Not Maverick.
“It’s important to keep those bastards from lurking too close when we’re out in the open. The fire will keep them away, both because it’s bright enough to hurt them and because they instinctively know the flames will destroy them. The light might catch the attention of another rogue, but it’s worth the risk to keep the lurkers away from us. Besides,” he adds, jerking his t-shirt up enough to show off something hanging by his hip, “I can handle a rogue or two.”
In the gloomy dusk, I squint at what he’s drawing my attention to. A moment later, my blood runs cold.
“A gun,” I blurt out. “Why the hell do you have a gun?”
Fuck. Maybe Iamthat naive. How long as he had a weapon holstered at his hip, hidden by his faded t-shirt? I never noticed it, and now that I know he has it, I feel the urge to get away from him.
I have a knife. What can that do against a handgun?
“You don’t have to be afraid, kid?—”
“Who said anything about being afraid?” I ask, obviously bluffing. And “kid”… I know he tacked that on to ruffle my feathers and, damn it, itworks. “It’s just… I’ve never seen one in person before.”
There’s no crime in the Grave. We rely too heavily on each other, and that trust—while fragile—only lasts as long as we admit that we need each other to survive. When guns can’t hurt a lurker, no one bothers to carry any kind of weapon. It’s pointless. It would only make our neighbors wary of the one who holds it.
But Maverick isn’t a neighbor. He’s a stranger, and I’m suddenly wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life, agreeing to join an armed man on this suicide mission. I expected the lurkers to be the ones to finish me off, though. Not another survivor?—
—and that’s when Maverick flexes his jaw, then says, “I carry because it’s habit… because I used to be a cop,” and I’m not sure if that reassures me or not.
A cop. Shit. He’s acop.
I know the before times are over. But just like how Jack will always consider himself a firefighter, in or out of uniform, I’m betting Maverick—and I still want to know what kind of name isMaverick—is a cop whether he has a badge or not.
“Really? Wow. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a cop.”
And I’m still not sure how I feel about him being one.
He shrugs, though the gesture is nowhere near as casual as he probably wanted it to be. “Twelve years on the force before my chief turned into a beast and devoured half the squad on desk duty for New Year’s.” There’s no emotion in Maverick’s voice. He unholsters the gun, lifting it up, the burnished metal glinting in the firelight. “This was my service weapon. It’s the last thing I have from my old life.”
I tug on the sleeves of Rory’s jacket. I know what he means.
Maverick re-holsters the gun. “I made a pledge to protect and serve,” he says after a moment. “The world’s gone to hell, and there’s no such thing as law enforcement in a world with no laws, but that promise means something to me. It’s why I won’t stopuntil I take out as many lurkers as I can.” He nods at me. “And it’s why you can be sure you’re safe with me.”
If only I can believe that.
Still… “Did you tell Jack? About you being a cop, I mean.”
He nods again.
Figures. No wonder Jack didn’t fight against me leaving as hard as he could’ve. I don’t trust the police. Even before, there was too much brutality, too much corruption. My dad… he wanted to believe that anyone in public service thought like him. He wanted to save lives, never lose them, and he’d feel a kinship with a former police officer if Maverick gave him the same kind of bullshit speech he just gave me.
Jack might believe it. Me? All I know is that, if necessary, I can unholster that gun and take it during my watch shift. He might look at me and think I’d never turn on him… and if he did? He’d be wrong.
The Turning changed us all, whether into lurkers or survivors. And Alexandra Holden will do whatever it takes to survive.
My phone is in my pocket. It’s a habit of my own, I guess, one that I haven’t been able to break even after all this time. Once it dies, I doubt I’ll have the chance to charge it again. For now, though, I can use it to keep track of the time.
“How long should I take for watch?” I ask.
He seems a little surprised—or maybe suspicious—that I let the topic of his being an armed former cop drop so easily. Truth is, I’m exhausted, and the sooner he gets to sleep, the sooner it’s my turn.
It’s quarter after seven. Normally I wouldn’t go to sleep until at least eleven, but we’ve had a long walk today, and tomorrow will start as soon as the sun’s up. Might as well rest now.
He’s thinking the same. “Wake me up around midnight,” he says. “One if you can last. I’ll take over for you then. Unless you’d rather three-hour increments.”
“One will be fine,” I tell him.
