Six: On The Run

If I'm free, it's because I'm always running. -
Jimi Hendrix

The passenger door is unlocked when I reach it.

I get in the car; the overhead light does not come on when I do so. The bright little red lights coming from the buttons, however, are very annoying. It's uncomfortable to lean back in the seat with the backpack on my shoulders, so I lay it flat on my lap, knowing it contains all I have left in the world.

Anything I left back in the Crazies' house is as good as gone. Vaughn's sitting in the driver's seat with both hands on the wheel, staring at the road.

"Right on time," he observes. He sounds a little surprised, but he still doesn't look at me.

"I told you I'd be here," I snap.

He's got on a black hoodie and black jeans; in the dim light, I squint to see if maybe his fingernails are painted black, too. They're not, and, for that, I breathe a sigh of relief. He looks just as tired now as he did at school; there are dark circles under his eyes and he's paler than usual.

"Are you sure you can drive?" I ask, and then instantly regret how the question came out.

He shoots me an irritated glance. "Yes, I can drive. Why wouldn't I be able to?"

"You look tired," I say.

He snorts and rolls his eyes.

"What else is new?" he mutters as he pulls away from the curb, more to himself than me, I think.

I watch the Crazies' gray house until Vaughn makes a left turn and it's no longer visible. I exhale the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Maybe subconsciously I thought Crazy Number Two would wake up in the middle of my escape and drag me back into the house with a bat or something.

I relax and get as comfortable as I can in the seat. I don't intend to sleep, but I don't know how long it'll be until I get to stretch my legs again. We've got a long way to go. Five minutes pass without either of us saying a word.

I glance at Vaughn every once in a while to make sure he's not falling asleep at the wheel. But I'm beginning to doubt he will. He's much too busy glaring at the road like it has committed an unforgivable sin against him.

His grip on the steering wheel is a bit too tight, and I think he might be gritting his teeth.

"Are you okay?" I ask, against my better judgment.

"I'm fine. Just leave me alone," he says sharply.

"You know, neither of us will make it to the Islands if we rip each other's throats out on the way there," I say, working hard to sound reasonable.

A minute passes. Finally, he sighs and relaxes.

"Yeah, I know. I just . . ." He shakes his head. "Well. We'll try to get along, alright?"

I nod. "That sounds good."

"And, as a rule, I don't want to play twenty questions on the way. Stay out of my business, and I'll stay out of yours."

"Fine," I agree, "But what are we supposed to do when we get there and both want the job?"

He shrugs. "We'll deal with that problem when we get there."

If we get there, that little voice in my head whispers. I shove it to the back of my mind and lock it up tight. He makes it sound so simple.

"We have a long trip ahead of us," I tell him.

"I know. It'll be longer without the car."

"Do you think your parents will report the car stolen tomorrow?"

Vaughn bristles. "They are not my parents. At least, he isn't, not biologically. But then, she wasn't much of one, either."

I bit my tongue and decide not to say that this comment bordered suspiciously on the topic of his business.

"Well, whoever they are, will they report it soon?" I repeat.

"I don't know. Probably. But we'd have to ditch it on the way, anyway. Not enough gas money." Bitterness laces his words. "Speaking of money, how much did you get?"

"Fifty," I say, sounding just as bitter.

He curses under his breath.

"Sorry, but it's all that was in her purse. What do you have?" I ask.

'Thirty."

It's my turn to curse. "No way are we getting there with fifty bucks between us. Just what are we supposed to do when it runs out?"

"Hitchhike. Sleep under bridges. Steal. Pray for a miracle."

I lean my head back on the headrest and swallow against the lump lodged in my throat, fighting back frustrated tears. Vaughn doesn't need to see me cry.

"That sucks," I whisper. Understatement of the century.

He nods. "Yeah. Big time."

"But we'll get there, won't we?" I'm suddenly desperate for reassurance.

"I don't know," he says.

I groan. Some pep talk. Another silence passes. When Vaughn speaks again, he sounds sad.

"Maybe it's a good thing we're both going. If one of us drops dead on the way there, we won't have to compete with each other for the job."

I shudder, almost violently. "Don't say things like that."

"It's true."

"Doesn't mean I wanna listen to it."

When the silence falls again, neither of us break it for a long time.

OoOoOoOoO

We're about two or three towns away from the one we left when Vaughn parks the car in a parking lot behind a big building make of crumbling bricks.

"I need to get some sleep," he says.

My eyes widen in mock surprise. "What, you mean we won't be staying at a five-star hotel?"

He smirks. "Not unless you can magically produce money."

I roll my eyes. "If I could do that, I would have left a long time ago."

