No Easy Way Out

  She waited a few minutes.

  “DMaster?”

  No response.

  He’d said he’d leave his radio on. He’d said he’d wait for her.

  She threw the radio in its drawer and kicked it closed. She would not cry. This was baby crap. This was not who she was.

  But her dad was sick. And she’d been screwed over by the first guy she’d kissed. And her best friend had bailed. Maybe this was an okay time to cry.

  The door creaked. Lexi froze—security was on freaking paranoia steroids. Would they have the audacity to haul her into jail for hiding here?

  “Lex?” It was Maddie.

  Lexi wiped her face with her shirt. “Yeah, hey.”

  “Bastard didn’t show?”

  “I feel like an ass.”

  Maddie flipped on the light and joined Lexi on the desk. “Boys suck.” She put an arm around her.

  Lexi dropped her head onto Maddie’s shoulder. Maybe all her friends hadn’t abandoned her.

  • • •

  The IMAX was dark when Shay awoke. She knew Ryan was beside her—even after only a day of being together, she could sense his body as a discrete element in the universe. Some people snored at the front. She recalled a party of some sort earlier. It must have already kicked.

  She tried to piece together the events of the last few hours and only came away with scraps. She remembered finding Marco and his new friends, Ryan’s friends. She remembered their ridiculously ill-thought-out plan to invade the Stuff-A-Pal stockroom, and she remembered being punched in the face by a large man with a Taser. Shay touched her eye and winced. Beams of light shone from the projection room, so someone else was awake, but for the most part, things were quiet. Quiet enough for Shay to actually think.

  Fumbling in the dim light, she found her bag against the rear wall near the rumpled sweatshirt she’d been using as a pillow—it was just like Ryan to think of things like pillows even when sleeping on the floor of a movie theater. Shay pulled out the journal and light pen and began to make a list.

  Reasons to Go:

  Preeti

  Safer in the mall (She put a question mark next to that.)

  Less chance of getting punched in the face (She put a question mark next to that too.)

  Better food, beds, bathrooms, etc.

  The list of reasons to stay was singular: Ryan.

  It was selfish, to want Ryan. She liked being with him. She felt better with him by her side. But he didn’t need her. He had his friends. They’d survived all this time together. Ryan and his little clan were good at surviving.

  Preeti, on the other hand, was not. Shay had failed as a sister for days now. She prayed that Kris had taken care of her while Shay was out of commission. Not that it was fair to leave that task to him. Shay owed him an apology, Preeti an apology, her parents—they must be completely freaking out. But she had to start somewhere, and that somewhere had to be Preeti. She would make things up to Preeti. She would go back and take care of her, protect her. The fierce animal thing that had awoken in Shay was still there—it would help them both. Especially now that things in the mall were so terrible. Whatever it took, she would help Preeti survive.

  Shay closed the book, clicked off the pen, and laid her head on Ryan’s shoulder. She would miss this. She could actually sleep with his arms around her. She kissed his shirtsleeve and nuzzled in for one last night together.

  DAY

  TWELVE

  T

  W

  O

  A.M.

  Marco and Mike sat in the projection booth for a while in silence, Mike staring at the wall from his office chair, and Marco first standing, then sitting against the wall nearest the door in case he needed to run. After an uncomfortably long period of time, Mike pulled a cardboard box from beneath the computer station that operated the IMAX projector. The box contained several bottles of what the label proclaimed to be thirty-year-old scotch.

  “Private stock?” Marco asked.

  “No need to waste quality time on those people,” he said, jerking his head toward the theater. He swiveled around to face Marco and held out a plastic cup. “First sip tastes like ass, but then you can’t taste anything.”

  Marco took the cup. He was unsure whether this was a request or an order. He decided the gentlemanly thing to do was to share a drink with his coworker. He downed the stuff in one swallow and tried not to vomit.

  Mike sniggered. “Now that’s what I call a sip.”

  Marco tendered the cup back to Mike.

  Mike poured himself another. “This is what my dad drinks,” he said, swirling the stuff around. He then downed it in a single shot. “No wonder he’s such a dick.”

  Marco did not feel so great.

  “You look like you need another,” Mike said.

  Marco took the cup. If Mike thought he was man enough to drink it, Marco would be that man.

  He drank this one in sips and what do you know, the stuff did taste better the more you drank. Mike rambled on about his dad. The guy had major daddy issues, to put it lightly. Marco thought of his own dad. He wondered if he was working right then. He wondered if his parents had been able to get any time off from work to join the vigil beyond the mall fence. Marco had seen the tiny lights of candles beyond the gates, like people were already mourning the loss of them all.

  He suddenly felt bad for not having called his parents on the CBs. He should have taken time out of his insane hamster wheel of administrative bullcrap to let them know he was still alive. He hoped his parents hadn’t done something crazy like quit their jobs to wait for him. Then again, he kind of wished they did. How much would they have to love him to give up a job for him?

  Time began to ooze out and contract like water. It seemed they’d been talking—well, that Mike had been talking for eons, but also only for like five seconds before he looked at his phone and said, “It’s two.”

