Surge (43 page)

“You need to relax, tense shoulders are a big problem.” Taking a deep breath, she releases it and the tension in her shoulders lessens significantly. “Good, now I’m going to adjust your feet.” Removing my hands from her, I use my boot to tap her feet apart more. They were already spread a little, but they needed to be about three more inches apart. “Alright, your stance is set. Memorize it, because next time I want you to get in this position without needing me to adjust it.” Olivia nods. “Okay, drop the stance.”

“Why would I drop it?” Olivia asks curiously.

“Because I want you to reset it.” She takes a few seconds, maybe to get a better feel for the position, but she does lower her gun and shake out her shoulders. “Turn to show me how you grip the handle.”

Olivia spins slowly with the locked gun aimed at the floor. Still holding it aimed down, she places first her right, and then her left hand on the grip. Looking up at me, she gives me a questioning look. It’s almost right, just a minor tweak to line up the heel of her hand, and she has it.

“I have to fix your hands, may I?” I ask and she nods once. Without taking either hand off the gun, I turn her hands at a slight angle before stepping back. “All set. Turn back around, and show me your stance.” Olivia turns and takes a step back toward the table to the target. She sets her stance exactly how I adjusted her to be.

“Perfect,” I say. “You can flick the safety and try a shot now.”

Raising her gun, she flips the lock off, resets her stance, breathes in, and pulls on the exhale. That’s the problem right there. I don’t even need to see where the bullet went, because I know for a fact it’s nowhere near the target. Just as she pulled the trigger, her shoulders tensed, and she squinted her eyes.

“You’re afraid of the gun,” I comment and she flashes a surprised look at me from over her shoulder. “Lock it up and come take a break.” Olivia nods before switching the safety on, once again checking it twice before placing it on the table. Taking a seat on the crate, I hold up her mug of now lukewarm coffee. It still tastes alright, so I drink it and so doesn’t Olivia without so much as a grimace at the temperature.

“How’d you know I’m afraid of it?” Olivia asks as she sets her mug on her leg.

“It could have been when you tensed before squeezing the trigger, or the flinch of your hands before the recoil, or that you nearly closed your eyes,” I answer and she laughs.

“Or it could have been that I threw the gun at your head, because I have a better chance of that hitting you, than the bullet,” she retorts with a smirk.

“So, why are you afraid of it?” Olivia’s eyebrows scrunch together a little as she thinks.

“Well, there’s the fact that you can kill someone with it,” she states and I give her a pointed look. Olivia rolls her eyes. “That’s different. If I were to pick up my machete and swing, I know for a fact that I’m going to hurt something. If I were to pick up a gun, I could accidentally fire it, incidentally killing someone that I didn’t intend to. You get much more control with up close and personal shots, than you do with the longer range.”

“That’s true,” I agree with a nod. “But the same could be said for knives, and I’ve seen you hurl those with deadly accuracy.”

“I don’t like the noise,” she says haltingly, like she didn’t want to admit it, but she did. Olivia looks up to meet my eyes. “Remember when I told you about my mom?” I nod, how could I forget? “Well, what I didn’t say is that I was still there when they gave the execution order.” My eyes widen without permission, so she explains.

“When I went to visit her, it was like in a prison. You know, with the glass separation, and the phones?” I nod, and she continues. “I was still visiting her, when a group of men dressed in black suits, came in with guns to line up all of the volunteers. We didn’t think anything of it, since they always got lined up before they went back to their rooms, so my mom and I said our goodbyes before she went and joined in with the other 56. As soon as they were in line, they opened fire.” Olivia wipes her eye angrily. “They shot them like criminals, while I watched. I just sat there frozen, as my mom was turned into Swiss cheese.” Her gloved hands clench her mug. “I ran like hell after that. I knew if they knew that I stayed behind, like I always did so that I could wave at my mom before she disappeared through the door, they would have killed me and added me with the rest to the bon fire.”

“That’s fucking sick,” I say and she nods.

