All That's Left Behind - ronance

chapter 2

Nancy doesn’t trust this girl. 

Okay, Nancy doesn’t trust anyone, but this girl especially. Maybe it’s the smirk forever imprinted on her face, or the asshole humor that’s already evident in the first ten minutes. Or maybe it’s that she screeched to a stop in the middle of the road to rescue Nancy out of the goodness of her heart. In Nancy’s experience, people don’t do that. 

She keeps her gun on the seat next to her, straight in the other girls eyeline. She doesn’t feel guilty. Everyone has become more lawless since the world went to shit. Nancy doesn’t like risk.

But she needs a ride to Oregon desperately, and for now this girl seems like her safest bet, considering her last one had gone to Toyota heaven a couple miles back and she can’t just hack her way through the wave of zombies standing between her and Oregon. Between her and her brother.

She fights the wave of worry and uncertainty that overcomes her. She has refused to think anything other than her brother is alive. Mike Wheeler is the most resourceful person on the planet; if Nancy’s survived, her brother has to have built a fortress and become king of it already. Nancy just needs to get there.

The driver clears her throat. “So I’m—”

Nancy cuts her off. “It’s probably better that we don’t exchange names,” she says. “Don’t want to get attached.” She makes sure to put a little emphasis on the last word.

The girl’s eyebrow quirks, but she doesn’t make a smartass comment like Nancy expects. “What should I call you, then?” she asks. How she can sound amused during the motherfucking apocalypse, Nancy has no idea.

Anything is preferable to sweetheart, but… “Barb,” she says at last. She looks at the other girl hard. “And you?” 

She’s quiet for a minute. “Vickie,” she says. “You can call me Vickie.” Somehow Nancy’s comforted by the fact that the other girl's lying, too.

*****

The girl won’t stop tapping the steering wheel with her fingers. It’s irritating. There doesn’t even seem to be a pattern to it—it’s not a song, at least. Just this irksome little taptaptaptap. She wants to tell the taller girl to stop, but doesn’t. She can live with it, and there’s no reason to be irritable.

Vickie is actually a pretty efficient driver. She keeps a weather eye on the gas tank as they go, stops only once to pull gas from an SUV on the side of the highway. (Nancy once rode with this girl who liked to run over zombies. What a waste of gas.) She’s pretty trusting, leaving her in the car alone. Maybe she doesn’t think of her as a threat. That’s a little disheartening.

Nancy’s height seems to be her biggest obstacle. People typically see her as doll-like and fragile—that’s been her life. Half her time is spent proving them wrong. It’s gotten a little easier to do that after she learned the exact amount of strength and pressure it takes to behead a biter. Fragile. As if.

Vickie seems to have gotten the message that Nancy doesn’t want to talk, so Vickie keeps silent. She doesn’t even flick on the radio, which is great because Nancy’s got three books in her pack and this one demands silence.

At one point a flutter of paper distracts her from the small print. It’s a photograph of a pretty girl, young and fresh-faced, scowling at the camera. Vickie is quick to snatch it out of Nancy’s hand.

“Who is she?” Nancy asks out of mild (mild) curiosity.

“My sister,” Vickie replies tightly.

“Is she dead?” It’s insensitive, maybe, but pleasantries went out the window a long time ago. It’s a little disturbing for Nancy to know that she’s not the same person she used to be, not by a long shot. If the virus hadn’t broken out, she’d still be living with her Mom, Mike and Holly in Hawkins, carting around stacks of biology and chemistry books and attending classes with Barb. But she doesn’t like to think about that.

Vickie gives her a cold half-smile. “No names, no tragic backstories, either,” she says. She adds, “Sweetheart” out of pettiness.

Nancy doesn’t say anything. She can respect that. 'Vickies' answer makes her think that that little girl is dead or wandering, anyway. Most people are.

When the sun dips below the horizon, Vickie pulls over. Nancy, who’d been half-dozing, looks at the other girl sharply, suddenly wide awake. “Why are we stopping?”

The corner of her mouth angles upwards. “Gotta sleep sometime, sweetheart.”

Nancy refrains from making an irritated noise. “I can drive.”

She can see that 'Vickie' considers it for a second. She looks at Nancy—really looks at her—thoughtfully, at what she hopes is the stoic look on her face. Then 'Vickie' says, “No can do. Best wait till light.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “You can sleep back there.”

She looks. There’s a pillow and a couple of blankets, plus an impressive amount of gear. She can see a couple of thick parkas and hoodies, sneakers and rolled-up socks, plus a bag of what she assumes is more clothes. It’s more than enough for one person. That means Vickie’s sister has only been gone recently. “Where are you sleeping?” she asks.

“Right here.” She shoves a hand behind her seat and pushes it back so that she’s in a slightly more comfortable position than before. It looks to Nancy like 'Vickie' will wake up with the worst muscle cramps in history.

But she shrugs and clambers into the backseat. What does she care? She covers herself in the mess of blankets, not even hesitating to push her face into the pillow (she can’t even remember the last time she saw one). It smells unwashed, but surprisingly not unpleasant. Her gaze settles on the back of Vickie's head, which is leaned back against the headrest. Is this what she smells like? Or what her sister does?

She pushes the questions away. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that 'Vickie' stays in her spot and she stays in hers, and that they both live. But she stares at the tense nape of Vickie's neck until she falls asleep.