“With the beer. I know we only made a few batches together, but it was fun. It was sort of our thing.”
“Dad loved making beer with you.”
“This is my dream, Mom.” Carter’s gesture takes in the van and the fermenting kegs in the back. “This is what I want to do with my life. Dad knew that.”
There’s a reason Carter keeps bringing up Kyle. I know there is. I know it has something to do with the funk he’s in, but I can’t put my finger on it. I can’t unravel the mystery that is my son. As he looks at me, I see how lost he is.
I wish the world hadn’t taken away his dream, or his father for that matter. I wish some elbow grease and hard work would restore things to the way they were. I can protect my son and do my best to keep him alive, but I can’t restore his dream.
“I know this is important to you, sweetie, but the world has changed. We can’t hold onto the past if we’re going to survive.”
I make my voice as gentle as possible, but Carter’s face hardens with every word. Shoulders stiff, he turns his back on me and resumes work on the van.
Which leaves me with exactly two choices. I can go inside and find Jenna and help her get some real work done. Or I can stay here with Carter and paint a van we likely will never be able to use.
It’s not safe to be outside alone, and so I stay and paint.
And paint.
And paint.
15
Ham
JENNA
It’s been three days since Carter and I got into a fight and he started sleeping on the living room floor.
It’s been two days since he started painting Skip with Kate instead of me.
It’s been exactly one day since my hurt evaporated and turned into anger. Carter wants to be an ass and ignore me? Two can play that game. There will be no more groveling or apologizing from me. If he wants to talk, he can come to me.
I throw myself into my new routine. In the morning, I work out with Kate in the stairwell. The rest of the day, I keep myself busy by plundering kitchens and bedrooms in Creekside. I converted the burned dorm suite into a storage area, which is starting to resemble a small grocery store.
After some cajoling and bribing with a pack of Oreos, Eric, Reed, and Johnny helped me clear half a dozen rooms and drag the bodies downstairs. Other than that, they have yet to lift a finger.
Eric and Reed spend their days playing video games. I swear Eric’s potbelly is getting larger every day. Johnny is glued to his ham radio. Lila is busy reading and making her concoctions. The only thing useful any of them has done is agree to wash dishes and take out the trash to keep the ants at bay.
“Oh my God,” Johnny says into the ham radio as I deposit my latest collection of food stores on the kitchen floor. “I can’t believe you guys have a whole fucking fort. That is so cool, man.”
“A fort?” I pause, a case of Kraft macaroni and cheese in my arms, intrigued despite my grumpiness. “Who has a fort?” And are they talking about a blanket fort, or some other type of fort?
“There’s an old Russian fort somewhere on the coast,” Johnny replies. “This guy, Alvarez, is living there. His handle is Foot Soldier. Here, say hi.”
I drop the case of mac ‘n cheese and take the ham from Johnny. “Hello?”
A response crackles through the radio. “Hello? This is Foot Soldier. Over.”
“Tell him your name,” Johnny prompts.
“My name is Jenna. What’s this I hear about a fort?” Are there normal people out there who believe in surviving? If so, I want to meet them.
Johnny elbows me. “Say, ‘over.’”
“Over,” I add, feeling self-conscious.
“I’m in a Russian fort built in the early eighteen hundreds,” Foot Soldier replies. “It was preserved and converted into a state park. We have a windmill to mill grain, an orchard, and space to garden. There’s a big wall around the fort and a few old houses inside. We need more people to help run this place. I told Wandering Writer you guys should come here. Over.”
“Wandering Writer?” I ask.
“It’s my handle on the ham.” Johnny grabs a map, spreading it out on the table. Grabbing the ham from me, he says, “Foot Soldier, this is Wandering Writer. What’s the closest town to your location? Over.”
“Timber Cove. Seriously, you guys gotta come here. Over.”
While the idea of joining up with a bona fide survival group does sound good, I’m skeptical we could safely travel far.
