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So I planned trips, I kept adding to the coffers.
I took trips out here and there to take out some baddies when I was feeling restless and daring.
But the whole point of those trips were not to be seen and to keep all my focus on the zombies, no other task.
Loading up supplies was risky. You had to focus on what you were doing while still trying to be hyper-aware of your surroundings.
I said my farewells to Buffy, leaving the door open for her, worried that if I didn't make it back, she would have no way to feed herself. If she could go out onto the deck, I imagined she could snag herself a fish if she tried, or even one of the birds that visited, could drink out of the water catchment systems I had set up.
I mean, rationally, I knew she likely wouldn't make it either, but I had to hope.
Always.
Then I made my way across town to the grocery store I hadn't hit yet, mostly because it had been new before the end of the world, and I didn't know my way around it, which made it risky.
But it could still be full of canned goods and dried rice and beans, all that gross crap that would keep me alive even if I had to gag it down.
Heart thumping, I made my way through the store, stocking everything into a blissfully silent cart, feeling—like I always did—that I was doing something wrong when I didn't bring everything up to a register to check out.
"Oh, cute," I whispered to myself, grabbing a little set of cat toys from an end-cap before I cleared out the books, before finally making my way back out the back where I'd come in, liking that the building created a secluded little L-shape which prevented anyone from coming up behind me while I loaded my SUV.
I'd just quietly slammed my trunk when I heard it.
It was a hard sound to describe.
Like a growling mixed with that "mmm" sound people would make when trying some amazing food for the first time.
That was what they sounded like.
Shit.
Shit shit, double shit.
My head whipped up, seeing one of them several feet from the front of my car.
Just one.
But there was never just one.
They roamed in packs.
My hands moved immediately, instinct kicking in, grabbing my bow and an arrow, loading up, arms raising as the noise got louder.
But before I could send the arrow shooting, there was a glint of metal, then a lot of red as the zombie's head ripped clean off his body.
"What the..." I started to whisper to myself.
But then there the dealer of the beheading was, massive sword down by his side, hulking body no worse for the wear.
I knew that body.
I knew every hard edge of that body, its hot spots, its scars.
"Junie?" an old, familiar, rough voice asked, shock clear in his voice. "How the fuck did you survive this long?" he asked.
That right there, in flesh and blood, looking somehow better than he had when I'd last seen him, was Watts.
My ex asshole.
The man I'd wasted three years of my life on, only to have him unceremoniously dump me via text with a simple, "I can't do this anymore."
He'd blocked me after, refusing to give me any reason, any closure, leaving me scrambling for months afterward. Confidence shattered, I went out drinking and dancing too much with friends, fell into a few regrettable beds with practical strangers, tried to fix my shattered heart with Band-Aids and Elmer's Glue.
To no avail.
You could say that I was still not "over it."
Seeing as I had comforted myself in low moments with the idea of zombies ripping his cold heart right out of his chest.
"You gonna put that bow down now?" he asked, cool, cocky, the same old bastard he always was.
"I haven't decided yet," I shot back, glaring at him.
It was annoying that he seemed to use all his abundant free time to work out even more than he used to, making his shoulders wider, his chest stronger, his legs resembling tree limbs under his well-fitting black jeans.
He was all in black, in fact, which had always been a good look for him. It went well with his black hair, his dark eyes, his olive skin.
Age had chiseled his features a bit more too, sharpening his jaw, making his cheekbones etch a bit deeper.
The asshole had no right to look so good at the end of the world.
I got a low, rumbling, all-too-appealing chuckle from him at my words as he rolled his neck.
"You're welcome, Junebug," he said, waving the tip of his sword down at the body at his feet.
"I wasn't going to thank you," I told him, lowering my bow, but not putting it away. "I was going to take care of it myself."
