I cup his chin in my hand. “You’re such a great kid. You know that?”
“Yeah,” Hank says in his matter-of-fact way. I swallow back a laugh.
“I told your dad I’d take care of you if…anything happened. I want you to know, so you’re not worried about what happens next. This is what he wanted.”
When we found Bits, she’d thought we were going to leave her. I figure Hank knows better, since he knows us, but sometimes kids get funny ideas if you don’t spell things out.
“I wasn’t worried,” he says quickly, as if he were a little. “But I didn’t know if I’d get to live with you and Bits and Peter in Alaska. Bits says we’ll be in the same cabin.”
I haven’t given much thought to living arrangements in Alaska. I should have anticipated that the kids might, especially Hank. All I’ve envisioned are fences and mountains, and that’s been good enough for me. But Hank’s with us, whether it’s a tent or an igloo or a cabin.
“Of course we will,” Peter’s voice comes from the doorway at the moment I say the same words. I’m glad Hank has heard it from both of us.
“Okay,” Hank says. He stands with the bin and takes the stairs slowly, speeding up when he hits light near the bottom.
I pause at the top of the stairs with Peter. “Every time I think I’m doing a good job with this kid stuff, I realize there were six other things I should’ve thought of.”
“Tell me about it,” he says.
“What are you talking about? You’re like the perfect dad. It’s annoying. Can you mess up every once in a while?”
“I didn’t say anything to Hank, either. I just assumed he knew.”
“I just want them happy, safe and fed.” My stomach growls at the aroma that wafts up the stairs. Dinner must be ready and in from the RV. “Fed isn’t going too well, so I’m trying for safe and happy.” It sounded like a joke in my head, but when the words make their appearance, it sounds a whole lot gloomier.
“We’ll find food.” Peter’s voice is firm. “Or get there on what we have.”
“What do you think it’s like there?”
“Probably like Kingdom Come, but a lot colder.”
“Great,” I say. “So freezing cold and grizzly bears? As if zombies aren’t enough.”
“Is there anything you can’t joke about?” Peter asks.
“Nope.” I hear Nelly’s voice and don’t want them to think we’re eavesdropping. “Let’s see what’s for dinner.”
19
Dinner was pasta, slightly pink with sauce we canned last year. It reminded me of standing in the kitchen with Bits, canning tomatoes, when Peter showed up at Kingdom Come’s gate. Out of those of us who left my parents’ cabin, he’s the last person I would’ve predicted would be sitting behind where I lie in a tiny living room in Nowhere, Saskatchewan.
Zeke threw a Mad Libs into the bag of books, and the kids are playing in the light of the single lamp on the coffee table.
“I need a verb,” Ash says.
“Puke,” Hank says.
“Burp,” Bits says.
Ash rolls her eyes but laughs. This is how every Mad Libs has gone in the past twenty minutes. “Puke was first. Okay, last one is a noun.”
“Jump,” Nicki says.
“A noun is a person, place or thing,” Bits reminds her. “Try again. Like…bird or car or p—”
“Bits…” Peter says warningly. We both know what the next word out of her mouth will be.
“Poop?” Nicki asks, and the other three lose it.
Ash reads the final product. It’s so juvenile and ridiculous, and between Ash’s voice cracking and the younger kids in hysterics, it’s pretty funny. I turn my head to Peter and poke him with my foot. He’s been trying to wean Bits off her obsession with potty words, which is about as likely as teaching Barnaby a trick, but even he’s laughing.
It’d been awful to leave Peter to his death in Bennington, but to lose him now would be so much worse. The thought of him hurt or disappointed makes my stomach clench, and I know how much he’s hurting right now. I would take it on myself, if I could.
When I turn again, he’s still smiling. “Yes?” he asks.
“Just checking.”
“Checking on what?”
“You.” I give him another poke and jump when he grabs my foot. He rubs it quickly between his hands. A sigh escapes—my feet are icicles, even with two pairs of wool socks. “Thanks. They’re freezing.”
