“Two.”
“And how many cats have you managed to keep alive all these years?”
“One.”
“How many miles did you hike to get here?”
“Way too many.”
“Small but mighty,” he said. “With that inhaler, I bet you could run twice as fast as me.”
I smiled because even though he was only saying those things to make me feel better, it worked, nonetheless. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“I’m a nice guy sometimes.”
“All the time.” I yawned, suddenly exhausted. “I’m going to get big and buff in Promised Land.”
“You did say you were still growing,” he said and squeezed one of my biceps.
“And you can teach me how to fight and I’ll chop wood every morning like Macon and eat ten eggs for breakfast.”
“That’s ambitious, but even if you don’t get big and buff right away, you’re still strong in the ways that matter.”
“I hope so,” I said sleepily.
“I know so,” he said and kissed my temple as I drifted off to sleep.
NINETEEN
CIPHER
The gift waspractical if nothing else. Whenever we traveled, Little Miss Purrfect scratched the hell out of Kitten’s chest, so I made him a sling made of canvas with air holes sewn in, including a zipper so he could shut the little beastie inside if she was acting a fool. I’d been working on it during my many sleepless nights, and I presented it to him on the morning we were set to head out.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, recalling the Christmas house when he’d given us all gifts and called us his friends for the first time. “Happy Birthday too. Check inside.”
He opened the sling to find a battered copy of the third book of his vampire series,ourseries, since all of us were reading it, except Gizmo, who’d seen the movies already and was firmly Team Jasper.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for this,” Kitten said.
“I know. I got first dibs after you read it. No spoilers.”
“Thank you.” He leapt into my arms and kissed me with enthusiasm, and I returned his affection, even while the rest of our crew milled about. It was just before dawn and we were waiting at a seldom-used loading dock near the Coca-Cola plant for our ride to arrive. A delivery driver had agreed to take us as far as Birmingham on her way to Dallas. All it cost us was an arm and a leg, literally. Gizmo hooked up the driver with new and improved prostheses customized for long stints on the road.
A red container truck emblazoned with the Coca-Cola logo rumbled up then, its hydraulics hissing as it came to a stop just in front of the loading dock. “All aboard,” Juanita called, then climbed down from the cab and sauntered around the back to roll up the metal door. There was room among the cartons of soda for us to sit comfortably enough for the three-hour drive. She’d even agreed to stop on the outskirts of town so that I could retrieve my gun.
We climbed inside and settled in for the long haul. Between the ammo in my pack and the boy on my lap, currently using up my headlamp’s batteries to read his book aloud to the rest of us, I was feeling pretty dang good about life.
Promised Land, here we come.
* * *
Five days later,with blistered feet and dwindling supplies, we arrived in Promised Land. Juanita couldn’t take us any farther north than Birmingham, so we walked the rest of the way on foot.
Upon reaching the coordinates Gizmo was able to triangulate from Macon’s intel, we were confronted by a huge stockade-style fence that extended for acres and acres on either side; the thing must have surrounded twenty city blocks at least. The forest around their encampment had been harvested for wood and with the trees cleared, offered a clear view for spotting threats. Additionally, the tree stumps had been sharpened to knee-to-waist-level pikes, a solid defense against Rabids, who tended to rely more on their sense of smell and hearing than sight. All in all, I appreciated the commitment to a secure compound. Their construction was legit.
The sun was beginning to set, which made me more wary, as it was the time of day when the Rabids grew bolder and emerged from their hiding places to hunt. I wanted us to make camp in the woods and spend a day or two doing recon on this place, but the troops were eager to meet our new neighbors and I was outvoted.
Promised Land’s security setup included a couple of deer stands mounted at the top of the fence, manned with live lookouts. Guns were slung across their chests but not aimed in our direction. As for my own piece, it was holstered, though well within reach. It seemed we all agreed that pointing guns at each other wouldn’t make a good first impression.
