Need to stretch my writing muscles

No one greets you at the petrol station, either, and no one stops John when he rifles through what’s left inside.

You haven’t resorted to stealing yet. Even when the shelves in the local store ran bare, your cupboards emptied, and government rations trickled in unpredictably, you resisted. Even when John offered to stand watch for you in return, you rattled off a lie.

‘Course, a couple hours out, you regret your choice.

John chews on jerky, while you run through every book you can recall—titles, authors, characters—listing them in your head to ignore the hunger pangs.

It’s a good distraction. Good enough to distract you from where you tread.

You don’t realize he’s led you off course until your broken suitcase hits a rock and nearly launches out of your grasp.

Your brow tightens as you look up, watching him stride ahead, beneath the canopy of the bosky lane branching off the road. You glance back at the stretch you’re leaving behind—an empty ribbon of pavement running on and on toward the highway you’re meant to follow. There’s no sign of life or movement to break its endless gray ribbon, but you know what to expect. The route John’s taking you winds into quieter country.

“Wait,” you call, catching his attention, and hook a thumb over your shoulder. “I thought we were sticking to the main road.”

John frowns. “No. Side roads or no roads from here on out. Less traffic, less trouble. We’ve seen enough people for one day.”

You scoff. Enough people. A few scattered figures in dirty windows and other small groups hurrying along elsewhere. No one has come near, no threats or suspicious glances. No drunk men seeking retribution.

“We’ve barely seen anyone.”

He shrugs, the faintest edge of frustration in his voice. “More than I’d like. I don’t want to deal with more than necessary.”

You don’t know why you feel the sudden urge to poke this bear, only that you shouldn’t. The men who passed the bakery have had him on edge all day. Plus, he’s armed, and clearly trained. More importantly, he’s the first person to offer help without any weird strings attached. You could do worse. So many must be doing worse. You could’ve been picked off already, as he’d put it. Dead on the floor of a Greggs after some end-time gallivanters had their way with you.

And it’s not that his company is unpleasant—you can’t really judge, having exchanged maybe a dozen words since leaving the bakery—but you can’t stop your thoughts from turning unkind. Can’t help but think leaving with him was a mistake, that you should’ve tried harder at turning him down. You used to be good at that, at keeping people at arm’s length. At least on your own, you never felt like deadweight. You could stop when you wanted without guilt. Stop and smell the roses.

But now? A sour mood creeps in where a nasty sidestitch and hunger have gnawed clean through your threadbare civility.

“Not a people person, huh?”

His jaw ticks, and then he turns away, trudging on without waiting.

You watch him go for a moment, then let out an exasperated sigh. Now you’re the prick.

When you stop for a late lunch and to relieve yourselves, you tell yourself the mature thing to do would be to extend an olive branch. You don’t have anything worth sharing, but you do have a little stash you’ve been rationing—one licorice allsort a day, your guilty pleasure.

You approach him with the bag open, holding it out like a peace offering. His expression changes rapid fire. Wariness, then curiosity, then an unmistakable grimace.

“So, these are my favorites…I know the flavor’s…divisive, but would you like one?”

John frowns, his face pinching like you’ve tried to slip him poison, and gives a short shake of his head.

“Didn’ know people actually ate those.”

“More for me,” you mutter, stuffing the bag back into your backpack.

You think you could bludgeon him with that olive branch and feel better for it.

It’s the sixth time you stop after lunch that finally breaks it—the brittle thread of tension wound tight around both of you all day.

The culprit is the suitcase. Your stupid suitcase. The lone working wheel catches again, grinding over the uneven dirt road, the piece of plastic hoovering up pebbles and grit that wedge themselves in the housing. Every few dozen steps, it seizes entirely, forcing you to squat and dig the stones out with your fingers until your nails are packed with dust.

By the time you’ve wrestled the latest one free, John’s turned back, closing the distance in an impatient march.

“This isn’t working.”

You glance up just in time to see his shadow fall over you, already reaching for the handle. You hug it close to your chest, twisting away and stumbling.

“Hey!”

“Give it here–”

He wrenches it from your grasp with a grunt, as though he hadn’t expected the weight. A flicker of satisfaction stirs within you, then dies. When you bought it, you’d spent weeks researching the best model with the most storage, the one that promised to survive a lifetime of travel. All those trips you fantasized about. Now every available inch of that space is crammed to the seams—the remainders of your life boiled down to a couple compartments.