Johnny traces the coastline of California. He starts at the Oregon border and works his way down. My heart sinks as his finger drops lower and lower on the map.
“Foot Soldier, did you say you’re in northern California? Over,” Johnny says.
“Yeah. Just look for Timber Cove. South of Mendocino. Over.”
Johnny’s finger continues along the coast. Down, down, and down.
“Fuck me.” Johnny stares down at the map. “Fort Ross might technically be on the north coast of California, but it’s a long way from here.”
I lean over the map, taking in the tiny dot of Arcata and the long, long way between our tiny town and Johnny’s finger.
“That’s gotta be a few hundred miles,” I say. Not only that, it looks like there’s only one major highway near Fort Ross and the only way to reach it is by backtracking through much of the territory Kate traveled to get here. Seeing how bad she was when she arrived doesn’t make me think any of us could make it. Kate is tougher than all of us combined.
“No go,” Johnny says into the ham. “You’re too far away, Foot Soldier. No way for us to get there. Over.”
“Damn,” Foot Soldier replies. “Too bad. We could have used you guys. Over.”
I don’t bother telling him he’s better off without the dead weight Creekside boys.
Johnny and Foot Soldier continue to talk, exchanging survival stories. I listen as I return to organizing our stores.
Foot Soldier was in the military when all hell broke loose. His platoon was assigned to a roadblock. They were overrun. No one made it out except him. The guy traveled all the way to Fort Ross on foot. That’s probably how he came up with his handle.
At least the guy is being proactive. He’s not wasting his days away playing video games and smoking joints or painting a van.
The door opens. Carter and Kate enter, laughing over something. Carter’s laugh fades as he spots me watching them. He looks away when our eyes meet.
Frustration wells in my chest. Fuck him. Fuck all these idiots.
I brush past Carter and Kate, grabbing my shoes, spear, and jacket.
“Where are you going?” Kate asks.
I don’t look at her when I answer. “I’m going out to get some beer.”
“Beer?” Kate’s brow creases. “Can’t you just tap the kegs in Skip?”
I shake my head. “Carter is doing a double fermentation on them. They won’t be ready for another few weeks.”
“That’s a great idea,” Reed says, looking up with bloodshot eyes. The guy is so stoned it’s not even funny. “We should go to the Depot.”
“That’s my plan,” I reply crisply. So what if none of us has ventured beyond the parking lot since the outbreak? We have to cross the threshold of our little bubble eventually. Might as well be right now. I can’t think of a better reason than beer.
“There are solar panels at the Depot,” Eric says. “I’ve been wanting to check them out.” He glances at Kate. “You asked about a washing machine. I think those panels might be large enough to power one. If I can get one of them off the roof, maybe I can get a washing machine running.”
Reed pops one of Eric’s brownies into his mouth. “I am so high right now.”
“You guys aren’t going anywhere,” Carter declares. “You two”—he points a finger at Reed and Eric—“are stoned.”
“I’m only a little stoned,” Eric says.
“You”—Carter points a finger at me—“can’t go out by yourself. It’s not safe.”
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Anger hits me like a brick. Carter ignores me for three days, then has the nerve to think to can tell me what I can and can’t do?
I can’t stay here. I have to move, have to do something. The dorm is too small, too confining, too close to Carter. I have to get away from him and his stupidly handsome face.
“Fuck it,” I say to Reed and Eric. “Let’s go get solar panels and beer. I want to be drunk and I want to wash my clothes.”
“Now you’re talking.” Eric grins, rising to his feet.
“Reed,” I say, “you can only come if you promise not to attract the attention of psychotic drug mules.”
Reed waves a hand, drifting toward the sofa. “I think Carter is right. I’m too stoned to go on a beer run. I’m taking a nap.” He falls onto the cushions, eyes closing before his head hits the pillows.
“I’ll go,” Johnny says. “I can write about this.”
