The rounder parts of Dan’s dad bod bounced into my mind, and I giggled.
He wasn’t just his beer gut though. His bloody, enraged, rugged face flashed into my mind. He was terrifying. Well over six feet of fury. And something about it made my heart beat a little faster. I licked my lips and reminisced on how my fingers felt against his warm chest and broad shoulder. The stern intensity his eyes held. How his face softened when he looked at his daughter.
I broke myself from my daydream.
I stood and shuffled over to the fridge, searching for something to eat. He was like my high school friend’s hot dad—way too old for me, but fun to fantasize about. I looked up from the fridge toward the stairs.
I chuckled and grabbed the jar of avocado spread. Three pieces of toast later, I was satisfied and ready for the day. I sat back down at the kitchen table. A minute of silence passed, and I sighed.
I normally would have spent the day binge-watching trashy TV shows and casually swiping through dating apps. I was on a two-week vacation, for crying out loud! Why did the end of the world have to happen right now, of all times? I leaned forward onto the table.
I turned my head to the side, pressed my face into the cool table, and sighed again.
I pushed them from my mind. They were all the way in Cali right now. There wasn’t anything I could do.
The minutes passed slowly as I listened to myself breathe. The smell of wet dog wafted in from upstairs, and the image of the beast’s face screaming as it tried to claw and bite at me filled my mind. My heart pounded, and my hands trembled. Its laughing screech echoed in my ears. Something creaked in the house, and I bolted up.
My shirt stuck to my body with sweat. I took several deep breaths.
I spotted the go-bag Dan had me prepare on one of the chairs.
I slapped my cheeks and stood. “Get it together, Alex. Now is not the time. I need to get... I don’t know...” I stared at the go-bag. “Food, water... fire... transportation?”
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I stepped into the foyer and yelped at seeing the pile of sandbags. I had somehow forgotten the monster was still here. I scooted along the wall and made my way to the garage.
I dug through the piles of camping and hunting supplies until I found three five-gallon tubs of homemade, prepackaged dried food. A date from over eight years ago and each of our names was written on the lids in permanent marker.
I pulled two of the tubs out and gripped a thin metal handle in each hand. I lifted them a few inches off the ground before setting them back down. They each had to weigh over fifty pounds.
I separated the two tubs, squatted down, and lifted with my legs. I turned to find the gray family Suburban.
The garage was empty.
My heart raced as my eyes searched for where the vehicle had gone.
With a groan, I dropped the tubs and opened the garage door, revealing the Suburban and my burgundy Honda Civic. I lifted the tubs again, waddled over to the back door of the Suburban, and checked the door.
Locked.
My chest tightened in frustration. I leaned against the vehicle and took a deep breath.
Pops fired off in the distance, yanking me from my thoughts. My heart pounded in my chest. I searched the street for any sign of movement. Thoughts on how to bend my knees and where to place my feet appeared in my mind. I unconsciously found myself shifting my footing. The seconds ticked by, and I wiped the sweat from my forehead.
As the fear passed, I took in the street. This was the first time I had been outside since the world had ended. The quiet middle-class neighborhood was gone, replaced with broken windows, crashed cars, and ruined lawns. I looked away as I spotted what was probably a dead body. My stomach rolled, and I tried not to think if I knew who lived in that house.
My eyes fell on a faded-gray Toyota Camry in the neighbor’s driveway with a chipped and rusted paint job, several dents on the doors and a crack on the back window. I didn’t remember any of the neighbors having something so hideous. I glanced up at my parents’ bedroom window.
I shuffled over to the Camry, head on swivel, and peered into the front window. Piles of seemingly random supplies filled dozens of different-sized Amazon delivery boxes. Even more supplies were piled up on top of that, filling every inch of the car.
Another spatter of gunfire echoed in the distance, and I ducked below the roof of the Camry. More thoughts filled my head. My heart throbbed in my chest.
“I hate this,” I seethed between clenched teeth. “I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this!” I wiped the tears from my eyes and peered in at the jumbled mess inside the car. “What am I going to do?”
Yesterday’s trauma played out inside my mind.
The monster crashing through the window. Barely reaching the bathroom in time. The bathroom door cracking. The sound of the bedroom door bursting open. The pain and confusion on the monster’s face as it pulled back. Peeking out of the door to see Dan viciously chopping into the beast. The stage switched to Dan fearlessly battling the cat monster, trapped by the net. The fierce confidence on his face burned itself into my eyes.
I still didn’t know why I had offered to help. Afraid to be alone or afraid to leave my savior too soon, if I had to guess.
Dan’s piercing blue eyes and slightly crooked smile flashed into my mind.
I blushed and looked back into the car. Every true crime story I’d ever watched or listened to warned me of the dangers of trusting attractive strangers. I didn’t know him at all. Who knew what he was really like? I’d be completely alone with him.
I remembered how carefully he had held Aurora. How his furrowed brow relaxed when he looked at her. How many times he stressed her safety when we prepared the trap.
“Ahhh! Why does this have to be so fucking hard?” I kicked the front tire way harder than I should have and winced.
I searched my pockets for a coin but found nothing. I sighed and leaned my head against the window. The door handle off to the side caught my attention. I pursed my lips. It was dumb, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. I tried the door.
Locked.
I smirked.
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