“What the bloody hell do you have in here?”

“My stuff!” You lunge for the handle, but he yanks it higher, out of reach.

“Christ, no wonder this isn’t working,” he repeats flatly. “You’re hauling your flat around. Waste of energy.”

Heat prickles along your neck. “Well, that’s all I have. Maybe you, since you clearly don’t have a problem lifting it, could help.”

A dry laugh escapes as he shakes his head. “I’m not carrying this for you. Leave it behind, or make do with less.”

“I’m not ditching it and I can’t get rid of anything in there. I’ve already whittled it down as much as I can.”

Neither of you budge. Him staring down with that flinty, unreadable gaze, and you glaring up at him as though sheer willpower might change his mind. He’s the first to crack, lowering the bag to the ground to check his watch.

“Not gonna make it as far as I’d like before nightfall.”

You grab the handle of your bag and tug it away from him. “I’m going as fast as I can. Aren’t we burning daylight just standing here arguing about it?”

He crosses his arms. “You certain there’s nothing you can do without?”

Your jaw sets. “Look, if you want to leave me behind, do so now. I’d prefer that over waking up and finding you gone.”

He exhales sharply through his teeth. “‘m not going to leave you. Now c’mon,” He tips his head toward the unpaved road. “You’re right. We’re wasting time.”

You bristle, refusing to move for a beat. Something bitter slips out under your breath, but you heave your bag up and follow.

You manage a few more miles before John calls it for the day, steering you off the road toward a small copse of trees set back from the road as your campsite.

While you set up your spot, you survey your surroundings. A couple towns dot the horizon, the occasional car creeps along the now-distant highway, and smoke curls lazily from nearby farmhouses. The trees offer shelter, and if you close your eyes, the grass and moss beneath your feet feels like down. It’s not a bad place to rest.

John drops with his back against a tree, hunched over a map, and you watch him while you sort your dinner. After hours of following and staring at his back, you haven’t learned anything new, but your first impression of him is reinforced. If you had to pick one word for him it would be rigid. In posture, in gait, in attitude. The silences that bookended the suitcase argument now read as a deliberate choice. He’s clearly used to having things his way, whether by command or, judging how he loomed over you, by making the alternative unappealing. And, if intimidation fails, you assume that’s what the firepower is for.

All of that should put you off trying to make amends and make nice, but if you’re going to journey with this stranger, you might as well attempt to turn him into a collegial associate.

Halfway through a can of tuna you eat with your fingers, you try to strike up conversation.

“So…Hereford, huh? Your family there?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

Not even a grunt in response.

You pinch another shred of tuna. “It’s got cows, right?”

“Some.”

“Mm. Cool. So…What did you do before all this?”

“This and that.”

You could tear his beard out. So much for smoothing things over. Turning more fully toward him, you glare. “You know, I really can’t make heads or tails of you.”

He doesn’t look up. “What’s that now?”

“You insist on escorting me across the country, but won’t say more than ten words to me at a time.”

“Darl,” He stretches the word out, tongue dragging over his teeth. His eyes stay fixed on the map, burning holes through the paper. The whiskers on his cheeks twitch with a low, weary chuckle, like a tomcat chattering at a bird just out of reach. “I reckon I’ve had enough lip for one day. You think that polite girl from the bakery’s gonna make another appearance, or am I stuck carting this version around?”

At last, he peers up, giving you the same look he’d given that morning. 

“Forgive me if I’m not feeling chatty at the end of a very long day. I’ve been recalculating how far we’ll travel each day to account for your overly burdensome luggage.” His eyes cut toward the battered suitcase with the busted wheel. “How many words was that?”

When you pop a piece of fish into your mouth instead of answering, his cheeks lift into a wide, mocking grin then drops his gaze back to the map.

You finish your sad little meal in silence, sufficiently scolded. For a long while it stays that way, broken only by the rustle of the wind through the grass and the faint shuffle of paper in his hands. Until he moves.

He pulls the mirror from his pack, followed by a small med kit. You watch as he peels the bandage from his forehead, wincing when it tugs at dried blood. It looks better than it did last night, though you know fresh blood has a way of making everything seem worse.

