Corbin stares at it curiously, sucking on a finger.
“Come on, buddy.” I pick up one of the lanterns, and take his hand, leading him down the hallway to the guest bathroom.
When we get there, he screams, yanking hold of the doorframe. “No! No potty!”
“Corbin, what—?”
And then, it dawns on me. “Aww, buddy, are you scared of the bathroom?”
He nods into my shoulder, and that first blossom of trauma, imprinting its PTSD on his tiny brain, resonates with me, triggering a fracture in my heart. I hold him close and rock him. “Shh, little brother. It’s okay, I promise. Sissy’s right here, and nothing bad will happen to you, okay?” I kiss his cheek.
“O-okay, Sissy,” he sniffles, gripping my shoulders tightly as we walk into the bathroom. He shakes like a leaf, and I cry, realizing he’s not the only one affected by this trip down a too-soon Memory Lane.
When I get him to release his death-grip, I unbutton his pants and slip them down, noticing they’re damp.
“Did you pee-pee on yourself, Corb?”
He doesn’t answer, but I’m sure it must’ve been on the way here in the SUV, or under the bathroom sink at our house. He was terrified both times, so that would make sense.
I hold him on the toilet seat like I’ve seen Eileen do before, so he doesn’t fall in. When asked by me why she didn’t teach him to stand and pee “like a man,” she’d said: “There’s plenty of time for being a man later in life. Right now, he’s still momma’s little boy.”
She loved her little boy with all her heart, with every fiber of her being.
Tears resurface as he finishes up, and I help him out of his dirty pants and underwear.
“We’ll get you some clean clothes for night-night, okay?”
“Okay, Sissy.”
I wrap a towel around him and scoop him up to cradle him in my arms, and he just shakes, the poor, terrified little thing. I kiss his cheek as wetness spills down mine. I’m a horrible person for wasting such precious time. Years thrown away because I was scared to get too attached. And then, jealous of their perfect little boy. But that perfection was an illusion. He was always destined to be an orphan, just like me.
TWENTY-THREE
Getting Corbin to sleep was easier than I thought it would be. After a few minutes of lying next to him, patting him softly—as I’d seen Eileen do before—he was out cold. I slipped quietly from Eve’s parents’ bed and out of the room to find Eve and Gideon peeking through the front window curtains.
When she sees me, Eve hands me the now half-empty bottle of bourbon and takes out a cigarette.
“Can I get one of those, too?”
She passes me the one in her hand, takes two more out, offering one to Gideon.
“It’s insane how many of them there are.” Gideon puffs the cigarette as Eve lights the tip.
Once she lights mine, I take a drag, and pinch the edge of the drape to peek behind it. Mangled, bloody bodies—bodies that should be still, buried, gone—walk upright, expressionless, dead-eyes open.
Up the road, one of them jerks its head, then the limbs follow and he’s running after something. Those around him scramble to join, colliding into one another. Soon, I catch sight of the prey: a white Chihuahua bolting down the sidewalk.
Eve leans in beside me, and I point toward the dog.
“Oh no,” she whispers. “That’s the Saunders’ dog.”
She slows to a trot, sniffs the pant leg of one of the blind predators, and Eve gasps beside me, covering her mouth. When the dead man doesn’t see her wagging, she yelps at him to get his attention. There’s another yelp as he whips around to snatch her up, and tears into her abdomen, spilling dark red to white fur, his chin, and plaid Oxford shirt.
“And that’s Mr. Saunders,” Eve says.
I let the drape fall, then pivot, resting against the wall by the front door. In my peripheral are a deadbolt and a chain lock. I inspect them, afraid they aren’t enough protection from the monsters that now inhabit our city, though I’m aware the fear is irrational. Good ‘ol PTSD.
“We should plan ahead,” Gideon says, taking a drag from his cigarette. “From the looks of the food and water supply here, I’d say we have no more than a week before we’ll need to make a supply run.”
We return to the dining table, and Eve makes her rounds with the bottle of bourbon, this time filling our glasses to the brim. She sets the bottle onto the table with a clink, then picks up her glass, following her gulp of liquor with a swig from the Coke bottle.