I put my backpack on the floor on the car in front of my feet and glance at the back seat. "So, how are we handling the sleeping arrangements?"

Vaughn blinks, and bites his lip. When we're turned toward each other, it's hard for me not to notice how close he is.

"You can take the back," he says finally, "I'll be fine in the seat."

The back seat of the little blue car is not exactly a king sized bed, but it will have to do. It's not long enough for me to stretch out completely, so I lay kind of scrunched up. Vaughn gets out of car and opens the trunk.

When the back door at my feet clicks open, he hands me a dark green blanket.

"I thought these might be useful," he says, "It gets cold out at night, you know."

I nod, taking what he offers gratefully. I'd just been thinking about how I was beginning to shiver. It didn't occur to me to ask him if he had one until he was back in the driver's seat.

"Yeah, I do," he replies, though his seems noticeably thinner than mine does.

I shift around often, trying to get comfortable despite the lack of space. I finally manage something comfortable enough for me to get some sleep when I hear his voice.

"Can you drive?"

"No."

"I didn't think you could. You walked to school all the time."

Surprised, I can't help but ask, "You noticed that, huh?"

"Sure."

He makes it sounds like no big deal, but I didn't know he was aware of my existence outside of our few interactions back in school. I tell him this cautiously. Though I can't see his expression in the dark, I can tell he's frowning. Big shocker.

"I didn't talk to a lot of people in school; doesn't mean I didn't know who they were," he says.

"Yeah, I get that. I wasn't exactly a social butterfly myself."

"No, you were much more interested in starting fights with assholes like Matthew Harris."

"I did not start that fight. Believe me, he had it coming. And it's not like I suffered any damage from that fight. Thanks to someone who shall remain nameless." I roll my eyes.

"I didn't do anything."

I couldn't understand why he was denying it. "Yes, you did," I argue, "You pushed me behind you."

"Well, whatever. Bale would have stopped it before Harris could have done anything."

"He would have had an opening if you hadn't been there."

When he speaks again, he sounds aggravated, "Why does it even matter?"

I shift on my side so I'm facing him, even though it's kind of pointless. If I squint, I can see his face. I'm a little surprised his eyes don't glow in the dark. The thought makes me smirk. But then I remember his question, and I'm mad again.

"It wouldn't matter at all if you didn't keep lying about it. It's not a bad thing to do something nice for somebody else, you know. I know you probably have as much experience in that department as I do, so I understand your reluctance." My voice is teasing by the end of my speech.

Shockingly, his tone matches mine. "Giving and receiving is not my forte."

"It seems we have much in common."

"I guess so."

I yawn, and find that I am actually more tired than I thought. My adrenaline high from running away is quickly wearing thin. There are a thousand different things to worry about right now, but I push them all away and will myself to think of nothing at all.

"Goodnight," I say to Vaughn quietly.

I think I hear him say it back to me, but it's so quiet I can't be sure. My eyes close, and fall asleep quickly.

Unfortunately, it's not as restful as I'd like it to be. I have an awful nightmare about watching my parents die in the car crash. It's new not a new thing for me; this particular dream has haunted me for as long as I can remember.

As of late, it doesn't come nearly as frequently as I'm used to, but it's coming back to bite me again.

My nervousness and worry must be carrying over into my subconscious mind. The dream always starts with me and my parents driving down the road (though I wasn't in the car with them, of course), and we're laughing about something, but I'm not sure what.

And suddenly I'm standing to the side of the road, and I watch them crash head on into a semi truck. And I scream and cry and hurry to the scene of the crime, but by the time I get there the scene has warped into a funeral, with a crowd of black-clothed people standing around two wooden coffins.

I continue to cry in utter misery for a while, until I feel a soothing hand on my shoulder. I look up, expecting to see a pair of loving eyes set in a kind, comforting face. But it's Crazy Number One, who has come to take me Home.

To the gray house. She drags me away from the coffins; I kick and scream and try to get away, but the other people at the funeral don't even look at me. In the gray house, the Crazies torment me both emotionally and physically, and eventually kick me outside to rake the leaves.

While I'm out, I hear what sounds like a low moan coming from close by. Curious, dream-me moves to the fence separating us from our neighbors. Somehow, in the way of such dreams, I am able to walk right through it to the other side.

I go to the patio and peer into the house through the sliding glass doors. Seeing nothing, I slip through and move down a much too long hallway. Entering a bedroom, I trip over something in the doorway and sprawl to the floor.

I look back, and am horrified to see that Vaughn is the thing that I tripped over. The moaning is coming from him, and it's a pained sound. He's bruised and cut up pretty bad, and I crawl over and look down at his face; it's smeared with blood.

