Jake and the Other Girl: A Tor.Com Original by Emmy Laybourne Page B
Authors: Emmy Laybourne
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lungs after a few blocks. He wondered if inhaling the blackout cloud would have long-ranging effects, but who cared?
Alex said the blackout cloud hung over the detonation site, magnetized to stay there. Maybe he was inhaling tiny magnets. Felt like secondhand cigarette smoke, though. Itchy.
But he ran on.
By the time he got to Bowstring Road, his chest ached. Maybe he should have kept the stupid fleece face mask.
Some of the houses he passed were junked up. Some were burned. There were some bodies on the lawns, some spilling out of cars, some who died crawling out the windows, but he wasn’t going to think about them, not again, not for a second.
Because he was huffing now, every time he stopped. The shadows moved with his breath—in, out, in, out.
Better to keep moving. He was spooking himself out.
Coming around the corner of Bowstring Road, there had been a massive crash. Three cars rammed into one another, all snarled together. A pickup truck on its hood. All windows spiderwebbed. And the whole thing mossed over with the white foam.
Who’d hit who? You couldn’t even tell and then Jake felt hands on his shoulders and heard a horrible sound right on his neck: breathing and snarling.
Jake whipped around and there was a man. God, the stench! Jake pushed him and the man fell back.
The guy was big—taller than Jake, but he was slow.
“Get back!” Jake shouted.
He had to be type O—he had that deranged expression on his face, and looked like he wanted to kill, not rob.
His face was gaunt, his eyes huge and his teeth bared. He was bald and had tattoos everywhere. Jake could see he’d been exposed for too long. Spill had been almost two weeks ago.
“Leave me alone,” Jake said.
The man snarled in reply.
Jake remembered he had the gun. He reached back, slipping the bag off his shoulder. The gun was at the top.
What was that smell? Maybe the man’s clothes, which were covered in dark stains that had to be blood. But maybe they came from his mouth. The stench had a rotting sewage smell to it and Jake wondered what the guy had been eating.
His mouth was open, and Jake saw a slick patch on his chin.
Jesus, the man was drooling.
Jake backed away and slipped on the foam from the car crash.
The man threw himself at Jake, falling towards Jake, hands in claws, reaching for Jake’s face.
Jake kicked him.
Hard, in the center of the chest.
The guy’s breath came out in a rank OOF and spit got on Jake, too.
Jake scrambled to get up. He was shaking. The man was trying to get up, reaching for Jake with one hand.
Jake ran.
He could’ve beat the guy to death. Kick his head until he died or, even better, just take out the gun and shoot him through the heart.
Weird feeling, to know you could kill someone and you wouldn’t get in trouble for it.
It would have been a mercy, even.
People would praise him, even.
But it was easier to run.
Over his shoulder, Jake saw the guy turn his head up and wail.
Focus now and just get there, Jake told himself.
He ran up Bowstring and turned onto Leggins Way.
The guy was nowhere to be seen. Maybe being type O and staying outside that long made you stupid. Maybe the guy’d forgotten about him, or just knew he couldn’t keep up.
An O who’d been exposed since the spill was not as big a threat—knowing this made Jake smile a bit.
Made his chances of making it to Denver better, if that’s what he ended up doing. Too soon to tell, and he would go wherever he wanted.
17285. 17325. Yes—17355.
Lindsay’s house had a broken window, but he saw plastic sheeting fluttering near the hole. The sign had said, Mommy, come home, right? There was a chance she was there.
He went around to the back, turning on his headlamp now. If there was anyone hiding around back, he’d rather get a glimpse of them before being attacked.
“Lindsay?” he called softly. “Linds?”
In the backyard, their love seat swing thingy was overturned. Jake stepped on something, a broken rake,
Alex said the blackout cloud hung over the detonation site, magnetized to stay there. Maybe he was inhaling tiny magnets. Felt like secondhand cigarette smoke, though. Itchy.
But he ran on.
By the time he got to Bowstring Road, his chest ached. Maybe he should have kept the stupid fleece face mask.
Some of the houses he passed were junked up. Some were burned. There were some bodies on the lawns, some spilling out of cars, some who died crawling out the windows, but he wasn’t going to think about them, not again, not for a second.
Because he was huffing now, every time he stopped. The shadows moved with his breath—in, out, in, out.
Better to keep moving. He was spooking himself out.
Coming around the corner of Bowstring Road, there had been a massive crash. Three cars rammed into one another, all snarled together. A pickup truck on its hood. All windows spiderwebbed. And the whole thing mossed over with the white foam.
Who’d hit who? You couldn’t even tell and then Jake felt hands on his shoulders and heard a horrible sound right on his neck: breathing and snarling.
Jake whipped around and there was a man. God, the stench! Jake pushed him and the man fell back.
The guy was big—taller than Jake, but he was slow.
“Get back!” Jake shouted.
He had to be type O—he had that deranged expression on his face, and looked like he wanted to kill, not rob.
His face was gaunt, his eyes huge and his teeth bared. He was bald and had tattoos everywhere. Jake could see he’d been exposed for too long. Spill had been almost two weeks ago.
“Leave me alone,” Jake said.
The man snarled in reply.
Jake remembered he had the gun. He reached back, slipping the bag off his shoulder. The gun was at the top.
What was that smell? Maybe the man’s clothes, which were covered in dark stains that had to be blood. But maybe they came from his mouth. The stench had a rotting sewage smell to it and Jake wondered what the guy had been eating.
His mouth was open, and Jake saw a slick patch on his chin.
Jesus, the man was drooling.
Jake backed away and slipped on the foam from the car crash.
The man threw himself at Jake, falling towards Jake, hands in claws, reaching for Jake’s face.
Jake kicked him.
Hard, in the center of the chest.
The guy’s breath came out in a rank OOF and spit got on Jake, too.
Jake scrambled to get up. He was shaking. The man was trying to get up, reaching for Jake with one hand.
Jake ran.
He could’ve beat the guy to death. Kick his head until he died or, even better, just take out the gun and shoot him through the heart.
Weird feeling, to know you could kill someone and you wouldn’t get in trouble for it.
It would have been a mercy, even.
People would praise him, even.
But it was easier to run.
Over his shoulder, Jake saw the guy turn his head up and wail.
Focus now and just get there, Jake told himself.
He ran up Bowstring and turned onto Leggins Way.
The guy was nowhere to be seen. Maybe being type O and staying outside that long made you stupid. Maybe the guy’d forgotten about him, or just knew he couldn’t keep up.
An O who’d been exposed since the spill was not as big a threat—knowing this made Jake smile a bit.
Made his chances of making it to Denver better, if that’s what he ended up doing. Too soon to tell, and he would go wherever he wanted.
17285. 17325. Yes—17355.
Lindsay’s house had a broken window, but he saw plastic sheeting fluttering near the hole. The sign had said, Mommy, come home, right? There was a chance she was there.
He went around to the back, turning on his headlamp now. If there was anyone hiding around back, he’d rather get a glimpse of them before being attacked.
“Lindsay?” he called softly. “Linds?”
In the backyard, their love seat swing thingy was overturned. Jake stepped on something, a broken rake,
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