"I haven't done this in a while, so tell me if it hurts." He shakes his head and moans at the same time. Good shoulder and back muscles, from using his own body in resistance training, tense as my hands move over them. I laugh as he continues his grunts of pleasure. The curls on his head look really soft. My fingers flow through his hair as I massage his scalp, and weave through the curls, separating and fluffing them, straightening them to the ends, and when I let go, they spring back.

"You're going to make my hair look like an afro!" His protest is muffled by his face in the pillow.

I laugh and continue massaging his shoulders, reluctantly abandoning his soft curls. "What about you, Mac? What's your story?" My voice is a whisper, but it carries through the room.

Stiffening for a moment, he relaxes and says, "Nothing like your story, but same as everyone else. I woke up one day with someone trying to eat me for breakfast." Being vague, it's either the truth, or he's not ready to talk about it. I just laugh like he wants me to.

At this moment, Rudy decides it would be a good time to make an appearance. He looks good, even beat up. The bow peeks over the top of his head. I can tell he's sobered a bit, and when my eyes meet his, guilt swells in my chest. I've got nothing to feel guilty about as he studies our situation. Unable to read his facial expression, I climb off Mac.

"Where did you go, Rudy? Famished were attacking, and I looked around and you were gone," I say, addressing Rudy's solemn look.

"I went to the roofs with a couple of guys to help keep the famished at bay."

Rudy's looking at Mac now, so I glance at him too. Back on his side, his hair has ten times the body it had before, and it does look like an afro. Rudy doesn't say anything about seeing us like that, but Mac has no such reservations.

"Sweet timing bro." He's smiling, but his tone screams sarcasm.

Rudy just snorts a humorless laugh at him. "You do have your own room, you know?" He crosses the floor to get a jar of moonshine from his duffle.

Mac shrugs, "How bad were they?"

"Not that bad, yet." Rudy swallows some of the moonshine. "You didn't miss much. You were having a better time than I was."

Okay, time to go. "Hey guys," Rudy looks in pain as much as Mac does. "For tonight, I'll sleep in Mac's room so we don't have to move him. I'll come check on both of you in the morning..." I glance at Mac, "You owe me a massage."

He cocks his brow in a way that says he'd be more than happy to oblige. My stomach lightens in a nervous jumble. I look at Rudy, "You okay? Do you need anything?"

He smiles tightly, "I think I'm just going to get drunk with Mac and pass out."

Picking up my pack, I walk out on the two guys that I'll be indebted to for life.

Chapter 23.

Mac's room looks really lonely. The working girls come to mind, and I quickly let go of the thought. I don't want to know not my business. I put all my essentials next to the untucked bed.

The bedside table and chair, the only furniture in the room, sit neatly next to the bed. An electric heater sits next to the table, and on the table lay components of a radio he may have been trying to fix. Along one wall about twenty or so quivers hold arrows. Quivers are a traditional arrow holster, but they don't hold many, the reason I don't use one myself. Rudy doesn't use one either, most likely for the same reason. My holster's made from an old tin used for gifting a big bottle of wine in the old life. It fit twenty-five of my small arrows, no problem. I think Mac only used archery as a hobby. I've not seen him shoot an arrow yet, and he always carries a gun.

Mac also stores a couple of long bows that look handmade. Long bows are the old style bows that were used for centuries. He definitely has skill, and an obvious love for the art of archery weaponry shows through.

This little community has its ways of horrifying me. It has also helped me in so many ways. I don't criticize them for how they live here, making a life, and I can't help but think of my next move after the base. It's probably not something to plan, because who really knows what will happen? All of my common sense tells me it's stupid to try to push my luck, not to plan that far ahead.

The next morning, I wake up ready to take on the day. First, I want to check on the guys. Eggs to cook would be a nice surprise, but my lack of money stops me. This situation needs to turn around fast.

Mac and Rudy still sleep when I peek in the door. Rudy lies on top of a sleeping bag on the floor. I don't want to wake them, so I go to the marketplace. It's hustle and bustle this morning, as if everyone tries to keep busy and not think about the attacks last night. I don't blame them. Mac's spot's empty, and I think about asking him if he wants me to sit here a few hours a day for him.

I go to Linnie's booth to see about helping her in the greenhouse. Turns out whatever she wants me to do will be ready to be done tomorrow. I guess she wants me to harvest something, but she doesn't say.

Reece occupies his booth, drawing on his arm with a tattoo gun. Now this guy is a dedicated tattoo artist. He looks at any kind of flesh as a canvas. I admire it for what it is, art.

He spots me. "Hey little lady, what's happening?"

I shake my head, watching him shade in a tribal flame shooting up his arm.

"That's good." I say, pointing to his arm. "What is the story you're trying to tell?"

He blinks at me with world-weary eyes, a blue-gray color. "It's my journey of the past four years. I saved this arm for something special. Why not the living dead apocalypse?"

Looking at his arm, grass and dirt start around his wrist, with zombies crawling out of graves beneath tombstones, like George Romero zombies. The pictures seep and fade into where the zombies chew and mash on bloody meat and bones. A blonde woman grips a two-barrel handgun, smoking from use. Skulls and bones sport licking flames of fire. In between the pictures and fire, a single tire tread indicates a motorcycle on a lone journey. The blonde must have been important to him. The pictures blend in a tale.

