

“Good. I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt,” he said.

I smiled back. “Wish I could say the same about you,” I said. It took only a moment for his expression to change as he processed what I’d said, but in that instant I bucked my hips under him and twisted my shoulders in the direction he’d been lifting. I spun out from under him as he went over, and then I was half-up, pivoting on one knee as I turned toward him. I hopped up as he tried to get his feet under him, and then I nailed him with a foot to the crotch. He went over on his side, holding himself, and for a couple of seconds I felt bad for him as he writhed on the ground.

But then I heard a click from above me, and any bit of sympathy I had for Chad was carried away on the breeze. A man stood on the observation deck on the level above us. From what I could see, he was completely covered in a white hazard suit; it had a clear plastic mask that covered his face and large round filters hiding his chin and parts of his cheeks. In his hand was a large rifle, and he had it pointed right at me. That had been the click.

“Donovan,” I said, just loud enough for Chad to hear.

I looked down at him. He’d gotten to his feet now but was still crouched on the concrete floor of the deck.

“How?” I said.

Chad looked sheepish, maybe at having been bested in our fight, and maybe at having his betrayal of me pointed out so clearly. He also looked a little green, and I was glad of that now.

Reaching around to his back pocket, he pulled out what looked like a small black phone. It had an antenna.

“Radio,” I said, and he nodded.

I hadn’t bothered to search him, had just assumed all the things he’d shown me in his backpack were really all that he had.

He held it to his mouth and pushed a button. “She’s got a gun,” he said.

“Take it,” came the muffled reply.

I glanced up. Donovan’s hand hadn’t moved. He must have had his receiver built into his suit.

A prepper, Chad had called him. In those days, or rather in the days before the disease came, there’d been a lot of people—or at least
some
anyway—who were convinced the end was near, that the human race would be wiped out by plague or meteor showers or zombies. I guess the plague people won. Anyway, some of those people spent all their time preparing for the end,
prepping
for it, and hoarded supplies and equipment—and guns—in bunkers and practiced at survival on the weekends. It looked to me like Donovan was one of those types, but one who’d actually made it into his bunker and his safe suit before the plague had hit him.

As I looked up at him, I wondered about my chances for survival if I pulled my gun and fired at him. He might get a shot off, but if I was lucky he’d miss, and all I’d need to do would be to puncture his suit. Just a little bit. With luck, there were still plenty of spores in the air.

He’d be dead by morning.

And yet I also knew I might not be lucky. He probably knew how to use the gun, knew how to make me hurt but not die. If I reached for the gun now, I’d regret it. Later, I feared I’d regret
not
reaching for it, but that would be later. Right now, the only thing I could do was not get shot.

So I just stood there as Chad took a tentative step forward and pulled the gun from the small of my back.

“There’ll come a day when I’ll see you’re sorry for this,” I said. “I swear to God.”

Chad didn’t say anything, just held the gun up so Donovan could see it.

“Take off the safety,” came the man’s voice from the radio, “and then bring her up here.”

Chad nodded toward the building. “There’s stairs up?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I told you, this wasn’t my idea,” he said. Then he waved the gun, and I started walking, looking up to see Donovan watching from above.

“When did you call him?” I asked when we’d gotten out of his line of sight.

“After I saw you from the trail and you told me to come the rest of the way up.”

I’d gone out front and waited for him. I may as well have sent Donovan an invitation then.

“So you knew he was coming?”

“No. He didn’t say anything about it.”

“So what did you tell him? There was some poor helpless girl up here and you were just
gonna smile your way into her heart and bring her back to him?”

He didn’t answer. That hero complex was tearing him up. He hadn’t known what to do—sacrifice
me or the woman Dolores. I suppose he really had hoped there’d be a way to outsmart Donovan once he’d delivered me into the man’s collection of survivors. I was already doubting it.

Donovan met us at the top of the stairs. I could see through the plastic mask that he looked to be in his forties, and he had a full beard and little blue eyes, but there was also some glare from the sun on the plastic, and I couldn’t be sure of the rest of his features, just that he looked hard. He’d been a humorless man before the disease struck, I told myself, and now that he’d been proven right about the end of the world being near, he took no satisfaction in knowing his paranoia had been validated. I would have bet he still looked as angry and agitated as he ever had, maybe even more.