Kate looks at me. When our eyes meet, I feel exposed. She knows exactly why I’m acting out like a toddler. She must think I’m an idiot. She probably thinks I’m not good enough for Carter.
“I’ll go with you guys.” Carter grabs a spear. He gives me a look, daring me to argue with him. “I’m going,” he says to me.
“Do whatever you want.” I stalk past him and out the door.
16
The Depot
JENNA
We walk in a tight cluster along the northern edge of the campus. The school is eerily quiet, not filled with the normal hum of human activity like it used to be.
“I’m going to pretend it’s summer session out here and everyone has gone home for a few months,” Johnny whispers.
“Good idea,” I reply. It would be easier to do if there weren’t so many dead bodies everywhere.
We head deeper into campus toward the Depot. It’s one of a few buffet dining options at the university.
It’s the only one that served beer.
We pass more bodies than I can count. Most bear signs of gunshot wounds to the head. The soldiers definitely did a number on Humboldt State University.
“Is that people over there? Or am I just stoned?” Eric points off to our left.
I squint in the direction Eric points. The sun is halfway concealed by the horizon, casting long shadows and dim light. At first, all I see are trees and bushes and looming buildings. Then I see what Eric sees.
Just outside the glass windows of the Depot is a group of three people. It’s clear from the way they move that they’re human, not zombie.
“People!” I hiss, pointing.
Carter grabs me, pulling me toward the ground. I yank free and give him a dirty look, but stay down.
Eric and Johnny crouch beside us. There isn’t anything to hide behind, but hunkering down seems smarter than standing up where we can be seen. Assuming we haven’t already been seen.
“Maybe it’s other students,” I whisper. “Maybe we should say hi to them.”
“Are you kidding?” Johnny says. “Have you ever seen a horror movie? We’re living out a classic scene right now. This is the part where trusting people call out in greeting, only to find out the other guys are psychos who collect eyeballs.”
“Just because three other people survived hell doesn’t make them eyeball collecting psychos,” I argue. “We should see who they are.”
“Too late now,” Eric says. “They’re gone.”
The four of us squint through the growing darkness. I study the spot where I saw the figures. Sure enough, whoever had been there is gone.
“Let’s just get to the Depot.” I don’t even really want beer anymore, but my pride won’t let me back out. This was, after all, my idea.
The courtyard of the Depot looks like a killing ground. There are bodies and dried blood everywhere. I gag as we enter the courtyard. Johnny and Eric cover their mouths, trying to block out the smell.
I force myself to take in the carnage. The dead people here are all my age. I could have easily been one of them. Their lives are over. By some stroke of luck—maybe a few strokes of luck—I’m still alive.
“You okay?” Carter puts a hand on my shoulder.
I shake him off. He doesn’t get to be nice to me only when it suits him. I sure as hell don’t need his concern.
“What ...” Johnny raises a shaking hand. “What is that?”
I follow the line of his finger. Past the bodies, past the blood, all the way to ...
“Oh.” My eyes lock on the gruesome sight.
A soldier is staked to a tree. Long knives have been driven through the flesh right below his shoulders, holding him in place. Around his neck are red abrasions, making me think he may have been strangled to death before he was strung up.
“Who would do that?” I whisper. Cold sweat beads along my spine.
“Sickos.” Carter stands too close to me, his stance protective.
I can’t stand it. It makes me hurt all over.
Clenching my fists, I move into the courtyard and away from Carter.
“A writer can’t hide from reality,” Johnny murmurs, brandishing his chair leg. “Although I have to admit, I’ve never been on a high stakes beer run before.”
I draw my own chair leg. “Will this make it into your book?”
“Depends on what happens when we get inside,” Johnny replies. “There’s the implication of danger. That means there’s a good chance something scary or bad will happen, which makes for good storytelling. There’s also the possibility we’ll go inside and nothing at all will happen. Which means there’s no scene, just a setting with dead bodies where nothing happens.”
“I vote for the scene with dead bodies where nothing happens,” I say.