“They always are.” He starts on my other foot, but this one gets a genuine foot massage.
“Foot number one is going to be jealous,” I say.
“Tell foot number one she’ll get her turn.”
I rest my cheek on the rug and close my eyes. This is the most relaxed I’ve been in what feels like a year, but is only our fourth night on the road. I count to be sure. It seems impossible, but it’s right. Our universe has changed dramatically in such a short time—our own personal Big Bang. I drift off with Peter warming my feet and the soft giggles of children hanging in the air.
I wake with a crick in my neck, what feels like cotton in my mouth and Nelly’s voice in my ear. “Wake up, shithead.”
I try to roll over, but I’m sandwiched between Bits and Hank on the rug. I accidentally pull Bits’s hair when I shimmy out from under the blankets and then step directly on Peter’s hand where he sleeps beside Bits. They mumble in their sleep but don’t wake.
“You’re like a bull in a china shop,” Nelly whispers. He watches me in the light of the lantern he holds with his big, white grin.
I stumble to my bag for my toothbrush, toothpaste and water bottle. Nelly lights the way and waits for me to finish brushing at the kitchen sink. After I’ve spit the last time I say, “You know, I think I prefer Half-pint over shithead. Not that shithead doesn’t have a lovely ring to it.”
Nelly leans back on the counter. “Consider it done.”
“Thanks. So what and where are we watching?”
“There’s nothing to see. We’re listening.”
I use the dry toilet, which is quickly filling up with pee. It’s going to smell rank in a day, but by then we’ll be gone. Someone sleeps on the couch, and we sit by the window in the chair frames whose cushions were appropriated for beds. Nelly rests his boots on the windowsill. We can’t see out because of the closed curtains and sheets we hung to block any light, but we can hear the leaves rustling in the wind through the open glass.
“Did you and Adam eat?”
“Yeah, you were already snoring on the floor.”
“I do not snore.” I point to where a giant lump in the corner emits a soft noise. We’re under orders to poke Zeke if he snores too loudly. “That’s snoring.”
“I’m just messing with you,” Nelly says.
“Give me ten minutes to wake up and then you can damage my psyche all you want. But be nice until then, okay?” My head is fuzzy. I would kill for a cup of tea, loaded with milk and sugar, and a bagel. I take a gulp of water. It’s not the same.
We sit for a few minutes, until I’ve imagined a giant pod of Lexers heading for the house, which wakes me up nicely. I shiver and use one of the house’s bath towels to cover myself.
“So, did you and Adam make up?” Nelly grunts, but I’m not letting him get away with that. “Did you or did you not apologize for being an ass, Nels?”
“Yes,” he mutters.
“Good. You’re lucky I’m not a dude.”
“And why is that?”
“I’d steal him out from under you with my masculine wiles.” I duck from his punch and say, “Seriously, though, you know how great he is and how much he loves you? I know you don’t like to talk about this stuff, but at least tell me you know.”
He shifts his gaze away. “I do know.”
“Good. I’m done making you talk. Who’s on after us?”
“We have two hours and then we wake Jamie and Shawn.” He taps his watch. “Oh, look, only an hour and forty-five minutes to go. We’re
almost there.”
We freeze at a noise that isn’t the wind. It nears the house, moving too fast to be a Lexer. Nelly covers the lantern with a dishtowel and we sit at the edge of our chairs. I forget the cold and my hunger, forget everything but how to aim and fire my gun. Whatever it is snuffles as it passes. Maybe a raccoon—they can be pretty loud and human-like sometimes. Nelly uncovers the lantern and we resume our listen, both pretending that we didn’t just freak out a tiny bit. I’m scared of Lexers, but I’m terrified of humans.
The rest of our shift is quiet. I take another lantern upstairs to find Jamie and Shawn awake and, if not raring to go, then in good spirits. I slip back into my warm spot between the kids, where I curl up and stick my cold feet on Bits. There’s no point in having kids if you can’t put them to work.
