The Survivors: Book One

She came back down less than a minute later, and he said nothing about her almost cushioned movements as they brought their vehicles inside without talking. Was she in pain? Injured?

Angela backed her muddy SUV in first, him holding the garage door. When they switched places, he rolled by her with a silly wave and smile that reminded her of the past, when he had been willing to try anything to pull a laugh from her.

Instantly sad, Angela headed back to the loft and set up the heater. She sighed in relief as the red glow came on and began to warm her fingers. She had chosen the far, back corner, the side that was just bare, dusty planks, and was making her bed in the corner as he came up the stairs. Knowing from her life with a Marine that he would want the spot closest to the door, she unrolled her bag with a frown, thinking one of them had to say something soon just to cut the tension. It was awkward, sad. Once they had been so...

"Where did you find a heater that runs on batteries? I kept finding the cylinders, but no actual heater."

His tone was impressed and Angela tried unsuccessfully to pretend it wasn't relief filling her heart at the sound of another human voice. "The basement of a Goodwill. It's great to have."

Marc was watching her, she could feel him looking for clues to why she had called, and she began to set up the Coleman stove he had brought in, still not sure how to start that conversation. Outside, the rain began to fall heavily, drowning out the hard new world on the other side of their four small walls.

Marc had taken off the long leather coat, and her eyes were drawn to his thick arms against her will, as he dug out his own bedroll. He did indeed put it between her and the ladder, and they both avoided the boxes, bags, tarp-covered bike frames, and tall mirror layered in thick dust that littered the other side of the wide, 8' x 10' room.

There were a million things she wanted to say. Where to start? "Want some hot chocolate?"

"That sounds good."

She handled his stove with an ease that told him she knew what she was doing, and Marc kept quiet, wishing she would meet his eye for more than a second at a time. What was her problem? Was it so bad that she didn't think he would help? The urge to start asking questions was hard to resist, even for him, but he knew she was tired, could see it on her pale face. If she said she'd rather wait until morning to talk, he would agree, but never be able to sleep.