I hear a noise from above me, and when I look up, a man is standing over us with a malicious sneer. I instinctively know that it's his stepfather, come to kill us both. Both the Crazies are suddenly in the room, staring down at us with evil eyes.

And the three of them converge on us, Crazy Number Two draws a knife, and my screams are suddenly cut short. Gasping, I sit up too fast in the car and knock my head on the low ceiling.

Everything about the dream was the same, but the part about Vaughn is new. A sweat has broken out on my forehead, and I shiver, shaken by the nightmare.

"Morning," Vaughn says, his tone actually a bit concerned.

I look at him, disoriented by my surroundings and having him here with me. "Hi," I say.

He's got a bright red apple in his hand and has eaten about half of it.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Packed it."

He picks another apple off the passenger seat and hands it to me. "Money might be tight, but food and other supplies are in the truck."

I accept the fruit gratefully, and sit with my back against the door, hoping that I don't look entirely hideous. He doesn't look quite so tired; the circles are mostly gone from under his eyes, and he appears to have combed his hair.

"How long have you been awake?" I ask, biting into the apple.

My stomach grumbles appreciatively.

He shrugs. "About a half hour. I wanted to sleep some more, but it was kind of hard with you in the car."

I can feel my cheeks redden. "What do you mean?"

"You tossed and turned a lot. Shouted once towards the end, too. I was going to wake you up, but you just did it for me."

He doesn't sound annoyed, which surprises me.

"Huh. Sorry. I'm not usually so active and vocal during my nightmares." If I was, the Crazies would have complained about the shouting. But then, maybe not. I'd woken up with a cold sweat and a racing heart more times than I could count.

He looks away, towards the old brick building we're parked behind. "It's not a big deal. I have them, too."

"Really? A lot?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too. They suck." I sigh.

He nods. "An understatement."

A silence passes between us, and it is one of grim camaraderie. He understands the things that eat at me on the inside. We haven't necessarily been through the same things – that I know of, anyway – but we're both probably equally screwed up.

"Tell you what," he says finally, "I'll wake you up during your nightmares if you wake me during mine."

"How will I know if you're having one?" I ask.

"Trust me, you'll know."

I wince at his dead tone, and bite again into the apple, which is already almost gone. I fold the blanket I used last night, slip out the back seat and into the front one. The hair on the back of my neck is sticky with sweat, and I wish I had a shower. I settle for using the deodorant in my backpack.

My shirt comes up a little when I raise my arms, and I catch Vaughn glancing at the sliver of my stomach.

"You're so skinny," he says bluntly.

I blink at him, a little hurt. He blinks, and regret flashes in his eyes. I yank my shirt down and look out the window.

"Sorry it bothers you," I snap harshly, "But there weren't exactly a whole lot of cupcakes and brownies to snack on to keep me plump where I came from."

"I didn't mean it," he says, and I can't help but look at him. His gaze is serious. "Sorry. I just . . . I bet I could count every one of your ribs."

"I can," I inform him, "I have quite a few, actually."

He suddenly looks unexpectedly sympathetic, the last emotion I'd expect from him.

"Don't look at me like that," I say, "don't you dare. I got enough of that from people at school."

He nods, and the look is gone as quickly as it appeared. "Fine."

I can't help the hurt that continues to wash through me. It bothers me much more than it should that he may find me ugly. I mean, I'm not grade-A perfect or anything, but . . . I like the way he looks. I want him to like me that way, too, no matter how much I hate admitting it to myself.

"Try not to look at me too closely on our way to the Islands," I say bitingly, "you might hurt your eyes."

Irritation is suddenly lacing his words. "God, Chelsea, I didn't mean it like that. I just wondered . . ."

"You wondered. Is there a question in there, Vaughn? Because, you know, that might mean I'll have to tell you something about my past. But we agreed not to talk about it. I'm messed up. So are you. Who cares why."

Pain suddenly throbs in my head, and I lean it back against the headrest, angry my temper has caused me a headache.

He glares at me, and starts up to the car. "Fine, whatever."

OoOoOoOoO

We drive for a couple hours in silence, the tension between us thick. When he takes an exit off in the interstate, we're suddenly driving through another town, this one bigger than the last. It's cloudy and muggy today; the weather matches my mood.

"What're we stopping for?" I ask, the first words between us in a while. I somewhat regret lashing out earlier, and I try to make my voice as amiable as possible.

"Bathroom break," he growls, not looking away from the road.

Obviously, he's still upset. It doesn't surprise me at all that he's the type of person to hold a grudge. I sigh, and we pull into the parking lot of a hardware store. A bit of a random choice, but whatever.