He had lowered the gun a bit but still held it ready. He nodded at Chad and then I heard the muffled voice come from the radio. “Sure she’s alone?”

“I haven’t searched inside, but she says she’s alone.”

Donovan shook his head. “Tie her.”

I stiffened, wanted to fight, but Donovan’s gun kept me planted to the spot. Chad pulled up a pant leg and drew two plastic strips from his sock. Zip ties. I knew then that he would have tried using them on me eventually, probably after our fight was over. Again, I wanted to ball up a fist and pop him in the face, but I kept cool and let Chad pull my hands behind my back, felt the ties loop around my wrists. He tightened them, but not too tight, not as tight as he could have.

Why?
I wondered. Surely Donovan would have wanted them tighter, would have tightened them himself if he hadn’t been keeping his gun trained on Chad and me. Was Chad trying to give me an out? Or just trying to keep me comfortable? Or was it just a mistake?

When Chad finished tying my wrists, he looked up at Donovan, expectantly.

“Leave her with me,” Donovan said. “Go search.”

Chad didn’t hesitate, just turned and went down the stairs, handing me off to my new captor. I felt enraged as he left, wished I could follow after him and finish the fight I’d started before Donovan had shown up. But there was a gun pointed at me now, and I wasn’t ready to argue with it.

“What are you going to do with me?” I asked, doubtful that he’d answer.

“Nothing terrible,” he said.

That wasn’t exactly reassuring.

“I want my backpack,” I said, thinking about the photo I’d slipped inside earlier after worrying that I might have lost it. Now it looked like I was going to—that and everything else I’d gathered for my new life up here.

He just looked at me, didn’t say a word.

“No weapons in it. You can search. Just some…things I don’t want to lose.”

Still nothing.

“It’s out on the deck where we were…fighting.”

I shifted my weight a little, not sure what else to say.

“I promise not to give you any trouble if you just tell him to get it for me.”

Now he gave me a skeptical look, as if to say he wouldn’t get any trouble from me regardless.

But then I heard him say something inside his suit, probably contacting Chad again. He said nothing to me, though. Didn’t really even make eye contact after that. Just scanned the parking area behind me, and every now and then looked me up and down, keeping the gun trained on me the whole time.

Chad seemed to be gone forever. I wanted to say more to Donovan, wanted to mouth off to him, but I decided to stay quiet. I’d promised not to give him trouble, after all.

Finally, I heard Chad coming up the steps behind me.

“Deserted,” he said to Donovan. Then he dropped to one knee, and I watched him go through my backpack. When I saw that the photo was still there, I nodded but said nothing. He looked up inquisitively at Donovan, who just nodded; then Chad stuffed everything back inside and zipped it shut.

Donovan nodded and tipped the point of the gun upward just a bit, indicating that we should move out ahead of him. Chad led the way, holding my backpack, and I followed with Donovan behind us. We crossed the parking lot, and I wanted to look back at the observatory as we walked. But I didn’t—didn’t want Donovan to see me looking back, didn’t want him to see me looking wistful or defeated or angry. All the things I felt and wanted desperately to keep to myself.

Going around the Winnebago, I thought about jumping into the bushes and running for it. With my hands behind my back, I doubted I’d get far, would probably stumble and roll down a hill. I could just imagine Donovan coming after me, cursing and shoving the gun into my face when he found me. Maybe with the ties a bit loose around my wrists, I might get away, might be able to pull myself free and really run for it. But I might not.

It took me only seconds to think about those choices. And as I contemplated, my feet kept moving, tramping along after Chad. Before I could make any decisions, I was around the motorhome and in the middle of the road, my opportunity gone.

Chad led the way down the hill, the road curving along. As we walked, I kept fighting the urge to ask questions. Not wanting Donovan or Chad to feel like they had anything I needed, not even answers, I managed to keep quiet, just tried focusing on the sounds of our footsteps on the pavement to keep myself from wondering where this was leading. I remember shaking as we went, not just from anger but fear as well. It was the most scared I’d been since first coming up the hill on the little Honda.

