Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Kellen has moved to the front of the group and is taking long strides I can barely keep up with in my weakened state. He’s a man on a mission. Currently, his mission is to find food, medicine, and shelter. Hopefully, this will come to fruition for us very soon.
As we near the town, though, Kellen stops.
“Everyone, stay here,” Kellen says. “I’ll scout ahead and make sure it’s safe.”
“I’m going too,” I tell him, ignoring his glower. “You’re not going alone.”
He shakes his head in vehemence. “I can’t put you all through another damn problem. Just let me risk my neck to keep you all safe.”
Is he fucking delirious right now?
“You’re delusional, man,” Jesse blurts out, “if you think you’re going to win this argument. Tyler or someone needs to go with you.”
Kellen grits his teeth and then gives me a curt nod of approval. Not that I need it. I was going anyway. The two of us start out wordlessly toward Seibert. Once we’re out of earshot of the group, I can no longer hold my tongue.
“What was that back there?” I demand, cutting my gaze over to him.
He snorts. “What was what?”
“You being a hero, Kell. Don’t play dumb.”
“Trust me,” he practically spits out, “I’m no hero. It’s called damage control.”
“And what makes you think you’re in charge of controlling the damage?”
“Because this is all on me.” He shoots me a dark look. “We’re in this predicament because of me.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on this one.”
“I suppose we will.”
The air is frigid between us and it has nothing to do with the temperature of the air, which is actually warming now that it’s not raining so hard. He wants to take the blame for all of this, but I won’t let him. We’re all here because we chose to be.
Before we can dig more into his feelings on the matter, a gas station materializes. Unlike the abandoned one we stayed at, this one appears to be in working order. The windows are boarded up, which leads me to believe the people who owned it left in search of the FEMA assistance that was promised in Denver.
As we near the building, we notice someone has spray painted the plywood covering the front windows.
Private property. Keep out.
Kellen studies the building for a beat, taking in the message, and then walks over to the window to inspect the board. Using his fingers, he curls them under the lip of the wood and tugs. The wood creaks and the nails lift. I step up to help him. Together, we manage to rip the plywood completely off. We set it aside and then peer in the window.
It’s a typical convenience store with food, drinks, and other merchandise on the shelves—all of which we desperately need.
“We need to get inside,” I tell him, mouth watering when I see a lone box of PopTarts. “Once we make sure it’s safe, we can get the others. We’ll stay here for a day or two until we’re up to making the last leg of the trip.”
Kellen doesn’t say anything in return. He just peers into the store with his hands cupped around his face. Whatever’s going on in his head is something we’ll deal with. Getting our group to safety, though, will have to take priority over his mental breakdown. I turn away from him to search for something to break the glass with. There’s nothing in the near vicinity, but eventually, I find a fist-sized hunk of asphalt at the edge of the parking lot.
“Stand back,” I instruct as I near Kellen. “I’m going to break it.”
“Wait,” he grunts, holding up a hand. “I thought I heard something.”
I sidle up beside him and peek back into the store. There’s no movement, no people or animals, nothing. What is there, though, are the much-needed supplies. We have to do this.
With a resigned sigh, Kellen steps away from the window. I rear back my arm and heave the asphalt into the window. It makes a splintering sound but doesn’t shatter into a million pieces. Silver, jagged lines now crisscross all over the glass, hiding our view of the inside. I pick up the asphalt and repeat my action. Three more times of throwing it and the hunk finally pierces the glass. Still, the window remains mainly intact.
“Damn tinted windows,” Kellen complains.
Now that the glass is weakened, he starts ramming the compromised area of the window with his boot. I take his cue and mimic his actions. It takes several more minutes, but we eventually break away enough space for us to push our way through the opening.
The convenience store smells of rancid cigarette smoke with a hint of old, greasy fried chicken. My stomach grumbles again at the thought of fried chicken.
“You check the aisles and I’ll check behind the register and the storeroom,” Kellen says, gesturing for the front part of the store.