Page 141 of Kings Fear No One
Amos’s nostrils glare, his grip tightening on the handle of his rifle as though tempted to lift it and aim. Any second, he’ll go through with it. He’ll pull the trigger and shoot Logan.
A crackling explosion worthy of fireworks rocks the church. The standoff goes from tense silence and challenging glares to the four of us turning our heads in every direction to place the sudden deafening sounds.
It’s coming from outside.
Gunfire.
The Steel Kings have arrived, and they’re about to make quick work of the few followers Abraham has left.
It only takes Amos a second longer to make up his minds. He bolts for the door to escape.
Logan’s not letting him off that easily. Not after what he’s done to us and how he’s served faithfully as a guard under Abraham. He launches into a sprint, scooping up the rifle that Hershel’s dropped as he sobs on the floor.
He takes aim and lands the shot on Amos’s retreating form. The bullet hits him in the spine and he drops to the floor in a scream of agony.
Logan turns the rifle on Hershel next, teeth gritted, sweat clinging to his face.
“P-please,” Hershel begs. The elderly man holds up trembling hands. “T-they ma-made me… he-he had no other fo-followers left…”
I take a step forward. “Logan, he was a believer like us. We both remember what that was like. He didn’t shoot me when he had the chance.”
Logan takes another second to make up his mind before he lowers the rifle and then motions for Hershel to get out of his sight. The older man needs no further instruction as he wobbles to his feet and darts for the same side door I’d entered through.
Logan snaps into action too, heading straight for me, the assault rifle still at his side.
“C’mon,” he says, scooping my hand up with his free one. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
35
TEYSHA
My mouth is dry, and my thoughts are lost in a thick fog that won’t clear from my head. I kneel on the floor, my thighs pressed together, my knees suffering carpet burn, as I fold the last pair of underwear I have and place it on top.
Just about everything I own lays inside this duffle bag.
All of it packaged and pieced neatly together like a nomadic jigsaw puzzle.
Over the past six months, I’ve grown used to life this way. Little belongings. Monumental, life-altering events.
I’m not the college girl that once had a room full of pretty things—the tiny porcelain figurines that rested on my desk and the bookshelf crammed with my favorite book series I had read and gone back to numerous times. A stuffed bear sat on my bed among a cascade of pillows, a childhood memento I could never bring myself to get rid of.
That I clung to on difficult days even into early adulthood. Back then my idea of difficult was a lot different. The guy from school I had feelings for dating a new girl or the family dog Cooper passing away.
I didn’t have a concept of what the world was really like.
I thought problems could be solved with flowery language and a bowl of Grandma Renae’s home-cooked chicken noodle soup. The future seemed bright. The possibilities limitless. I dreamed of the day I’d walk down the aisle and then ride off into the sunset with the love of my life.
Happily ever afters and fairytale endings.
I never conceived of the darker, crueler truth—that life wasn’t always so kind and things didn’t always work out how you want them to. Sometimes, it was the exact opposite.
Sometimes, those fairytales weren’t fairytales at all. They were tragedies.
I’ve convinced myself I could pretend otherwise. I could keep dreaming because the dream was easier than the reality.
But I’m awake now. I’m aware of what I need to do.
A hollow sigh finds its way out of me as I tug the zipper along the open seam of the duffle bag.