I look into the amber-colored liquor in my glass, at the reflection of a girl I’ve hated for so long. The loathing has grown today, more than I ever thought possible. I drink her down until she’s gone, and my nostrils, throat, mouth, stomach, and soul bleed and burn for her.
“God. Damn.” Gideon examines his own glass. “Is that a challenge?”
I shrug, wading in warmth, sorrow, and desolation. “Drink up, Chuck.”
With a nod, he turns up his own glass, and with a cringe, and a slight pause halfway through, he finishes, setting the cup in front of him. “Whoo.” He gives his head a shake. “Your turn, Miss Eve,” he says with a smirk.
“Oh, that’s how we’re doing it, huh?” She straightens in her chair and cracks her knuckles. “Okay, then.” And in seconds she has the glass emptied, setting it on the table. After some squirming, she snatches the bottle of Coke and gulps.
Gideon and I laugh. It feels good. Behind the drunken haze, I’m aware our situation is beyond fucked, and indeed, not a laughing matter. But I also know we might be dead tomorrow. So, why not make the best of our possible last night alive?
“Too bad we don’t have any music,” Gideon says. “I could go for some right about now.”
I remove my phone from my pocket. “You’re in luck.” I scroll to Willow Trees and press ‘Play.’
“Departure” by Ed Harrison plays, followed by Nine Inch Nails’ “A Warm Place,” fitting songs for our goodbye to music.
“Brilliant.” Gideon leans back in his chair, clasps his hands behind his head. “I dig this. You’ve got good taste.”
I’m drunk as shit. I slide my hand up Eve’s thigh under the table, and she grins at me, then gets up from her chair and comes over to straddle me. And when we kiss, I relish it now, more than ever. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past forty-eight hours, it’s to never take anyone, or anything, for granted.
I taste the inside of her sweet mouth for at least five minutes as the beats flow through us, until Gideon leans forward to snatch my phone from the table as the track changes. “No way, Sebastian Plano?” He looks at the screen. “Yup, wow. I went to high school with that guy.”
I pull away from Eve. “Really? That’s cool. Small world.”
“Yeah, he . . . was a couple years older than me.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty-two.”
And then there’s silence, because we’re all aware now, of what that means of his friend, Sebastian, and his music.
“Wait, if you’re twenty-two,” I say. “Then how—?”
“I worked security. Exempt.”
“Oh . . .”
And now I have a whole new appreciation for that exemption.
“What about you two?” Gideon asks. “How old are you guys?”
“I’m twenty, Eve’s nineteen.”
Eve spins around in my lap, and goes to work pinching off a piece of bud to load into the bowl. I slip my arms around her small waist and rest my cheek on her back. She lights the bowl and takes a hit, then passes it over her shoulder to me.
“Let’s talk plans.” I take a hit and pass it to Gideon.
“Yes, let’s talk plans.” Eve hops up from my lap, stumbles to her chair and sits, almost falling over the side. She laughs, and we join her, because we’re there, too.
Gideon clears the laughter from his face and grows serious again. “What’s around here? Somewhere safe, where we ca
n build a camp. Like a Walmart, or a sporting goods store, or something.”
“No way.” I take a cigarette from the almost-empty pack on the table and light it.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s an obvious place,” Eve says. “Don’t you ever watch TV?”
“Right,” I say. “We’d have to go somewhere others won’t go. Somewhere close to supplies, but not too close. Close enough to sneak in and scavenge if we need something, but not close enough to get killed over stuff.”
“Damn, you girls are smart. I sure am glad I ended up with you two, as opposed to a couple of dumbasses who’d get me killed.”
After more laughter all around, he punches his palm. “Check it out, I’ve got the perfect place: that old, abandoned water park off of eighty-four and Ridge Point Road.”
“Wipeouts. I know where that is!” Eve says. “My parents used to take me there when I was a little girl, before it closed.”
“Never been there,” I say. “But I always wanted to go when it was still open. When I was younger.”
