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Randy said to tell you it’s in the place y’all fixed a wheelbarrow after the river dried up.
Not too long after I turned seventeen I got a job at the Jolly Burger—one of the many minimum wage jobs I scored in my young life. Two weeks later a cute guy named Randy Winger came in and started chatting me up, and that night we had our first date—if drinking cheap wine and making out at the boat launch could be considered a date. I quit my Jolly Burger job five days later, already deep in the throes of young love and blissfully certain that in a year or so I’d be changing my name to the awesomely cool “Angel Winger.”
Randy’s dad was still living with him back then. Mr. Hank was gruff but kind and never had a problem with me spending the night when things were bad with my dad—though he first made absolutely sure I was above the age of consent. He wasn’t stupid. He knew Randy and I were banging like jackhammers, and he wanted to be sure his son didn’t get in legal trouble. Mr. Hank also sat me down a week or two after Randy and I started dating, and gave me a very detailed lecture about teen pregnancy, STDs, abortion, and contraception. Hearing all this from a grizzled man who watched NASCAR as if it was his religion was disturbing and uncomfortable and more than a little emotionally scarring. That said, it was also damned effective. After he finished, I practically ran to the nearest health department clinic and got on the Pill, which was almost certainly why I didn’t end up as a teen pregnancy statistic.
While Mr. Hank had apparently accepted that two people with raging hormones were going to go at it as often as possible, he made it clear that he didn’t want to hear it going on under his roof. As a result, Randy and I found a variety of places to screw, but our favorite was an old treehouse in a sprawling oak near the back of Randy’s property. Draped in camo netting for extra concealment and hard to find unless you knew which game trail to follow, it was the perfect pot den and sex nook for a horny couple. But the most memorable fuck was the time Randy wanted to try a bunch of different positions from a sex book he’d swiped. Most were okay, but about a minute into the wheelbarrow position my arms started to hurt, and I told Randy that my wheelbarrow was broken. He thought it was the funniest thing ever and, after that, whenever he wanted to go to the treehouse to fuck, he’d ask me if my wheelbarrow needing fixing.
In other words, I knew without a doubt that the weapons were stashed in the treehouse. There was no way Judd would ever figure out that part of Randy’s clue. But it was the second part of the clue that had me wondering.
I fretted as I sailed down the highway toward the east end of the parish. “After the river dried up” couldn’t possibly mean the spillway collapse last year. Randy and I sure as shit hadn’t fixed any wheelbarrows since then, though Judd had no way to know that. There was one possible location that came to mind—one that did make sense and would be a horribly good place to keep a couple of people prisoner.
When Randy was in high school, he had a buddy whose family owned a fishing camp on the East Kreeger River, and several times a year he and his buddy would go out there to fish and swim and just hang out. Unfortunately, during Randy’s senior year, the East Kreeger River decided to shift its course, as rivers do, and the fishing camp ended up stranded a mile from the new riverbank. The buddy and his family moved away not long after, and Randy took over the camp and made it a man-cave hideaway. Later he brought in other friends, including Judd and Coy, making them all swear to keep the location secret. And, of course, Randy had taken me there a time or two without the guys knowing. Hey, we needed another place to fuck.
Judd hadn’t started going to the camp until years after the river shifted, and at the moment I was counting on him not twigging to the “river dried up” bit of the clue and realizing Randy had tipped me off. But what if Judd was there at the camp with the guys? He’d told me he would exchange Randy and Coy for the weapons, in which case he’d be there right now to collect them for the swap.
“Yeah, right,” I said then added, “Ha!” for good measure. Judd was a lying piece of shit who had everything to lose if he let Randy and Coy go. Right now he was getting ready to meet, ahem, ambush me at Lock Three.
And, if Judd is at the fishing camp with the guys, I’ll call the cops—anonymously—and let them rescue Randy and Coy, I promised myself.