20
“Unless we want to drive through the center of Prince Albert, which I wouldn’t recommend, we’re going to have to find an alternate route,” Mark says. He and James have been at this since last night, but now that there’s better light, they’ve been poring over the thick atlas at the table. “The North Saskatchewan River only has a few crossings and some are ferries.”
“I’m thinking they’re probably unmanned at this point,” James says. Mark chuckles at his map humor, and James points to a spot with a long finger. “This could work. And here’s where there was a Safe Zone a while back. They hadn’t made contact since the winter, but I think we should check it out.”
“Agreed.”
I wander past and give them both a pat on the back. They deserve it. I’m decent with a map, but the atlas is hundreds of pages of miniscule road grids and street names. According to the picture, where we are now looks like a busy network of intersections, when all we saw yesterday was the occasional dirt road branching off the paved one. They weren’t kidding about it being a back road atlas.
I find Maureen and Penny in the RV, with the wheat berries that soaked all night already boiling, and remember a prepper tip that I probably heard from my parents, since our basement was full of wheat berries for grinding into flour. “I think you can put wheat berries in a thermos with boiling water and they’ll cook overnight.” I have no idea from where in my brain I dredged that fact, but I’m sure I’m right. “Maybe it’d work if we insulated a pot with blankets? It would save on fuel.”
“We’ll do that tonight,” Maureen says. She closes her eyes and breathes deep, then turns and stands at the counter as though she’s forgotten her next task.
“Let us cook,” I say to her. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m tired, sweetheart.”
Sometimes I wonder why we want to keep on living, especially people like Maureen, who have absolute faith in the afterlife. Why they don’t give up and go to their reward is a mystery to me.
“I’m okay,” she says. “Just having a hard morning.”
We insist she sit down. I’ve brought the cinnamon from the house, and I look over our stock while Penny dumps some in with a bit of sugar. We have seven MREs. Five packs of ramen. Five pounds of flour. A few pounds of sugar. A bottle of oil. Canned pineapple. What’s left of the rice and oats. A couple jars of blueberry jam, and green tomatoes from Quebec that show no sign of ripening.
After today, we’ll be halfway there. With the wheat berries, it may be enough to feed seventeen people for five days. We’ll still look for food, but we haven’t yet reached the point where food is worth endangering our lives. It very well may happen—last year, it took us close to a week to make the four-hour drive from Brooklyn to my parents’ cabin.
When breakfast is ready, Penny lines up the various containers and scoops out wheat berries. They’re brown and somewhat gloppy looking, but they smell good. The bar has been lowered to the point where if it’s food, it’s tasty. I hand them out the door to Bits and Hank, who take them into the house. James comes into the camper for his, and when Penny turns to the counter, both James and I quickly spoon a bit of ours into her cup.
Penny clears her throat. “Stop. I know what you’ve been doing, and I want you to stop.” We look guiltily to where she stands, hands on hips and lip trembling. “I don’t want extra food.”
James is silent, so I say, “You need extra food, Pen. We don’t.”
I wasn’t able to sneak her any pasta last night. James might have, but if I’m this hungry, then she must be starving.
“I will not take your food.” She enunciates each word before she walks to her cup and scoops out a spoonful. James has hidden his cup behind his back, and she says to him, “Give me your cup. Now.”
“No,” he says.
“Give it to me.”
“You cannot have my fucking cup.” He towers over her with narrowed eyes. James usually lets Penny get her way because she doesn’t ask for much, but it’s obvious it’s not happening today.
Penny lowers her eyes to the cup I’ve covered with my hand. “Please, take it back.”
I shake my head. “You may not have to actually eat for two, but you shouldn’t be on a diet.”
“Neither should you. I swear you’re both skinnier, you know that? I don’t want to be the reason you starve to death.”
“No one’s starving to death.” James wipes a tear off her cheek with the hand that doesn’t hold his cup. If he sets it down she’ll throw some in there. “You’re eating it. I don’t care if I have to hold you down and shove it down your throat for you.”
