The Last One: A Novel by Alexandra Oliva

Author:Alexandra Oliva [Oliva, Alexandra]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Literary, United States, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense, Suspense, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Science Fiction, Post-Apocalyptic, Literary Fiction, Action & Adventure, Psychological, Dystopian, TV; Movie; Video Game Adaptations
ISBN: 9781101965085
Amazon: B016TG5RKG
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2016-07-10T16:00:00+00:00

13.

This time, I break the window with a rock. I throw it as hard as I can from about ten feet away and almost miss.

“In you go,” I say.

“You’re not coming?” asks Brennan.

I shake my head and he looks at me like I’m already leaving him behind.

“It’s a boutique,” I say. “I can see the back from here.” Which, of course, I can’t, but the blurriness beyond the window doesn’t feel very deep. We’re in a tourist-trap kind of town. All little cafés and kitschy gift shops. This store—its name in loopy cursive I don’t have the patience to decipher—has a variety of handbags and satchels hanging in the window. I wonder how much the store owners were paid to be just what we needed.

Brennan slips through the broken window. “Ow,” he says.

I turn away, rolling my eyes.

“Mae, I think I cut myself.”

“Are you bleeding?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, at least you know.”

I hear rustling; he’s in. I imagine he’s looking back, watching me. Making sure I don’t run. As if I have the energy for anything so dramatic.

“Hurry up!” I call. Above me, the gray sky rumbles. I think of the plane, but this is only thunder. “You should probably get a rain jacket too,” I tell him. “Or a poncho.” This seems like the kind of place that would stock ponchos. Not practical, packable ones like the one I have, but something heavy and rainbow-colored, for irony.

A minute later he’s out. He doesn’t have a coat or a poncho, but he’s holding a backpack. It’s shiny and striped like a zebra.

“Is that the only one they had?” I ask.

He kneels and starts tucking his supplies into the pack, plastic bags and all. “I like it,” he says.

“To each his own.” Maybe I shouldn’t be belittling a featured product, but it’s an ugly bag. Brennan zips the backpack closed and swings it over his shoulder. I start walking.

“Mae, look what else I found.” He holds out his hand and I stop to look. Matches. Six or seven booklets, dark blue, with the same indecipherable scrawl on the cover as was on the storefront.

“Good,” I say. “We won’t have to stop again.” I take the matches and put them in my pocket with my glasses lens.

A few steps later he asks, “Do you have any Band-Aids?”

“How bad is it?” He holds up his arm. His sleeve is pushed back. I can’t see any blood on the dark expanse of his arm, it’s too far away, the cut too small. I shrug off my backpack and take out my first-aid kit. “Here,” I say, handing him antibiotic ointment and a pack of bandages. He seems surprised. Maybe he expected me to dress the wound for him. “Time’s a-tickin’,” I say. That startles him into action, and he tends to his arm. The sky rumbles again, louder. I predict Brennan will soon regret not taking something waterproof from Loopy Cursive.

I’m right. Hours later he drips and shivers in the rain. “Mae, can we please sleep inside tonight?” he begs.

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