“Well, listen,” he says, his face animating with excitement. “Right across the street is that Harv E’s Sporting Goods in a shopping center with a Minyard’s Market, a pawn shop, a couple restaurants—like, a Chinese food place and a taco joint, I believe—and another handful of stores. A pharmacy nearby, if I’m not mistaken. If we get to the water park, we’re protected by that big-ass fence they put up a few years ago to keep vandals out. Then we can sneak out at night when they can’t see us and hunt for supplies.”
Eve gazes around the room with a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to go . . . but, at the same time, I do. Too many memories here . . .” And seconds later, she’s bawling into her hands.
When I go to comfort her, she ejects from her seat in hysterics. “I just left them in the fucking shed!”
“Shh, Evie, Corbin—”
“But they deserve more than that, Ophelia! They deserve to be buried with dignity, at least! They’re my parents!” She heads toward the back door, then outside. Gideon and I snatch rifles off the bar and follow her out, across the yard, to the shed where the bodies of her parents are. She opens the door and stands shaking for a moment before grabbing a shovel from the corner, and then, passing us up to the middle of the yard, she attempts a reckless dig.
“Evie,” I say, my heart breaking for her. “Let us help you.”
“Are there anymore shovels?” Gideon asks.
She doesn’t answer, so I signal for him to check the shed. He jogs over to it while I stay with her, and when he returns with two shovels, we hold eye contact for a moment as he passes me one. He doesn’t speak, but I sense what he’s telling me. I didn’t get to bury my own parents, and he didn’t bury his dad. At least we get to help Eve honor hers.
With each stab at the hard, damp earth, I feel her anguish, and share it. This is not how things were supposed to end. We shouldn’t be burying her parents in their own back yard. But I suppose everything changes when you’re no longer at the top of the food chain. We’re suddenly reduced to cavemen, hiding from vicious predators, while we mourn our dead and bury them by hand. Even with three of us it takes an hour to make even a little progress. But once we get in a rhythm, and the harder top layer of soil is out of the way, progress is quicker. My shoulder blades are warm and achy, and the souls of my feet are bruised from the metal ridge of the shovel, pushing against the souls of my Converse. Probably not the best shoes for digging.
We dig for another few hours, as the moon slides across the horizon like a marble in a bowl of stars. I’ve got blisters on my hands, and my muscles ache, my vision sways, having dug myself nearly sober.
When Gideon can stand waist-deep in them, we rest for a few minutes, before heading to the shed again. Gideon crouches to collect Mr. Davisson’s front half, and Eve and I take him by the legs. My muscles are spent. You’d never know how hard it is to dig a grave until you’ve dug one. And you’d never know how heavy a dead body is until you’ve carried one.
We carry him over to the first grave and roll him into it. I try not to look at his face, but it’s impossible not to. I catch sight of the grisly image—a bloody crater where his left eye should be—before Gideon and I shovel dirt into the hole on top of him.
Eve plucks a few of the assorted flowers from the garden along the fence and brings them over to us, then sets them aside to help with the dirt. I take a few-second break every couple of minutes, not used to this sort of manual labor.
Once we’ve finished with her dad’s we go back to the shed for her mother. She’s not as heavy as her husband, but my muscles are about to give out. We barely get her to the hole before I have to drop the leg I’m holding and have Gideon and Eve drag her the rest of the way. I’m drenched in sweat, covered in dirt, and now I have the Davisson’s blood on my hands.
It’s approaching dawn when we finally get Eve’s mother covered, too.
Eve lays three flowers and a cross from their cross wall on each mound.
Then she collapses between them.
TWENTY-FOUR
It may have been an hour before dawn when we got Eve to bed. I curled up on the other side, with Corbin between us, and Gideon posted up by the bedroom door, assault rifle in hand. He’s a light sleeper, he said, so any noise would alert him to awake and be ready to shoot.
The faint registering of a draft on my body precedes the screams that make Gideon and me bolt from our sleep. The bed is empty. Gideon stumbles through the open bedroom door with the rifle, and my heart is hot in my throat as we discover the nightmare together.
The front door is open, the daylight spilling through onto the tile floor. And then, he’s shooting, and it must be a dream. Two heads jolt back from their dining on my love, my Eve, and fall beside her. She lies bloody, covering Corbin, who screams, both of them drenched in blood.
