Every Wrong Reason(101)

Hell, I had given up on finding sex.

I just wanted to look anything but tired, weary and worn out.

Was that so much to ask?

“Welcome to the promised land, my friend,” Haley whispered proudly before turning to a rack of longs-sleeve tee’s.

I had a theory about why this section of the department store was untouched and it went something like this. In the beginning of the end, families protected their young. If you were a teenager, you were home, holding down the fort. Especially if you were a girl. The whole raping and pillaging thing didn’t apply to most kids that still had parents around. And if you were young and stupid enough to try to make it in a world where sane people spent their time looting, overthrowing local government and shooting at any and every potential threat, chances were your inexperience and still rose-colored-glasses-of-the-world made sure you ended up dead.

How Haley and I survived living on the street and dodging not only the Feeders, but the crazed militia, and all the old man creepers that thought we would make fantastic sister wives was a straight up miracle. We got lucky in the beginning by sheer location. Small town, middle-of-nowhere Iowa finally paid off.

Well, except for the whole Quarterback-Chris thing.

But it wasn’t like we didn’t get Feeders in Atlantic, Iowa. Of course we did. Herpes was a worldwide disease. Everybody got Feeders, even remote islands in the middle of Oceans. If there were people there, then there were people having sex. And that meant STDs. Why? Because men would always be sluts. Always.

Was I a little bitter about Quarterback-Chris? Hell, yes.

Did I not mention he tried to eat me?

My parents were killed by Feeders. Haley’s dad was killed by a Feeder. I was almost killed by a Feeder.

They were everywhere.

What we did have was an absence of a lot of people and an abundance of guns. Thank you, farmer Fred, for your once unnecessary stash of ex-military contraband.

I hopped over the counter, sliding my butt across the filthy glass. My already-grimy jeans smeared a dust-coated path the size of my hips. I landed on the pads of my feet and my toes were smashed even worse in my small hiking boots, but it was a soundless landing I was kind of proud of.

I had the reflexes of a cat, thanks to living every minute of my life expecting an attack. If the world ever got its f-ing act together and cleaned up this mess, I imagined they would make a movie of my life about the whole Zombie thing. I’d obviously be played by that hot brunette from the Vampire Diaries in which I would run around in a sexy Cat Woman suit, totally playing the super hero.

I opened the cabinets behind the makeup counter and slipped my backpack off my shoulder. Inside my hiking pack everything was orderly and neatly packed for maximum space and easy access. But I didn’t have time for that now. I would reorganize everything later.

I started swiping handfuls of products into my bag, not caring about color or usefulness. This was what Haley and I called the Grab and Go-get as many supplies as we could now, as fast as we could, then leave the scene before either Feeders or protective townsfolk happened upon us. We could sort it out later. Without even having to discuss it with Haley, I knew she was picking out shirts and jeans for me and she knew I would cover her with whatever I could find.

After makeup, I hit up the clearance shoes, except there wasn’t anything hiking, nature resilient or weather-proofed. Haley’s shoes were in good condition actually, so I didn’t bother debating over her. She was tiny by nature, not just because we only ate every three days and probably had scurvy since we were lacking serious vitamin C. She barely cleared 5’3, and her feet were average size enough that she could double up on socks and fit almost any pair we found.

I had clown feet even for my 5’8 frame and most the time found myself searching the small-feeted men. There were plenty of feet to choose from, but we didn’t run across the right kind of shoe very often.

Like right now. There were a pair of tennis shoes that I could upgrade to, and they were my size. Or should I stick with the weather-proofed boots that would protect my feet from the elements?

The other part of the debate-tennis shoes were much lighter than these things, easier to walk across country in and much, much nicer to run in.

Still, I had to protect my feet. And I definitely didn’t want trench foot. Not that I knew what trench foot was…. but I knew it was a big deal for everyone on Band of Brothers-my go to reference for everything survival.

“Get the shoes that fit,” Haley said from across the room while digging through every style of jeans.

“You’re right,” I agreed. A shoe that fit had to be infinitely better than what I was wearing now. I toed off my boots and ripped off my socks. There was a whole rack of socks near the checkout counter, so I grabbed handfuls of them and stuffed them in the bag, saving a crazy-patterned neon pair for now.

“Sweatpants?” Haley asked from a new rack.

Moving quickly was essential to our survival, and we had honed this skill in order to stay alive. “Absolutely,” I agreed. Jeans were practical and resilient, but there was nothing better than a pair of yoga pants when running for your life.

As I moved on to underwear-which might as well have been gold at this point-the light grew dimmer in this department. We were already squinting and stumbling around in the dark, and I knew we had been here too long. I had a flashlight that hadn’t run out of battery yet, but I really didn’t want to use it if it meant drawing the attention of wandering Feeders.