Maybe half a mile down the hill was a turn-off I’d never bothered exploring, signs pointing the way to the Greek Theater. Chad took the turn, and I followed. Not long after, we came to Donovan’s bus parked just far enough off the main road for me to have had no chance of seeing it as I drove past the turn-off. Although the bus looked old, it was also formidable, a short school bus painted black with metal panels fitted over the side windows. It had black rims, bars of lights mounted to the roof to illuminate the area all around the bus, and a contraption welded to the front bumper that looked like a cross between a snowplow and the old cow-catchers they used to have on the front of locomotives. That was how he moved things like cars out of his way. I could see how the motorhome might have been a challenge, though.

His gun still trained on me, Donovan circled around us when Chad and I stopped beside the door. He opened it and told Chad to go first. A few seconds later, he motioned me to step up.

I hesitated only a second and then went, working to keep my balance as I went up the steps with my hands still bound. It was evening now but not quite dusk. Still, with the sun low on the horizon the bus was all in shadow now, and it was dark inside. It would have been rather dark anyway with the windows all covered; the only light came through the windshield and the open door, and I had to stand at the top of the steps for a moment to let my eyes adjust.

Chad sat on the driver’s side, two seats back. He made it obvious he wasn’t going to look at me, probably out of shame for having helped capture me. He was doing something in his lap, and I heard the rattle of a chain. Directly across the aisle from him sat an older woman who I could only assume was Dolores. She was maybe in her fifties with a soft, slightly pudgy face and dark skin, probably Latina, I thought. I gave her a quick, uncertain grin, and she returned it with a nod, watching me as I walked past her at Donovan’s prodding.

“Two seats back,” he said. Though his voice was muffled, I could make it out clearly enough with him right behind me.

I went along the aisle until there were two empty seats between me and the others. Then I sat in the row behind Dolores, wanting nothing to do with Chad, not even his side of the bus.

“Hands,” Donovan said.

I turned in the seat to face the blacked-out window and then turned my head to see Donovan put the gun down on the seat across the aisle. He quickly had one gloved hand on the back of my neck, forcing me to look forward. I could hear him fumbling with some part of his suit, a rip of Velcro, and then my hands were freed as I felt and heard something snip through the plastic ties. One strong hand still firmly on my neck, I could feel him doing something with his other hand. Then it was cold steel on one of my wrists and a metallic snap.

When he released my neck, I relaxed a little and turned to face the front again. Looking down, I saw my left hand was now in a manacle attached to a chain, probably welded to the floor.

“Other one,” he said.

Looking to the right, I saw a similar chain on the seat. Pulling it up with my free hand, I found an empty handcuff at its end. I thought for a moment about resisting, about making him lean over me to fasten the cuff and maybe head butting him or kneeing him in the chest as he did. But it wouldn’t be enough to hurt him. He’d be up with the gun in my face in a second. It wouldn’t do to get shot, not with doctors and emergency rooms a thing of the past. So I slipped the cuff onto my right wrist and let him reach down to fasten it. Having to lock myself in was humiliating, and I wondered if Chad had felt the same way when he’d been captured; now, he just seemed to fasten the handcuffs onto himself like it was part of a routine.

Donovan hooked the two handcuffs together with a short length of chain and a padlock. Barely glancing at me, he turned, picked up his gun, and went to the front of the bus, pausing for a moment to collect my backpack from Chad’s seat and walking it back to me.

Then he climbed into the driver’s seat, and the old bus’s engine rumbled to life. It still had one of those chrome bars for the driver to shut the door without getting out of his seat, and now Donovan used it to seal us in. He put the bus in gear and then began down the hill, turning at the intersection to take us away from the Winnebago and the observatory. I turned my head a few times automatically, thinking I’d be able to see the last of the observatory out the window, but the windows were all blocked and sealed, even at the back of the bus. I knew that if I ever got another look at the Griffith Observatory, it would be from far away, just a big white building on a hill beside the Hollywood sign. It had been nice while it lasted.