“So, that’s why I don’t like the sound of guns,” she finishes.

“We’ll figure something out,” I promise. “For now, just practice your stance with the safety on.”

“Yes, Coach,” Olivia replies and does a salute.

“Smartass,” I mutter. “Go to bed.”

“As if,” she says. “If I were to sleep, no one else would be able to.” Almost as if she understands what she revealed, her eyes widen and Olivia slaps a hand over her mouth.

“What was that?” I ask mildly. No way am I letting her get out of this one. Cory may have told me about it, but I want to hear it from her.

“Nothing,” she says and shakes her head. I stare her down and watch her squirm. “Fucking fine! I can’t sleep.”

“For how long?”

“...months,” Olivia answers under her breath.

“Say that again, I didn’t understand your mumbling.”

“Fifteen months,” she snaps. “Happy?”

“No, I’m not happy,” I retort. “It’s fucking horrible.”

“Tell me about it,” she mutters. “As if living through it once wasn’t enough, I get to relive that and others over and over again.” Olivia looks up to meet my eyes. “Have you ever had a song that you despise get stuck in your head and just won’t go away?” I nod. “How would you like having some god awful memories, that just won’t leave you the fuck alone; be set of replay any time you close your eyes? It’s like a freaking slideshow of shit that keeps being hurled at me, so anytime I do get ten minutes of sleep, I wake up covered in sweat and can’t stop shaking for hours.” Olivia shakes her head. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

“I don’t mind,” I say and she rolls her eyes. “I don’t. I like talking to you.”

“Well, I kinda like talking to you too,” she replies. Olivia gives me a curious look. “I’m not sure why, but you’re easy to talk to. It’s like you reach into my head and pull out things better left buried with those piercing eyes.”

“My mom used to do the same thing with hers,” I say and she smiles a little. Most likely Olivia prefers it when she’s not the only one sharing. “Anything, and I mean
any
thing I was hiding, she could get me to spill after a few seconds of eye contact. It was like a freaking magic trick.”

“So, you understand how it is for me to want to talk about this shit, when even I don’t want to know it, and I lived through it?” Olivia inquires and I nod. “Good, because I’m friggin crazy enough.”

“You are not crazy.”

“I’m not normal,” she counters.

“What the fuck is normal?” I ask and wave my arm around. “Having to bunk in some cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere, to hide from infected who want to eat you; and raiders that want to kill you for sport? I don’t think so. No one can be classified as
‘normal’
before, or after the end, because it is subject to personal opinion.”

“Were you a psych major?” Olivia asks and I laugh.

“No, I didn’t go to college yet,” I answer. “John and I decided that we would be lazy bums and live off of our parents for a few years, then follow through with the life sucking monotony that is a law career.”

“
‘Life sucking monotony,’
” she repeats. “I like it.”

“We came up with it when our dads did nothing but work themselves to the ground, day in and out, ever since we were born.”

“I can see how that is life sucking,” she agrees. “So, you were both closer to your moms?”

“Me so more than John, but yeah, you could say that.”

“My dad was a trust fund baby,” she says. “So, he could take time off from his office any time he wanted. We
’
d go to the aquarium, walk down to Yawkey Way and grab tickets to a game, go shop at Faneuil Hall, whatever we wanted to do that day.”

“I thought that you were poor,” I blurt out and slap a hand over my mouth. Olivia laughs.

“No, Mouth, we weren’t poor,” she explains. “Well, not until after my dad; before that, we lived upper middle class. After his death, Dad’s life insurance only covered the mortgage to our house, and his trust reverted back to my grandparents due to a stipulation.” I look at her to continue. “My grandparents did not like my mom. She was
‘trash’
because she wasn’t a freaking Vanderbilt, you know?” I nod in understanding. “So, my grandparents added a stipulation to his trust that he could have it so long as he lived, but if he died; it would go to his approved of second wife, or revert back to them.”

