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What the hell?
He dashed to the front of the store carefully avoiding the windows. He didn’t want to be seen by the infected or whoever happened to be firing out there. Staying in the shadows, he pressed his back against the brick column between the front door and the display window and peered outside.
A jacked up, primer-gray truck had haphazardly parked in the lot. The Jones boys--local redneck assholes--jumped out of the vehicle with such enthusiasm you’d think they were headed to a titty bar and not a gun shop in the middle of a damn plague.
He missed that obnoxious, fire-engine red hair of hers and the devious grin she always wore right before she was about to cause trouble. His little thrill seeker. He wondered how much she’d changed over the last two years.After seeing the news reports on the chaos in Atlanta, he wanted—no needed—to know if she was okay. He hoped Bea and Jim had been in contact with her, and she’d made it home before things had gotten out of control.The loud crack of gunshots shook him from his thoughts.
"Good. It's supposed to hurt. Do you know why you're being punished?"
"Because you're a kinky freak?" she replied, her voice thick with sarcasm.
He slapped her left cheek this time. "Try again."
"Because you're a kinky freak, Sir?"
He swallowed a chuckle.
Grandpa Jim poked his head out of the kitchen where he'd been busy canning some of the meat they had on hand. Preserving and stockpiling food seemed like a good idea considering the circumstances.
"Anythin' new darlin'?" he asked in that old southern drawl she'd always found such a comfort. Right now, she'd take all the comfort she could get.
"All the major cities hit hard by the infection are under martial law. Not a big surprise with all the looting and chaos. Atlanta looks like a warzone. They're gunning people down in the streets," she told him before lighting another cigarette. "Nothing new from the government or the CDC."