  There was no noise from below—the party had died out at some point. Mike’s face was distorted. Marco would look at his eyes, and his mouth would seem far away, but then not. He looked down and saw his cup was full. He didn’t remember filling it. The bottle of scotch was nearly empty. How much had they drank—drunk? Drunken?

  “I have a plan,” Mike said. His words didn’t slur at all.

  Marco focused on the computer screen to keep the room from sliding. “Plan?”

  “For food,” Mike said. “You saw Reynolds cut through the security gate on the security tapes? That’s what we should do. Those assholes will never expect us to cut through the gate.”

  “Cut?” Marco was having trouble with basic concepts.

  “The bolt cutters.” Mike slapped Marco’s face. “They were in the haul from the pancake place.”

  The pain helped to focus Marco. “Bolt cutters. Yes.” When he’d busted into the Sam’s Club, he’d gone through the doors, and security had been watching. But maybe Mike was right. The gate was locked. Why watch it?

  Mike pulled two bottles of Sportade from his box of wonders and tossed one at Marco. “Pound it,” he ordered. “I need you sober.”

  Marco opened the plastic top. He was not sure one bottle of Sportade was going to cut it, but hell if Mike looked like any issue was open for discussion. Marco guzzled the red liquid, which felt like a balm, then stumbled down the stairs after Mike. “Are we getting the troops together?” he asked.

  “No troops,” Mike said, stepping over Ryan’s and Shay’s sleeping bodies and continuing down the empty terraces of the theater toward the weapons stockpile. “This is a stealth mission.”

  Marco paused at the sleepers. Shay was curled against Ryan, and he had his arm slung over her. How dare they look so calm, so happy.

  Mike pulled out the bolt cutters, a machete, which he slung over his shoulder, and a duffel bag. He
handed another duffel to Marco. “Small weapons,” he cautioned. “We need to be able to run.”

  Marco donned Shay’s leather coat—it worked against Tasers, which was good enough for him—and took a bat. They had several. Worst case, he could throw it and run. He put the empty duffel on like a backpack and followed Mike toward the door to the fire stairs.

  The IMAX was situated almost exactly next to the Sam’s Club, only two floors up, so Marco led them to a door into the regular mall that was a little ways away from the main entrance into the service passages in case security had installed additional hidden cameras to monitor the halls surrounding Sam’s. Mike had the walkie-talkie on him and they listened to the full range of bandwidths before deciding this portion of the first floor was free of guards.

  The hallway was pitch-dark—security had extinguished the few safety lights that used to be left on after Lights Out. But it was more than that. Marco looked up and saw no ambient light from the outside world, no stars. Then he remembered some announcement about the skylights being covered over. It was like the government was trying to make life in the mall as craptastic as possible.

  Marco felt in his pocket and found a glow-in-the-dark sticker—a leftover from his party-planning days. He stuck it on the floor outside the service door to mark their escape.

  They felt their way along the hallway, crouched low to the floor to keep from tripping. Dim light glinted from a hole in the wall about fifty feet away, which Marco correctly guessed indicated the gated entrance to the Sam’s Club. Security had left a few lights on inside the store, most likely so guards or hidden cameras could pick up any movement. He and Mike would have to knock out the lights once inside, or just grab whatever food was in reach and leave before anyone noticed they were there.

  Mike took the bolt cutter and positioned its jaws around the thin bars of the gate. The metal snipped apart like string. Mike smiled like even he hadn’t thought it would be this easy. He made quick work of the gate, cutting a hole they could both easily sneak through.

  Marco pointed to the lights. “We grab whatever we can and get out before they even know we were here.”

  Mike nodded like this was obviously the plan. He hopped down the steps and began shoving fistfuls of whatever was in front of him into the duffel. Marco took the next aisle over. He didn’t get three handfuls into the bag before all the lights flashed on in a blinding white glare.

  Marco didn’t wait; he strapped the duffel on his back and ran for the gate. He saw Mike was already there, squeezing through the hole.

  “Stop! We will fire!” Footsteps echoed on the tiles. It was as if security had hoped for an assault on Sam’s to try out a new battle plan.

  Marco slammed against the gate, then shoved himself through the hole. Something hit the links of the fence above him and then a noxious cloud descended, choking him. Mike grabbed Marco by the jacket and tugged him away from the gate. Marco was blind, dependent on Mike to drag him back down the dark hallway. He heard gunfire. Was Mike shooting? No, the noise was too far away. Security was shooting. Shards of broken wall tile peppered Marco’s face. Security was shooting live rounds.

  Mike dragged him back a step. “The card!”

  Marco fumbled in his pocket. Thank god the hall was so dark. Even if security was following, they couldn’t see anything. Cracking open his eyelids to see the reader, Marco noticed flashlight beams slice across the floor. Finally, he dug out the card and opened the door. Mike shoved him through it and followed behind, shutting the door silently behind them. A flash of white illuminated the outline of the door. Security had turned on the hall lights. Had Marco been a second slower with the card, they would have been screwed.