"Awesome." I say, while reading the patches on his biker vest. One says, "Ass, Gas, or Grass! Nobody rides for free." The one I like says, "Flip yourself off. I'm busy." A series of patches that look out of place catch my eye, "St. Castel's Home for Boys Run, Detroit, MI." He's got one for every year leading up to the outbreak. This might be a clue into his old life.

"You're ready to get started?" he asks, breaking me out of my study. He means gun knowledge and target practicing.

"Yeah, but I'm wondering if I could leave a sign-up sheet for the hot-wiring thing here, at your booth?"

"I've already had people asking me about it. You're more than welcome," he says, bobbing his head. The beads on his goatee click together. He finishes up his work by dabbing blood, rubbing ointment on his arm, and then slipping out a sheet of paper for the sign-ups. "I've also been thinking. I'll tell you gun knowledge, but as for target practicing, maybe we can help with the famished. That way, we won't waste too many bullets. Just try not to miss a whole lot." He chuckles, smiling at me the first time I've seen a real smile from Reece.

"Hey, no problem. That's a good idea. I'll be doing something constructive." He starts unloading his arsenal from a duffel bag. Apparently, we're starting right away.

"First things first, have you ever shot a gun?" he asks. I swallow the lump in my throat, and just shake my head. He eyes me and sighs, probably knowing I'm lying. "All right, gun knowledge 101." I let out the breath.

We stand for a couple of hours, trying to figure out which gun fits me well. Being mainly about the grip, and how easily I slide and fire, it comes down to a Smith & Wesson M&P pistol, Browning Pro 9, or a Bersa Thunder 9. I easily handle them all, as they're all easy to grip and slide. In the old life, I would have probably picked the Browning because it has a rail where you can attach a laser sight.

In the end, I go with the Bersa Thunder 9 Ultra Compact 9 mm. Reece says Bersa Thunder's one of the most underrated guns in the gun world. The Ultra compact one I pick is lightweight, reliable, and carries thirteen rounds, plus one in the chamber. Also, he has two of the guns.

I might want a revolver as a backup, he tells me. Reece isn't a big fan of Smith &Wesson, but for my lady wrists, I choose the S&M Centennial 642 Revolver, being light, compact, and stainless steel. What I really like it's hammerless, nothing to snag on. Downside, it only carries five rounds. Reece says its size deceives because it packs a sharp kick when firing. It's powerful and gets the job done.

I practice removing magazines and click them back in place. Reece shows me how to maintain them. It's easier than I first thought. I can't wait to fire one. Seeing my excitement, he laughs at me.

"What other skills do you have besides hot-wiring cars?" His thick eyebrows rise. I fidget as I consider the question. He probably wants to know for payment reasons. "Mm hmm, I know something's up with you. What do you know?"

Since I'm seriously thinking about it to begin with, I decide he would be the perfect person to trust. "Fine, but you tell no one. My dad, before the outbreak, was a little batty. He made certain we could take care of and defend ourselves by whatever means necessary. We researched things that probably put us on some kind of FBI watch list. He bought books for reference."

His face is skeptical, "Anarchist's Cookbook?"

I snort, "That thing is over forty years old. It's outdated and overrated."

He nods approvingly. "I thought about that, but never had the need for explosives, yet. It might be good to know."

"I also haven't used the skills myself. There are huge risks of it backfiring on you." I think about Harley and his merry band of cowards. "I wish I still had those books. I left them behind, but I have the basic knowledge."

"You think we can get some at a bookstore somewhere?"

"Maybe. We might not be able to find the same ones I had, but there are hundreds of other resources, too."

He holds out his hand, "Done." I shake it by way of agreement. "We'll patrol tonight with Guido's men. You need to learn how to shoot those guns. We'll meet back here tomorrow, and I'll go over the others." He waves around at his arsenal. "It could come in handy if you ever get stuck in a situation where that's all you have to use."

"Makes sense. I'll see you tonight." I tuck the revolver in my boot, and the pistols in my pants. Safety on. I need a holster of some kind, but it's not a priority at the moment. I throw the extra magazines in my pack. I feel like a gun locker. Reece nods, and I'm dismissed.

My whole outlook on guns seems silly now, but the true test will be when I shoot one.

I walk back to check on Rudy and Mac. Being afternoon, they should be awake by now. Having goals and some sort of schedule feels good. I do well with a routine. Standing in front of the door, I take a Bersa out of my pants, and slip the magazine out, so I won't shoot by accident. I hold it in a traditional police officer stance, and kick the door open.

"Freeze!" I yell, in a deep voice. Rudy and Mac jump about two feet in the air, even though they're sitting down. I laugh, walking into the room. "I've always wanted to do that."

Mac chuckles a little nervously. Rudy says, "Ha. Hilarious."

"What?" I ask as I wag the gun around. "It's not loaded." I click the clip back into place, and stick it back into my jeans, taking a good look at them. Rudy obviously showered and shaved. His eye is swollen and bruised. Mac just looks tired.

