“Maybe,” Noah’s voice is flat, as he takes in the scene. “But we really need to get moving.” He places a hand on my shoulder, as my eyes trail over the body one more time.
I killed him. Noah knocked him out, but I killed him.
It leaves a sick feeling in my gut, but I don’t get a chance to dwell on it, as Noah guides me away from it all, blocking the view with his body.
“Let’s raid the pantry one last time,” Noah’s voice is monotone, and completely devoid of any emotion at all. “We need to get whatever it is that we need and leave.”
He’s being repetitive.
“I know that,” I tell him, scrunching my brows. “You already said that.”
“Yeah, but I’m going to keep saying it, because both of us are at risk of going into shock right now from this whole shitshow. That’s the last thing we need.”
“I’m not going to go into shock,” I mumble, letting him damn near push me to the kitchen. “I’ve done this before.”
Noah pauses, and then lets out a light breath. “I know. I have, too, but we’re under a lot of stress right now.”
I open up the pantry and grab what makes sense to take with us, filling up the remaining space in the open backpack. “This should be enough…”
“It’s going to be an uncomfortable ride.” He glances down at my shoes, and then across the floor, letting out a sigh. “No footprints. That’s good. Come on. I didn’t have a chance to testout the bike again. It could die on us.” He talks faster as we head for the backdoor, his nerves becoming more apparent.
Maybe Noah is going into shock.
“If it doesn’t start, we’ll take the truck and camper, dump the camper somewhere along the way,” Noah keeps talking, shaking his head as we dart across the yard. Buster, the dog, is nowhere in sight.
Probably back to taking care of the goats or something.
When we reach the barn, Noah slides the door open and steps inside. He heads straight for the bike, weaving around and leaving me behind.
I watch as he hops on the modified thing, immediately trying to start it. It kicks to life on the first try, and Noah turns to me.
“Look for straps, and I’ll grab a couple of helmets I found in the storage area. We’ll tie off to the sissy bar.” He starts stacking and adjusting, folding the motorcycle tarp tiny enough to fit in his duffel bag. I find two small straps in one of the tops of the toolboxes and return to him, helping him tie everything off.
Then, he swings his leg over and pats the back of the small cushion, “Come on. We need to get out of here.”
“We didn’t even check if the plates were up to date,” I reason.
“I did. They are.” Noah reaches out and tugs at me. “Let’s go.”
I nod, swing my leg over, and cling to Noah like my life depends on it.
45
NOAH
There’sno wind blocks out here, and it fucking assaults us.
It rips through the thin cotton of my shirt, whipping it against the fresh scabs on my chest and the throbbing, mostly healed bullet hole in my arm. I lean forward over the handlebars of the Knucklehead, trying to cut through the flat, endless plains of the Texas Panhandle, but without a windshield or the protective steel cage of a car, we are entirely at the mercy of the elements.
And the elements are brutal today.
But it’s better to focus on the misery of this ride than the fuckery we just left behind us. God knows what the cops are going to do with that.
I know that house is covered in our DNA. My mind unwantedly flashes with the potential of the CSI teams outside of the house, pulling Bill’s dead body from inside.
Yeah, the fucker was a monster. But we just pointed a big, glaring finger at ourselves, giving away our location.
And that’s bad. That’s so fucking bad.