  Marco led them back through the halls, both he and Mike jogging, not wanting to stop until they were safely behind the barricade in the IMAX. It began to seep through Marco’s alcohol-slogged brain that he could have died. That security was no longer threatening to kill him, but actively engaged in the pursuit. It was almost funny, that a loser like him was now considered such a threat to order and stability. It was almost sad. It was almost a compliment.

  • • •

  The lights woke Ryan. He quickly shielded his eyes, then thought to shield Shay’s with his body. Why the hell were the lights on? Was it morning already? He tented his shirt over Shay’s face so that she could keep sleeping, then turned his half-awake attention to the floor of the theater.

  Mike and Marco stood over two half-empty duffels. They were both out of breath and Marco’s face was bright red. The barricade across the stairwell door had been moved, though the door itself was closed.

  Ryan loped down the aisle toward them. “Did security attack?”

  “Not here,” Mike answered.

  Drew sat up on his elbows, checked a phone. “What the hell?” he said, yawning. “It’s the goddamn middle of the night.”

  “Sorry for waking you,” Mike snapped. “We just thought you might want to be prepared in case security attacks.” He explained his and Marco’s failed attempt to steal food from the Sam’s Club. “I swear, it was like they were waiting for us. Like they knew we were going to come in through that gate.”

  “It’s logical,” Marco said, voice sounding choked. “They know the food’s a target. They would concentrate resources there. I imagine it will only get worse from here on out.”

  “Why would you leave without telling anyone?” Ryan felt like this was an obvious question. “We could have all gone in, maybe gotten more food.”

  “You would have left your precious girlfriend to help the team?” Mike glared at him like this was his fault.

  Ryan felt that any direct response would just bring on the fight Mike was looking for. “You should have told someone,” he said. “What if you’d gotten caught?”

  “Who are you, my mother?” Mike said. “We need to set up stations at the two doors, watch for anything in case they followed us.”

  Drew flopped back on the floor. “Screw that,” he said. “Turn the lights off. They’ll never know we’re here.”

  Mike looked ready to shoot Drew. Ryan grabbed Mike’s arm; he smelled like a dive bar: alcohol and sweat. He smelled like Dad. “It’s late,” Ryan said, holding Mike back. “You’re drunk. Calm the hell down and leave it until the morning.”

  Mike wrenched his shoulder, throwing Ryan off. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Still, he listened, slunk back to his skybox and turned off its light. Maybe he’d sleep it off. Maybe things would be better in the morning. Then again, maybe not. Maybe it would be better if he and Shay weren’t here when Mike woke up.

  Marco was using beer from the keg to wash his face. How much had they had to drink? Ryan grabbed a water bottle from the stack near the wall and tapped Marco on the shoulder.

  He didn’t turn. “What do you want?” The thick leather duster Shay had worn lay in a pile at his feet.

  “You get hit with something?” Ryan asked, holding out the water.

  “Tear gas.” Marco took the water and poured it over his face.

  “Mike’s not some superhero,” Ryan said. “He thinks he’s invincible, but he’s just a regular guy.”

  Marco glanced at Ryan like he was a moron. “You think I followed Mike on this little adventure like some drooling sycophant?”

  Ryan had no idea what that word meant, but assumed it was not good. “I think you think Mike has some clue about what he’s doing and I just want you to know he’s as screwed as the rest of us.”

  Marco wiped his face clean with his shirt. His eyes were red and his face splotchy. “Funny you should say that, because he’s dragged your ass back from the abyss how many times? For a clueless douchebag, he seems to be doing pretty well.”

  “I’m just trying to give you some friendly advice,” Ryan said.

  Marco handed him the empty water bottle. “
And let me give you some in return,” he said. “You think Shay is all truth and love? Well, she cozied up to me when she needed something and dropped me like a bag of dirt when I couldn’t help her anymore. So just watch your back, loverboy. You might find a knife in it.”

  Marco slunk to the corner nearest the weapons pile and curled up like a dog against the wall. Ryan returned to where Shay slept. Her hair fanned out from underneath the shirt he’d left covering her face, and her one hand crossed over the other arm, which was tucked under her head. Her body curved around where he’d been sleeping, like they were two pieces of a single whole. Ryan felt sorry for Marco. It was tough liking a girl who didn’t like you back.

  The lights blinked out—Mike must have some master switch up in the projection room. Ryan laid his body down beside Shay and put his arms around her, and she nuzzled into his chest, and he knew that even if she put a knife in his back, this—her and him together—would still be the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  L

  I

  G

  H

  T

  S

  ON

  Lexi heard the mall announcement that morning: Resume your normal schedule. It sounded a lot like “Pretend yesterday never happened,” or “Just kidding about the whole lockdown thing.” But she guessed people were plain happy to get out of their Home Stores, because everyone seemed one notch below giddy at breakfast. Even Maddie, queen of the downers, said something nice about the food.

  “I think this is, like, real powdered egg,” she said, poking another forkful.

  To Lexi, that merely meant more bad news. She recalled the woman in her mother’s office mentioning something about survival rations and using food from the Sam’s Club. If they were serving “real” powdered eggs, that was only because they’d run out of the government-issued freeze-dried food. The downside to more people surviving was that they were consuming resources at a faster rate than had been anticipated by the fleeing government troops, Lexi guessed.