"I didn't think you could get any sexier then you come storming in with a semiautomatic pistol." Mac says, as if it truly surprises him.

"I'm learning the good stuff tomorrow." I beam, "How is your ass feeling?"

"I just changed the bandages, and it hurts." He chases this comment with moonshine. No wonder he looks tired, but never being shot in my glutes, I wouldn't know how much it hurt.

Rudy waxes his bowstring, without a shirt, and it's quite distracting. His hair hangs forward in a wavy fashion. Refusing to meet my eye, he's really quiet. Well, more than usual, and I get the feeling I was a topic of conversation. Glancing at both of them, I ask, "What's going on?" Mac glares at Rudy. I cross my arms.

Rudy clears his throat, "Mac wants to help with the famished later. He's getting restless." His eyes follow his bow string as his neck colors a little. "He needs to wait at least a week."

I look at Mac, who still glares at Rudy, referring to something unsaid. "Fine, you don't have to say anything. I don't need you to." His face softens as he looks at me, "I think I can get to my own room now."

Rudy glares right back at Mac, and his neck flames so red that his ears start to turn. "You're the one to talk." He growls from the depths of his belly at Mac.

"Okay, what the hell is going on?" The testosterone's so thick I might choke from it.

Mac shrugs. Rudy doesn't look at me.

"Fucking fine!" I utter. "Mac, I can help you back to your place, but I want to eat first." Walking over to my box, I dig around, already losing my appetite. Rudy gets up and hands me an orange. When I glance at him, he smiles apologetically at me. "Thanks." I want to talk to him alone, but it will have to wait.

It's slow going to Mac's room. When we finally arrive, I check his bandage to make sure he's not bleeding. "Mac? Are you okay?" He sees his messed up bed I hadn't bothered to make back up. I almost snort a laugh at the annoyance in his eyes. It fades when he realizes he'll be using it.

His brow furrows and he tilts his head to the side, "You mean other than the hole in my arse?" I nod. "I'm fine. Just glad to be back in my room." He puts his face into the pillow. "Mmm...smells like you."

I laugh. "Well, I'm glad I showered yesterday." He shrugs as if that didn't matter, but I know better. I put his moonshine and water next to his bed. He's not gulping it a good sign. I wipe a rag across his forehead, and he grabs my wrist. Stunned by the sudden gesture, my eyes go wide as I peer into his. They're searching, and turn with a mischievous glint.

He leans forward, testing. Needing to see where this might go, I don't pull back. When the rag falls from my hand, I wrap my fingers in his glorious curls and pull him to me. I close my eyes, letting the sensation of our lips meeting for the first time take over, soft and caressing, and my nerves ignite some electrical vibes from my lips to my lower region as our kiss deepens.

Smelling like his own heady, cedarscent, he reminds me of campouts in the woods with yummy, gooey marshmallows. I taste oranges and moonshine. The man knows how to use his full lips to his advantage, but then again, I do too.

I reluctantly pull away for air, breathing a little ragged. He is too, still pulling off a half-cocky smirk and a look of amazement, he stares at me.

My stomach flip-flops. I need to go before I do something I won't regret, not wanting to jump on him like an animal, and hurt him more.

"I have to go meet Reece soon," I say as calmly as I can manage.

He grumbles, "Wish I could go with you."

"I don't want you to get shot again."

"No, I know you'll be great. Just hold it steady, and it'll be fine." It seems our little moment's gone for now. I block out other dirty thoughts. It's been a long time. Too long.

Sitting up next to the bed, I practice removing the clip with speed, and do a couple rounds of loading it, stopping before my fingers get too sore.

I turn to look at Mac, and he watches me. "Will you still help me with the bow?"

He snorts, "I think I'm proud to say you don't need it."

My lips twitch, "Didn't think you would turn down a chance to spend time with me."

"No Sunshine," he picks up a lock of hair and plays with it. "It's a compliment."

"I know." I take a deep breath, "I know you're getting restless. Maybe you can go out to the targets tomorrow with me. We can bring a blanket so you can lie down."

He nods as I stand up, "Will you come back here tonight?" He asks as he grabs my hand. I pause. He notices my reluctance and looks elsewhere. Peering back up at me, he gestures with his hand. "You should probably talk to Rudy. I'll see you tomorrow." I smile, relieved and lean down to kiss him again.

"Bye," I whisper on his lips.

Chapter 24.

An hour later, Reece and I sit on a roof watching the sunset. The wind brings a chilly breeze as leaves float down the streets. Sticky tar coats the rooftop. I imagine it being pungent and tacky in the heat of summer. Reece snacks on old and stale Cheetos, crunching after every crinkle of the bag.

I laugh. His eyebrows furrow over his Original KD sunglasses, sunglasses specifically made for wearing with a helmet. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing. It's just that somehow you balance eating and smoking a joint at the same time." True to my conviction, I abstain this time.

He blows out a cloud of the pungent smoke, and crunches another Cheeto between his teeth at the same time. "Like a real man," Reece says proudly. We both laugh.