Maybe we just need to figure out a better way of communicating. Too bad I have no idea how to go about doing that. He gets out of the car without another word to me, pops the truck, grabs a big backpack, slips it onto his shoulders, and heads for the doors. I follow him into the store after grabbing my own backpack, but – surprise, surprise – the lady working says it doesn't have a bathroom.

We decide instead to walk to the McDonalds down the street. When we step inside, I'm assaulted by the smell of food, and my stomach rumbles, reminding me that it's time to eat. Ignoring it for the time being, we go our separate ways at the restroom doors. I look into the mirror and sigh at the dark circles under my eyes.

I never sleep well on the nights I have nightmares. And with how nerve-wracking my situation is now, my subconscious is probably loaded with them. I tie my hair back into a ponytail and – since no one is in here with me – I pull my shirt up a little, to just under my breasts. I am grossly skinny.

Of course he would notice. I run a finger across my ribs, wincing at how defined they are. I let my shirt drop back down and trudge toward one of the stalls, resisting the urge to slam it behind me.

After I'm done, I wash my hands and walk out of the bathroom. Vaughn's already there, his eyes darting around nervously. I realize that we're not so far away from home yet to stop worrying about being recognized.

When the Crazies and his parents report our absence to the police, they'll keep an eye out for the teenage runaways. And, if they catch us, we'll both be right back where we started. I shudder at that last thought, and I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head, suddenly just as edgy as Vaughn looks.

When he sees me, he leads me to one of the tables – away from the window, I notice – and we sit.

"We have to get as far away as we can today; we're less likely to be recognized far away," I say as he rummages through his backpack.

He nods, his eyes on his work. "Yeah, I know."

He tosses me a little bag of Cheetos, and takes out a bag of Lays for himself. Then he fishes out another apple and sets the bag down beside him. He sets the fruit in front of me and rips the bag open.

"We'll stop at a gas station or something along the way and pick up some food," he says.

"When you say 'pick up' . . . ," I ask.

"Steal," he says bluntly.

I sigh. "Guess so."

I begin eating the chips – they taste amazing – and I wonder idly if the McDonalds people will kick us out for eating our own food here. I notice the lines under his eyes, almost identical to mine.

"You still look tired," I say.

"So do you," he replies, "We probably will be until we get there."

"I wish I could drive. Then you wouldn't have to go the whole way until we ditch the car."

He shrugs. "I'll be fine."

His voice doesn't waver, and I eye him critically. "You wouldn't tell me if you weren't."

"Probably not."

We stare at each other for a moment; it's so easy to lose myself in his intense gaze. Hesitantly, my hand reaches across the table, and I lightly place my hand over his.

"You can be honest with me, you know."

Vaughn surprisingly doesn't jerk his hand away. He just stares down at them, as if physical contact with another human being is completely foreign to him. I can emphasize with that feeling. Just this simple touch has my breath caught in my throat.

Unexpectedly, he smiles, just a little. "I'm not sure I know how."

I chuckle. "I get that."

I pull my hand back – reluctantly, and turn my attention back to the chips. When we're both done with the too-small bags, I pick up the apple.

"Don't you have another one of these?"

"No. Just that one left."

"Don't you want to share it?"

"No."

I glare at him. "Please don't act like you're not hungry."

He doesn't even bother to lie. "I am."

"Then let's split it," I say. We're both hungry. There's one apple. We should split it. Seems logical to me.

He's returning my dirty look now. "You can have it."

I rub my temple with a few fingers. "Vaughn, why do you feel the need to exasperate me every five minutes?"

I pull the pocketknife from the pocket of my jeans. He suddenly snatches the apple of the table the second the blade jumps out.

"Chelsea. Put it away."

I do. "Why are you being so stubborn about this?"

"Because you need it more than I do," he snaps, slamming the apple down in front of me, and earning a few sidelong looks from the people sitting around us. I hated that he wanted me to have it because he knew I was too thin.

I didn't care if I needed it more; we were in this together.

"I told you before," I say quietly, "I don't want you to pity me."

He waits for me to meet his eyes before I speak again. His voice is soft, the angry tone gone.

"I'm not pitying you. I'm just . . ." He trails off.

"Trying to be nice?"

He snorts. "Sure. Let's go with that."

"I'll mark it on the calendar."

"You do that."

I eat the apple quickly, wishing I wasn't still hungry after I was finished. We exit the fast food joint and start walking down the street. We turn the corner, around the hardware store. And stop dead in our tracks.

Two police officers are standing next to our car; one is looking in through the window. Vaughn swears next to me, and grabs my arm, pulling me back. But the second officer has already seen us.

All I hear him yell is "Hey!" before the both of us spin on our heels and run like hell.