Janes RV was parked at the edge of our secure yard. Fenced in by ten-foot-high mesh wired fences and topped with reams of shiny razor wire.

It was an older model. I estimated late ‘90’s but it appeared to be in good condition. Painted all white with numerous, wavy “go faster” stripes along its sides to break up the harsh, box like contours of the RV, which was almost the length of a bus.

Jane strutted confidently across the hot black top. The sun was already scorching the ground and it wasn’t even midday yet. I hadn’t donned my hat since it was only a short walk, but I could already feel the sun rays scorch my scalp, even though I still have hair. Worst of all. Its’s only spring and I had heard others refer to the station as Hell Ext13 during summer. Wonderful, of all the things I was looking forward to, becoming a baked potato was not one of them.

Jane briefly knocked on the door. Not an ordinary knock-knock. A code. Rattatt-tattat, pause, rat-tat at-tat. From within I heard several hollow clunks before the door opened by two inches so a pair of wide, frightened looking brown eyes could peep through the slit. The eyes fixed on me. Critically moving down my six foot two, medium build body, down my uniform and finally stopping on my work issue boots before flicking back to my eyes.

The crack opened a little further and the eyes focus changed to Jane. Instantly the door flew open and a young, Latina, I guessed her age to be around sixteen, flung herself at Jane with a crushing bear hug and began to sob uncontrollably.

I gestured to the opening and Jane nodded without letting go of the girl who was shaking and holding onto Jane as if her life depended on her. What the hell happened, I wondered as I stepped into the RV.

The RV’s interior was surprisingly cool and spacious. No air conditioner was running now, but it must have been before arriving. I gathered that someone must have loved this RV as it had been modified extensively. The typical RV utilitarian look had been replaced with custom, diner style seating, a large table, Microwave, secured into the wall panelling, a glass plate stove, sink and a massive 42” LCD screen mounted on the ceiling on a pivot that allows it to be lowered and turned as required.

On my right the RV extended toward a toilet and sleeping quarters. Both doors were ajar, and I approached carefully. The WC door opened into a shopping mall cubicle sized area with a basin, shower, and toilet accessible while standing in the middle. Apart from the usual menagerie of toiletries and dental hygiene paraphernalia, it was empty and smelled like bleach.

I approached the bedroom door with trepidation and could still hear the inconsolable sobs from the girl outside. The bedroom door opened silently to reveal a double bed, some cupboard space, and an odd mount under the duvet, just off the beds centre. Here the air was warm, and Jane’s Lily and musk scent lingered gracefully in the air. I stepped forward and prodded the mount. It was solid but squidgy. WTF? I prodded it gain. This time to my surprise it moved and wiggled a little. Instinctively I stepped back, my muscle memory trained hand already unclipping the latch on my holster. Even my heart was beating faster as I stepped forward and prodded the mount again. A little more forcefully this time.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

This time the mount rose and began to move toward the headboard. On the second attempt two bat like ears popped out followed by a pair of hazel eyes and a flattish snout belonging to a Chihuahua sized French Bulldog, or Frenchy, as they are commonly known as. The Frenchy sat up and gave me a very soured look that I interpreted as. “OK, I’m up now. So, what do you want?’”

I let out a quiet chuckle as I dropped to my knees and patted the duvet. Instantly the Frenchie’s ears folded back all the way and she stumbled toward me with an obsequious bowed head and threw herself onto her back. To say that she was cute would be an understatement. With her lilac and faun colouring and faun, Rottweiler style ‘second eyes’ markings, she melted my heart instantly and before I knew what I was doing I was scratching her tummy and cooing words like. “you are beautiful, aren’t you?” while she lay there with half closed eyes.

My morning had gone from bored stiff to moderately entertaining, but my little French bonding session was rudely interrupted by Jane and the Latina girl boarding and looking at me on my knees before Jane’s bed coddling and scratching the little Frenchy who had started making low grunting/purring noises and may have fallen asleep again. I just stared back with an expression often seen on a child’s face as they balance precariously on one leg, on a stool, while trying to reach for the cookie jar. “Busted.”

Jane bust out laughing and said:

‘Oh boy. Now that you’ve started, she won’t leave you alone. She loves belly scratches and anybody that can make her groan like that, she’ll follow to the ends of the earth. And watch out for that tongued. She is quick and very accurate.’

Tongue, what tongue? As if to prove Jane’s point and unconfuse me, the Frenchy sat up and with a mere blur in my peripheral vision lunged forward and stuck her tongue between my lips so I could feel it against my teeth. OK, that tongue. Hmm, too late but noted for the future, I thought as I wiped my lips with my shirt sleeve to the accompaniment of Jane’s raucous laughter. I had just experienced a whole new way to French kiss. Worse, I liked it.

Jane ushered the girl into one of the seats and sat down next to her. I had stood up and was busy making my way to the table when I heard a hollow clunk behind me. There was the Frenchy, ears pricked up, head tiled to the side with an expression that said: “And who told you, you could stop? WE (the Royal we) are not impressed.”

Jane chuckled. ‘I told you. You have a new shadow now.’

I didn’t care but the way the little Latina girl looked was of very high concern to me. She was holding onto Jane with both hands. Her knuckles white. Her shoulder long hair a knotted mess and eyes looking frightfully at me from behind Janes’ elbow. I had seen that look too many times in Chicago. Mostly from survivors. What had this girl survived? I pointed at the bench opposite Jane, and Jane nodded.

‘Hi there.’ I addressed the girl directly. I kept my voice low and as friendly and non-threatening as I could. I pointed at the bench, our eyes still locked, and said: ‘Hi, I am officer Bradley Scott, but my friends and you can call me Brad. I’m going to sit down, just here on the edge of the seat. Is that OK?’ The girl nodded, almost indiscernibly but still jerked involuntary as I sat down. I opened my hand and spread my finger before laying them both onto the table to show that I have nothing to hide and that I’m not a threat.

I glanced at Jane and for the first-time noticed little speckles of blood, consistent with splatter type, on her arm.

‘Are you ok?’ I asked pointing at her arm.

Without diverting her gaze from me she shrugged and said:

‘All good.’ She smiled. ‘It’s not mine.’

Blood splatter. Not hers. This morning has officially become interesting, I thought, wondering what would come next.