Page 50 of Uncontrolled

Riveted on her partner, she does what I ask. “He’s really alive again?”

I wonder if she thought this was a trick. An attempt to arrest her where she ended up tabloid fodder in an article about stupid criminals. As if on cue, the guy sucks an alarmingly large breath.

The shotgun fires. I leap to cover Christopher as the scattershot hits concrete and ricochets. The weapon clatters against the ground and I wince, not sure if it’s going to discharge a second time.

For a long moment, we’re silent in our shock.

“I’m sorry!” she blurts.

I grab Christopher, run my frantic touch over his arms, chest, any skin, checking for wounds. When I find none, I grab his face and wrench it toward mine. “Are you hit?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his palm presses high on my ribcage on the spot I took the bullet at the cabin. Reaching for him, I cup either side of his neck, lock my fingers, and draw us together. His forehead knocks against mine as a rush of emotions swallows me. I cannot lose him. I won’t.

I lower my voice to a whisper. “We’re okay, right?”

He nods against me, once.

“What…the…?” our formerly dead bank robber murmurs from the ground beside us. He probes his neck.

“Welcome back to the land of the living!” I announce, as if this is some grand game. “Please don’t pick at your stitches.” Stepping out of Christopher’s grip, I cock a thumb at the girl. “Once you’re both in the car, head somewhere safe.”

“Here’s pretty safe,” she argues.

“‘Here’ has neighbors who heard a gunshot in what I’m guessing is a vacant garage of a vacant house? You two need to skedaddle.”

“But the car?” she says.

It’s a question for good reason. The rear window is spider-webbed with at least three bullet holes marring the glass. Not to mention the blood. To say it’ll attract unwanted attention is an understatement.

“Stick to the back roads?” I offer.

She makes a move to help her partner to his feet. As she does, she nods at us. “Where’s your car?”

“We walked,” I say. Hopefully, her alternative plan didn’t entail stealing my non-existent ride. If so, she’s screwed.

She drags her dude toward the passenger side of the Lincoln. He’s wobbling on Bambi legs, about to lose consciousness again. “Yeah, well, you can’t go anywhere like that,” she says.

I’m a Pollock painting of gore. Christopher isn’t much better. We wouldn’t make it to the end of the driveway without someone calling the cops, let alone the five-minute jog home. Wearing my clothes inside out won’t help. I’m in a tank top and jean shorts, and every bit of skin showing is sticky with blood.

The utilities in the house might still be on, but I’m not eager to add breaking and entering to today’s list of activities, especially since her gun discharged. A could-be-a-firework type noise, a strange car pulling into the garage, a scream. With nosy neighbors, one of those draws attention. Two mean a phone call to authorities. We just gave them a trifecta.

If the cops show up here and find Christopher and I covered in blood, me with a bag full of syringes, needles, and knives? Our Wednesday will be more interesting than either of us prepared for.

“Any chance you two were planning an epic getaway?” I ask, sizing up the guy, then Christopher. “Suitcases packed?”

To my surprise, she nods.

“Perfect,” I manage. Our luck is turning. She’s taller than me, but yoga pants make the world go round. “I’ll take a hundred bucks off your fee for the resurrection. You’re going to sell us some clothes.”

Ploy

The gore-covered strands of Allie’s hair leave red lines on my borrowed shirt as we hurry toward the apartment. The sweatpants and T-shirt I’m wearing smell like stale cigarette smoke and mildew. A persistent ring in my ears dulls the traffic noise.

We clear the last crosswalk and, together, breach the gate onto the path splitting the rose garden and go up the stairs, down the hall, through the door she opens. I close it behind her, lock it, slide the chain, and then I lean, my forehead balanced on the warm wood.

“I need to tell you some—” I start before the words strangle in my throat.

I look at my pack, still in the corner. I keep acting like Allie’s the one who’s going to bail, but I’m the one who didn’t take the drawer she offered, the space she made for me in the closet. I’m the one packed. I’m the one with a foot out the door.

---