Breadcrumbs For The Nasties (Book 1): Megan by Steven Novak Page B

for long. I needed to do something. 
    I didn’t drop the next arrow. My bowstring didn’t slip. My hands didn’t shake. Again, I squared my shoulders. Again, I inhaled and held. When I felt the wind on the back of my neck I listened, really listened, afforded myself the fraction of a second necessary. It tussled my hair, tossed it across my eyes and back again. It moved over the tips of my fingers, into my hands and along my arms, and steadied my muscles. My eyes narrowed, gaze settling on a single head among the masses, wispy dark hair moving the same as mine. When Oneleg moved, so did my arms, anticipating. Suddenly they didn’t seem so far away. They were close, so close I could touch them. It was Oneleg’s hair on my face, not my own. 
    When I exhaled, I fired.
    The arrow pierced his skull, passed through cleanly, exploded from the other side. No time for celebration. I grabbed another, fired again, and hit. The next shot was the same. The one after that hit a shoulder. The following attempt corrected the mistake. I didn’t stop. I didn’t notice the pain in my shoulder. My broken finger didn’t exist. With every shot the herd thinned. With every pull of my bowstring, another body fell. Seven headshots later I could see Blueeyes. He was still alive, still swinging, soaked in blood, with chunks of decomposing meat bouncing off his jacket, mucus and blood dripping from his face. When only two gimps remained, we each killed one. Just like that, it was over. I lowered my bow. My arms dropped to my sides, my shoulders slumped. I felt heavy, so wonderfully heavy, all over. When I allowed myself to inhale, the air smelled different. It burned my nostrils, left an aftertaste in my throat: pungent copper, liquefied steel. It was awful, wonderfully awful. For the first time in my life
    I was alive. 
    When I finally looked up, Blueeyes looked back.
    Five minutes later, we were on the road again. My traveling companion didn’t bother to congratulate me. He never said good job or threw a thanks my way. I was fine with it. He didn’t need to. Nothing was different between us. Nothing had changed. The road was still there and we still needed to walk it. While I didn’t fully realize it at the time, he was giving me exactly what I needed. There wasn’t room for a good job, not in our world. Good jobs were silly, even for a ten year old. They were outdated. Good jobs were pointless and good jobs would only get us killed. We were too smart for good jobs. We had to be.
    That night I slept with my bow at my side. Even gave it a name: Pointycrunch. When I told Blueeyes, he shook his head. When he turned away, I thought I heard him chuckle, couldn’t be sure. Blueeyes rarely chuckled. He might have burped.
    The next morning I made Pointycrunch some arrows and tightened his string. He deserved it. While I ate, I kept him on my lap. When we hit the road, I threw him over my shoulder. When we rested, I practiced. When we walked, I practiced as well. I was aiming at things much smaller than before, further away. I was getting better. It was beginning to feel natural. Pointycrunch was becoming an extension of my arm. Where I pointed, he crunched. What I needed him to do, he did, always, without question. I was aiming at the doorknob of an abandoned house at the end of the block when Blueeyes’ hand smacked me in the chest and knocked the air from my lungs. 
    “Wha—”
    The very same hand moved to my mouth. The other reached for his machete. Suddenly, he had me by the arm, dragging me to the trees. When I couldn’t keep up, he lifted me into the air. The moment we reached the tree line, he threw me to the dirt. I was spitting sand from my mouth when I heard it: a truck, a lot of trucks actually. They seemed far away, old engines popping, tired brakes grinding. I couldn’t tell where the noise was coming from, but it was getting closer. When I tried to stand, Blueeyes shoved me down. When I attempted to wiggle from his grasp, he