I made a turn onto a gravel road marked by a bent and rusted sign that said Pickstick Mill Road. After half a mile through towering pines I veered onto a rutted dirt lane then slowed to a snail’s pace. Fresh tire tracks stood out in the drying mud. At least I knew my hunch was right, but my worry ratcheted up a few more notches. Peering ahead, I eased around the last curve, ready to back the hell out of there if I saw another car.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. The clearing was barely large enough to hold three cars, but at the moment nothing but winter-brown grass occupied it. There was no other place to park that didn’t mean a mile hike through the woods, and I couldn’t see Judd putting in that much effort.
As soon as I parked, I grabbed a brain packet from the console and gulped the contents down. Though I couldn’t get super-tanked because of the V12, the snack would bump my senses and reflexes up a tad, doubly helpful since I’d be going in armed with more than my sunny disposition. I popped the glove box open to snag my gun out.
No gun. Cursing, I leaned over and dug through crap, pulled papers out and dumped them onto the front seat. No gun! Shit! I was absolutely positive it had been in there before the Zombie Fest. I’d shoved a gas receipt in and bumped the metal of the barrel.
“Someone stole it,” I murmured in disbelief as the gun refused to materialize. Fuck! It had to have been while I was parked at the Fest. Another ugly truth swept in, and I gritted my teeth. This wasn’t random. No broken windows or any other sign of forced entry. Whoever took it was a pro, most likely some asshole hitting cars in the Fest parking lot. Then again, it was also possible my car had been specifically targeted, though it seemed a lot of risk just to take away my gun.
Fine. I didn’t need a gun to kick ass. I had plenty of weapons at my disposal: My cutting wit, my hot temper, and my never-say-die attitude. Oh, and the tire iron from the trunk of my car.
Beyond the small clearing, pines crowded together with water oaks and swamp hickory, thick enough to hide anything past a hundred feet. I’d only ever been out here four or five times, and the last had been around three years ago. But a towering magnolia marked the direction as effectively as a neon sign, and closer inspection revealed scuffs and crushed grass along the old game path we’d used.
Spurred by urgency, I broke into a jog and threaded through the trees. Even if Judd wasn’t with the guys now, he might return at any moment to check on them.
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Or kill them.
Eventually, the trees thinned to reveal a small building that looked completely out of place in the middle of the woods, like the witch’s house in Hansel and Gretel, but with less candy. About half the size of a single-wide trailer, with a corrugated tin roof and wood siding stained green in patches by moss, it rested on low pilings at the edge of a shallow valley where the river used to run. In place of the water a forest of young trees now stood, dominated by fast-growing tallows and peppered throughout with the small white flowers of blackberry vines.
Clamping down on the urge to shout Randy’s name, I crept onto the sagging excuse for a porch and peered cautiously through a Plexiglas window. My knees wobbled in relief at the sight of Randy sitting slouched against the far wall, while Coy—nicely alive—lay curled up on the floor a few feet away. Each was secured to a thick 8" x 8" support pillar by chains padlocked around their necks. Two gallon jugs of water sat nearby along with another plastic jug that held about three inches of what looked like piss. And, best of all, no sign of Judd.
The door was unlocked, and I yanked it open. Randy jerked in shock, fury blazing in his eyes until he registered that I wasn’t Judd. Anger stirred in my belly at the sight of a dark bruise that spread across his jaw.
“Angel.” He let out a shaky laugh. “Coy, wake up! She did it!”
Coy sat up with a groan, blinked at me blearily with one eye. My rage climbed higher as I realized the other was swollen shut. Dried blood flaked off his cheek, and his smile revealed a broken front tooth.
“You did it,” Randy said with a lopsided grin. “I knew you’d figure it out.”
A warm flush of pride went through me. “It was a good clue,” I said then crouched to inspect the chain and padlock at his neck. Not heavy duty, but no way could I break either one, even at top zombie strength.
“I guess I kinda knew in my gut that Judd was up to something,” Randy said, “which is why I hid the weapons in a place he didn’t know about. I was crossing fingers big time that you’d get what I meant about the river. I counted on him thinking I was talking ’bout the spillway.” He winced. “Wish I coulda figured out a way to tell you to bring bolt cutters.”
I snorted. “That would’ve been nice, but I think I have something in my car that’ll work. Are either of y’all hurt more than just banged up?”
“Coy caught it worse,” Randy said with a worried glance at his friend.