You wonder how much it must’ve hurt. You’ve always thought yourself lucky for never having been injured badly your whole life, though that luck probably came from your habit of staying indoors whenever possible. The worst you can remember are scrapes from your calf all the way to your hip when, learning to ride a bike, you’d forgotten there were brakes. You’d howled while your mom patched you up, but your dad had beamed. Told you he was proud. How brave you were. That he couldn’t wait to take you on real rides along the trails.

It never happened. He’d knock on your door, call out that he’d be leaving in fifteen minutes, and you’d stay put—watch from the window with a book in hand while he strapped up the rack and drove off. Always slow down the driveway, as if you might still come running after him.

The memory shoots pain clean through your chest now, dredging up thoughts of your parents at home waiting for the end at home. Of your childhood bike still gathering dust in the garage.

You swipe a tear from your eye before it has the chance to fall.

John balls up the soiled bandage and tosses it aside, then sets the mirror against his bag. It refuses to balance while he unscrews a tube, slipping sideways every time. He mutters under his breath and tries again.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re up. 

“Here.” You pluck the mirror from his bag just as it topples again, and settle on the ground in front of him. Holding it below your chin, you catch his eyes.

He stares, unflinching, but doesn’t stop you. Instead, he daubs ointment onto his fingertips and smears it over the healing cut.

This close, you catch a real whiff of him. You hadn’t noticed before. Panic stole your senses when he had his hand literally over your mouth, but now it hits you. A full day’s walk has left both of you a little…well, ripe is too harsh a word. Deodorant, hand wipes, and rainwater have been your only real options for days.  You’ve got a couple of soap bars buried in your overstuffed suitcase, saving them for a proper wash—a lake, a stream, even a bucket of water would do—but his scent is different. Masculine. Rugged. A musk that instantly makes your mind conjure the image of him shirtless. You grip the glass a little tighter, pressing its back against your palms to force the thought away.

“Was hoping I’d see you again.” He suddenly says.

“Excuse me?”

“The polite girl,” he replies, glancing up. “This your way of apologizing? Making yourself useful?”

Your cheeks warm instantly. “I dunno.”

“Angle that a little higher, and I might accept it.”

You huff, catching the barest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. He tears the bandage to length, presses it over the cut, and smooths the edges with his thumbs.

He’s handsome when he smiles for real and means it. Then he has the nerve to look at you, and it seeps into his eyes as well.

“Looks good,” you mutter, passing the mirror back and straightening quickly, brushing your thighs and bum with your hands. “Did you…hit your head?” Did someone else hit your head?

His mouth flattens but the look in his eye doesn’t dissipate. “Something like that,” he says with a tone that tells you the subject remains closed.

You nod, not pressing in order to keep the tenuous peace, even though you really want to, and retreat. You gather what you need for the night while there’s light left, and wander into the field a little, brushing through the taller grass just beyond the stand of trees.

You pause there after you dress, hands resting lightly at your sides, letting the gentle sway of the stalks brush against your fingertips. The sky overhead has darkened to a muted indigo, streaked with the last hints of sunset fading. In the quilt of darkness, that terrible omen, the asteroid, grows larger by the day. You tear your eyes from it, not needing the reminder.

Warm lights pepper the landscape. Fewer than you’d expect, but enough to tug at another memory. Lightning bugs floating through the backyard, weaving between trees and shrubs, caught briefly in your palms to be admired and released again.

Your throat tightens. You don’t know why thoughts of home keep surfacing. You already said goodbye. Weeks spent making peace with never seeing your parents again. Years spent apart before that, so this should all feel familiar by now.

The sound of John moving around camp carries over your shoulder, pulling you back. Having someone around now of all times is muddling all that. Stirring up what you worked hard to settle.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

You jump, clutching your clothes to your chest. He stands there with a toothbrush in hand, stripped down to his base layer, a few hairs peeking from the neckline of the thin shirt. Fuck, he really knows how to creep up on people.

Your throat goes hoarse. “Yeah. It is.”

He studies you for a beat, and you wonder again what he sees.

“You set for the evening? Need anything?”

The offer catches you off guard once more. Even after your spat, he’s accommodating. It’s maddening—prodding at something inside you you’d rather leave untouched.

“I’m set. Goodnight John.”

You march back toward the trees, ignoring the patter in your chest.

“Goodnight, darl,” he says as you pass, “Sleep well.”