“And it reverted back to them,” I finish and she nods. “Therefore, your aunt Crystal got it when they died.”

“Yup,” she confirms. “That greedy bitch wouldn’t give me a cent if I was homeless and starving, so my mom made me get legally emancipated from her at sixteen. Her reasoning was that if something happened to her, she wouldn’t want me to go to Crystal or the state.”

“That was smart of her,” I say and she nods.

“But when my mom found out that she was sick, I sucked up my pride and went to beg for help,” Olivia says. “That bitch said that my mother wasn’t worth the effort of saving, and she wouldn’t help pay a dime toward the mandatory surgery. Our insurance was outrageous with their premiums, leaving experimental treatments to be the better option. Or so we thought.”

“Gene K,” I supply unnecessarily. I know where this headed before she nods to confirm it. “Your aunt could have prevented it, if she coughed up a little cash.”

“She could have, but she didn’t,” Olivia spits out. “So, I hope she died a painful death and burns in hell for eternity; along with my Dad’s parents since their prejudiced views are responsible for setting that ball in motion.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” I say with a smirk and she laughs.

“Don’t worry,” she says and pats my hand. I’m shocked that she willingly touched me, but don’t show it. “I have much bigger fish to fry than you.”

“Cole?” I ask and her easy going mood disappears in a flash of grey steel in her eyes.

“How do you know about Cole?” Olivia asks with an icy tone.

“You mentioned him when you were talking to Victoria,” I say carefully. No way am I mentioning that I heard a hell of a lot about him from the red head. “Something about an
‘extra special kiss.’
” Her grin is pure evil.

“That’s right,” she replies. “Nothing but the best, for that deranged fuck.”

“Is he the person who kidnapped you?” I ask. I know that I’ve overstepped when her eyes harden and she glares at me.

“How the fuck do you know I was kidnapped?” Olivia questions.

“Observation,” I answer and point to her wrists. “You would never willingly be restrained, and you knew what the raiders would do, because it happened to you.”

“You don’t know shit,” she hisses. I know I’m in for it when she leans forward and continues. “They didn’t just take me. Those bastards tortured Travis. Chopped off every one of his fingers, knocked his teeth out and beat him to the point that he couldn’t move or breathe. If that weren’t enough, they took turns raping me in front of him and then beat our baby out of my body. But that was all before they slit his throat, then mercifully put a bullet in his head, and pushed him off the roof. So, don’t you fucking dare say that I was
only
kidnapped.”

Olivia hurls her mug at the wall and I hear it smash as she runs out of the basement; leaving me sitting there shocked as hell. I knew that she was traumatized, and suspected that she was sexually assaulted due to her severe aversion to physical contact of any kind, but assuming and hearing are completely different. It makes a horrid thought, a devastating reality. Feeling a rush of warm bile swim up my throat, I find a bucket in time to unleash my stomach contents into it.

I guess my granny was right, assuming is for assholes.

<~~~<~~~
~~~>~~~>

Four days. Four miserable days of driving, reversing direction due to blocked roads, and silence. Well, not silence since there are still fourteen other people talking and making noise; especially Chelsea and her friggin gum snapping, but not the one voice that I want to hear.

Make that ten other people not talking, since Cory, John, Leonard and now even Tommy; refuse to speak to me. The final silent bastard has been getting on my nerves the most. While the others ignore, or glare at me; which he does too, Tommy’s been switching back and forth with his grandfather to ride in the BMW with Olivia. And why is it that I’m being treated like I’m one of the infected? That would be because they know I’m the one responsible for Olivia’s current state.

How they know, is still a mystery to me. I mean, no one was there to eye witness our exchange, so how did they put it together? Fine, I admit it, I’m a little hard to get along with, but does that immediately condemn me to being the leper to avoid? Shut up, I’m well aware of the fact that I am indeed the one responsible, but that doesn’t mean I have to like how everyone knows I fucked up. I feel bad enough, without adding them on top of the shit pile I’ve buried myself under.