Penny’s shoulders slump and she turns to me. “Give your food to Bits and Hank if you have to give it to someone. It’s not your fault I’m pregnant.”
“It is James’s fault, though,” I say, and point at him accusingly. “I don’t want to waste time telling you how babies are made, but I will if I have to.”
James laughs. Penny fights to keep her frown in place, loses, and then kicks me.
I clutch my shin. “Ow! You’re lucky I don’t kick pregnant people!”
“Sorry!” Penny covers her mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
“Because you were frustrated. But, geez, woman, don’t do it again. Go kick a zombie or something.”
“Stop giving me food, then.” She tries to contain her giggle, but it comes out with her words, and I follow suit until all three of us are gasping.
“Fine, but you have to let James,” I say when I’ve caught my breath. She nods, but it’s obviously only to shut me up. “Stop lying or I’ll raise my ban on kicking pregnant people. Promise me.”
Penny crosses her arms. “Fine. I promise.”
“Now eat your food,” James says. He spoons his into his mouth without taking his eyes off her.
“Right now?”
“No, tomorrow. Yes, now.”
She takes a bite and gives a dramatic swallow. I eat some of my own. It’s not bad—chewy and nutty, and the cinnamon makes it taste like breakfast food. I finish it in no time and watch Penny take her final bite.
“Happy?” she asks.
“When did you get so cranky?” I ask. “I thought pregnant people were supposed to be nice.”
“You try being pregnant in the zombie apocalypse.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, but her hand runs along her glasses. It’s her tell, as Nelly the poker player would say, and gives away her fear, uncertainty or nervousness every time. I give her a hug and whisper, “Just let him do this for you, okay? He needs to do something.”
She nods tearfully when I take her cup and leave. Maureen, who’s been sitting on the sofa with downcast eyes, follows me into the house.
“I could stand to lose a few pounds,” she says while we wipe out the breakfast dishes, and pats her round hips. On the farm, we never went without. “I’ll go back down to two meals a day.”
“No, don’t you start—”
“Just until we find more food. I don’t need extra stamina the way you all do, and I’m pretty sure I’m done growing. Don’t argue, Cassie. You won’t win this one.”
It’s nice to have a mother figu
re until they get all bossy on you.
“Okay,” I say, and wonder how many more times I’ll have to have this conversation. It’s preferable to being surrounded by selfish people, but the fact that we have to have it at all is beginning to wear on me.
21
Once we’re on the road, I lie in the bedroom and watch movies with the kids. Disney movies might not be my first choice, but it’s like a vacation to watch anything, to lose myself in a world where I know everything will work out okay. I feel guilty that I get to lounge around in the relatively spacious RV while others ride in the pickup, but I’m not leaving Bits and Hank in a separate vehicle. No one asks me, Peter or Kyle to take a turn, so I guess they understand.
The RV turns onto a bumpy road instead of the smooth asphalt we’ve been traveling, and I leave for the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
“We decided to try some of these houses for food,” James says.
A vast expanse of farmland is to our right, a small neighborhood to our left. Modular homes that look to have been well-kept before the grass grew sky-high line the dirt road, although there isn’t a tree within a half-mile radius. I go for my gloves, but Kyle stands and lays a hand on them.
“You stay, I’m going.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” he says, brows so low I can barely see his eyes. “I’ve been sitting here like a damn fool while you all go for supplies. I should be out there.”
“What about Nicki?” I ask quietly.
“I always come back. See no reason that’d change now.” He checks his magazine, slides it back into his gun and draws his machete out of its sheath to scrutinize the blade. “I know you’d take care of Nicki if something happened.”
I wave a hand at myself. “Hey, Kyle, do I carry around an umbrella?”
Kyle double checks just to be sure. “No.”
“Do I have a British accent?”
“No. What the—”
Until the End of the World Box Set Page 86