Page 51 of Ember Rising

Stopping to listen for silence before I leave the supply room, I make my way to the hair salon.

Fortunately, no one died in here. I can’t close the door to help block the smell, though, because then I wouldn’t be able to hear if someone else is here.

I scan the room and find a window, walking over to open it and bust out the screen. Anytime I can create a second exit in a room, I do.

Fresh air blows into the room from the open window. I go over to a sink to wash and rinse my hair several times. The feel of my fingertips massaging my scalp is so normal—so before—that I smile. I can imagine this room full of life. Stylists chattering with residents named Ethel and Pearl while they set their hair in hot rollers. Women wanting to look their best for visits with family and friends.

What I wouldn’t give to be in a room like that right now. To hear another person’s laugh or listen to them talk about ... anything. I’m a social person, and I miss the average, friendly interactions I used to take for granted.

Once my hair is clean, I dry it with a fluffy white towel and brush through it. I sit in a chair and carefully part it, grabbing some oil that smells like coconuts and rubbing a few drops into my hair.

I fake a laugh, the tinkly notes feeling foreign.

“Oh, Dottie, you’re a hoot,” I say to my invisible nursing home BFF. “I’m sure Harold’s Viagra will wear off eventually. Enjoy it while you can, girl.”

The stylist’s station has photos taped around the perimeter of the mirror, most of them showing two young, smiling blond children. There’s a decorative wood block next to her many curling and flat irons that says, “Shear genius at work.”

My hair is hanging down my back, longer than it’s ever been. When I use styling shears to snip one side to just above my shoulders, I smile at myself in the mirror.

I’m a little more me again. I shouldn’t have waited so long to do this. It’s not perfect, but I manage to get it good enough, more than a foot of dark, wet hair on the floor when I finish.

I sweep it up and empty the dustpan into a trash can. It would be nice to have hot wax for my brows, but I don’t want to risk setting the place on fire. And since I have nothing but time on my hands, I use a hand mirror and tweezers to pluck my brows back into decent shape.

Since there’s still more water in the supply room, and soap, I also take a sort-of shower in one of the room’s bathrooms, shaving my legs and pits. I have clean pants, socks, underwear, and a T-shirt in my bag, and once I’m dressed, I feel cleaner and better than I have in a long time.

I force myself to drink a nutritional shake before leaving Lakeview Manor, because sometimes food can be scarce. By the time I put my pack on, pick up my bow and walk out the back doors, the sky is streaked with pink, sunset near.

I’ll find a house to sleep in tonight. I usually have to check quite a few before I can find one without dead bodies inside, but it’s worth the trouble to me.

I’m moving from building to building again, close to reaching a residential neighborhood, when a voice calls out.

“You all alone out here?”

The deep voice makes my stomach drop. I turn, my hand automatically wrapping around my bow. There’s a man in a dark baseball hat standing around ten feet away. He’s pointing a handgun at me.

“You won’t be needing that,” he says, his voice lethally calm.

Bile rises in my throat. I freeze, still holding on to my bow.

“What do you want?” I demand, sounding much braver than I feel.

His lips twist into a sick smile. “All of it.”

I slide my pack off and set my bow and quiver on the ground beside it, putting my palms in the air. “You can have it.”

His smile grows wider. “I don’t need your permission, bitch. Ever been fucked on a dirty road?”

I almost pee my pants. How did I not hear him coming? I must have been careless, and it’s about to cost me my life.

If this is my time, I’ll go out fighting. I run. His feet pound on the pavement behind me, a bullet striking the ground right beside me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Now I have nothing to protect myself with. My knife is in my bag.

All I think about is running as fast as I can. My legs are strong. I push myself hard, knowing my life depends on it.

His fingertips brush over the back of my shoulder. I keep moving, inches away from being caught. He’s yelling vile things about what he’s going to do to me with the gun.

I want to scream, but I don’t have the breath. When I veer around a corner, I can feel the heat of my pursuer behind me. His fingertips touch my back, and I’m jerked to a stop when he grabs a handful of my shirt and pulls.