I’m frozen in momentary shock as Gideon fires at runners all around us, and when he stops to reload, I snap to, race to Eve and Corbin. I steal him from the ground and cradle him to me, screaming for Gideon to help me with Eve. In the distance, more runners come from all directions. Gideon takes out two more, then helps me pick her up.
We rush inside the house, slam the door, then lay Eve down in the walkway. Bodies pound against the door from the outside, and my ears ring with Corbin’s piercing cries. Gideon bolts to the bathroom, returning a moment later with a stack of towels.
I hold Eve’s hand and cry, as she struggles to breathe. Her neck and side are ripped open, spilling precious life onto the white tile floor.
Gideon hands me a towel. “Apply pressure.”
My hand trembles as I press the towel against her side wound, while he attends to her neck. She turns slowly to look at me. “He . . . opened . . . it.” She raises a weak hand to point at a chair beside the door. Corbin had used it to climb up and unlock the chain lock and the deadbolt. He’d tried it once before at our house.
“He . . . wanted to . . . go . . . home.” Eve chokes on her blood. Her eyes close, and I sob, with Corbin clutched to my side. He gazes off into the distance, probably in shock. Upon inspection, I find a bite mark on his shoulder, and I can’t catch my breath. This can’t be happening.
“I love you, Eve. Please don’t die.” I kiss her hand. “I need you. I need you here, with me.”
“I’ll always be with you . . . Ophelia . . . Grace. No matter what. I . . . love . . . you.” And with that, her eyelids close, and her hand falls limp in mine.
“No!” I scream. “Evie, no! Please, God, no!”
Gideon takes Corbin from me, and I lie down beside her, kiss her dry lips, spilling out all of the things I never said, or didn’t say enough through my silent, flow of agony. I should’ve been there, and I wasn’t, again.
“She saved him,” I hear Gideon say from someplace faraway.
“But I didn’t save her . . .” I sit and pick her up, cradling her in my lap. “I didn’t fucking save her!” I run my fingers through her hair, noticin
g the hint of blonde roots. She was always my frail, fragile Lucy, too delicate to be in this dark, razor-sharp world. She was always lace in a hurricane, torn and frayed until she unraveled, strings blown away in the wind. But I always tried to make her leather or steel. And she tried—oh, how she tried—to be tough, to not let it break her . . . my Eve, my Lucy, with her switchblade against a world of monsters. I was always destined to cry these tears, ever since I led her into the dark.
When she twitches, my heart jumps.
“Watch out,” Gideon says.
There’s a slight moan, then the turn of her head.
“Oh my God, Evie, you’re alive!” I cradle her face in my hands.
But it’s not my Eve who looks back at me.
“Watch out!” Gideon yells.
With an open mouth and a growl she lunges, and I push her away with a scream. She scrambles forward on all fours and jumps on me with a sudden superhuman strength that’s both terrifying and baffling. I hold her up away from my body, and when a shot fires from behind me, a red spout opens in her temple, pouring blood onto my chest, where she falls limp. My ears ring from the echo.
Gideon puts the pistol into his waistband and offers me a hand. I push her off in near-hyperventilation and take it, letting him help me to my feet. He holds me as I shake, catch my breath, staring at the twisted, bloody frame of my best friend on her tiled entryway.
“I was afraid of that.” He regards Corbin, whose listlessness galvanizes me into action.
“He was bitten.” I open my arms and Gideon places the tiny boy—my baby brother—into them. “Does that mean . . . he’s going to—?”
“I don’t know.” Gideon slides down the wall until he’s crouched, and holds his head in his hands. “I don’t know.”
I carry Corbin to the couch, where I sit and cradle him. “I love you, Corbin.” I weep into his chest.
“I . . . wuv you . . . Sissy,” he says through labored breaths.
And when I gaze onto the face of the little boy I’d resented his whole life, with tiny pink lips that called me Sissy and who’s loved me unconditionally despite that . . . Those bright blue eyes that once danced with life and promise, now glossed over, fading, because he wanted to go home . . .
Dysphoria and Grace Page 11