“You guys go ahead,” Eric says. “Me and Carter will stay out here and keep watch.”
“I’m not staying out here,” Carter says.
“You have to,” Eric replies. “That way I’ll have an excuse to stay with you. If you go inside, I’ll look like a pussy out here.”
“Let’s quit arguing and just go,” I say. Standing around out here in the growing darkness is creeping me out.
We move through the courtyard, edging around bodies and avoiding pools of coagulated blood as best we can. Johnny curses when he accidentally steps in a small patch and almost trips.
“That’s definitely going into my book,” he grumbles.
“Do you have a title for your book?” I ask.
“Voices of the Apocalypse,” Johnny replies. “Subtitle, First Days. I already have fifty pages just from the interviews I’ve done with people over the ham. Not to mention our own story of surviving the military attack.”
The front of the Depot is floor-to-ceiling glass. Several windows have been smashed. Glass crunches underfoot as we near the building. When I glance down, I see it’s not just window shards underfoot. Cylindrical tubes of brass roll beneath my shoes. Discarded bullet casings. How many students were murdered by the military?
Still in a tight cluster, we pause outside and peer into the gloom. More dead bodies are inside. I count at least half a dozen killed by headshots.
Nothing moves. Just to be sure, I take my chair leg and tap it against the ground a few times.
An answering growl comes from inside the Depot. A second growl follows hard on the heels of the first.
This was all a bad idea. It seemed reasonable back in the dorm when I was angry and upset. I really don’t need a beer. Or my pride. Both are overrated.
Carter taps the spear a second time. Once again, two growls answer.
“There’s only two of them,” he whispers. “Both came from over there.” He points to the buffet, where spoiled food sits. It sends up a rancid smell, though it’s not nearly as bad as the smell from the rotting bodies.
“The beer kegs are over there.” I point to the other side of the Depot.
“Let’s get a keg and get the hell out of here,” Reed says.
“What about the solar panels?” Eric points to the roof where half a dozen panels
sit. The only way up there is with a ladder or through a second-story window.
“We can come back for them another time,” I say. Preferably in full daylight. Besides, getting a panel will be an all day excursion by the time we figure out how to get onto the roof, dismantle the panel, and get it back to the dorm.
“Cool. I don’t mind wearing the same clothes every day,” Eric says. “Hell, it’s pretty much every nerd’s dream not to have to worry about clothes.”
“Let’s just get the beer and get out of here,” Johnny says.
No one argues. We inch inside, our feet crunching on the debris.
Carter creeps in my direction, drawing closer with every step. He keeps flicking glances my way, too. I don’t know what his deal is. I make it a point to edge away from him. He doesn’t get to ignore me then play my protector.
The growls increase in intensity from the buffet area.
“Maybe we should check it out and get rid of whoever is over there,” Johnny whispers. “Put them out of their misery.”
“No,” I reply. “In and out with the keg. That’s it.” I hold my spear in front of me like a bat, eyes flicking to the left and right.
The beer counter is a half-moon of wood with three taps. I peer behind the bar. A crumpled body lies there.
I prod it with my spear to make sure it’s dead. It doesn’t move. Carter slides in and detaches the first of the kegs. The fact that they’re still here is a sign of just how deserted the campus is.
“How are we going to tap into them when we get back to the dorm?” Eric asks.
“We’ll have to take one of the tap handles,” Carter replies. “Here, I brought my mom’s screwdriver.” He passes it to me.
I decide not to read anything into his action. I just happened to be standing closest to him when he pulled out the screwdriver.
Within a few minutes, we have a keg and the tap handle in our possession. Carter removes a second keg.
The fading light illuminates his profile. For a moment, I let myself imagine things are good between us. I imagine we’re not surrounded by dead bodies in a shot-up college cafeteria. Instead, we’re at a trailhead somewhere, selling our beer to racers after they cross the finish line.
Dorm Life Page 10