“Ness!”
Five minutes later, a branch cracked a hundred yards to Ness’ right. He stayed frozen. Shawn yelled again, uphill and further to the right. Ness stood and walked straight to his left. He heard one more call.
Ness didn’t stop walking until he crossed the ridge to the far side of the mountain. Way, way below, the Rogers’ farm lay in darkness, a black pool of wheat. Ness’ hands were cold. He shoved them in his pockets. He couldn’t go back to the house. Not after that. Later that night, maybe, after Shawn and Mom had gone to bed.
But he didn’t want to wake to Shawn’s snores. To face his smirk at breakfast. He wasn’t quite as sure as he’d been twenty minutes ago, but he was still pretty sure Shawn had shot Volt. He shot things all the time—pheasant, chukar, squirrels, pigeons, deer. A cat was much smaller than a deer. If Shawn could shoot a deer without qualms, he would have no problem shotgunning a cat. A cat that had probably been peeing on his bed ever since he’d moved back. Ness grinned, then felt sick.
The fact of the matter was he didn’t want to go home at all. Hesitantly, approaching the idea the same way he’d approach a body in the woods, he understood he didn’t have to.
He had his wallet. The only real place to get food that was still open was the Jack in the Box, and it was drive-thru only this late, but the donut shop down on Washington kept weird hours to cater to the college drunks, and if he really got hungry, he could walk across town to the WinCo for some beef jerky and Ruffles. His fish didn’t need his attention; they were more or less self-sustaining, and the ones who weren’t could go days without food. If Volt was still alive and unshotgunned, his mom would be sure to feed her. He had a PVP raid scheduled tomorrow night, but it suddenly seemed unimportant. There would be other days. Other raids.
He waited another ten minutes to make sure Shawn had given up, then dropped down the mountain and headed for Rodeo Drive.
It was right about freezing, but with his hood up and his hands in his pockets, he wasn’t cold so long as he kept moving. He circled wide around the trailers and cut through the weeds between two housing developments, smelling the dew on the grass. Sprinklers chugged from the yard of a dark house. A dog barked, startling him. He ran until he was far enough away that no one could blame him for provoking it. He hit the highway and headed south toward town.
It took three minutes for the first car to pass, its headlights glaring in his eyes. Bass crumped from its closed windows. It sped down the highway and disappeared. It felt good to be away from the house. The muscles of his neck felt looser than at any point since Shawn had moved back home.
The donut shop was closed. He walked stiffly through the downtown. Two frat boys led a laughing girl out of a bar and onto the sidewalk. Ness crossed the street to get away. At the Jack in the Box, a dozen cars idled in the drive-thru, exhaust curling into the night. For just a second, he considered knocking on the window of a friendly-looking station wagon and asking if he could pay them to buy him two Jumbo Jacks with no onions, but how was he supposed to just ask a stranger for a favor like that? Anyway, they would probably drive off and eat the hamburgers themselves.
His feet ached already. His sense of adventure had faded as quickly as Shawn’s calls. He didn’t know where he would spend the night, but he was beginning to understand that if he did spend the night away from home—on a park bench? Under a bridge, for real?—that meant he had run away. Like a little kid whose big brother had broken his favorite toy. He rubbed his eyes and redoubled his pace toward WinCo.
It was a two-mile walk. The red letters hummed from the face of the store. The aisles were bright and empty. He could probably stay here all night if he wanted. Handling the bell peppers. Frowning at the fat content of the jalapeno chips. Men joked at each other, restocking the shelves with half-dissected pallets. A woman wrangled a floor-buffer down the aisles, engine blaring. Ness selected a packet of beef jerky and a family-size bag of Ruffles, which was too large for his immediate needs, frankly, but its per-ounce price was nearly half as low as the medium-sized bag. He did some quick arithmetic versus his bank account and chose a coffee-flavored Rockstar. Logically, he should try to stay awake and moving until the sun rose, then sleep while his clothing was able to absorb its warmth.
He wasn’t sure whether he could be arrested for loitering, so he ate while he walked. The silvery curve of the Kibbie Dome rose from the hill. If he wanted, he could have turned around and crossed the border into Washington within five minutes. Become an interstate runaway, all because he crossed a line not five miles from his front door. Instead, he walked toward campus, peeling off the main road into the brick path between the dorm-towers. Scattered laughter and a stereo’s bass filtered from the windows. It was nearly four o’clock. He hurried past the dorms and sat on a bench outside the Mormon church, where he ate potato chips until he felt logy. He called Volt’s name once, then glanced to the apartment block next door to make sure no lights had turned on. He slumped down on the bench, letting his hood bunch around his ears.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Ness’ heart jolted. He jerked upright. A policeman stood over him, flashlight dazzling his eyes. He shaded them, staring at the officer’s shoes. “I fell asleep.”
“How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”
Greasy Ruffles fell from his coat. “Nothing. Drinking’s bad for your brain.”
The officer leaned closer, peering into his eyes, nostrils flaring as he tried to catch a whiff of Ness’ breath. “Then what are you doing on this bench, sir?”
“I think I ate too much.”
The flashlight swung between his eyes. Ness blinked. The policeman clicked off the light. “Are you aware you’re sleeping on public property?”
“No I’m not. I’m awake on public property.” Ness flushed. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
The officer glanced at the bag of beef jerky sitting next to him, the rumpled sack of Ruffles. “Then maybe you should get home. I hear homes have beds.”
Ness stood, brushing crumbs. His limbs were stiff with cold. “Thank you, officer.”
It wasn’t yet six. Headlights crept down the street. Ness’ head thudded. He looped around town for another couple hours, blisters mounting on his toes and heels, and went into the library as soon as it opened. The inside smelled like old books and heater-singed dust. He took up a seat at a computer and dozed for a few hours until the librarian had enough and kicked him out.
He went to the Jack in the Box and was pleased to find it was still serving breakfast. As he walked outside, his mom’s beige Subaru crawled down the block. He flung himself into the damp grass behind the shrubs and waited for her to roll from sight.
Once the coast was clear, he walked to the park in the hills on the east end of town, stopping at a Walgreens to buy Band-aids, Neosporin, and a pair of sharp-nosed fingernail scissors. In the park bathroom stall, he popped his blisters with the scissors, cut away the dead skin, spread disinfectant on his bandages, and let his feet air out for a minute. His legs were sore from hips to toes. He couldn’t remember walking more in his life.
He rested in the park for a while, watching kids chuck a baseball around, take awkward swings in front of the backstop. When his feet stopped stinging, he walked slowly back to the Jack in the Box, taking the side streets through the bars, and ordered two Jumbo Jacks without onions.
On some level, he had no idea what he was doing. He could return home at any time. His mom would be too happy to be angry. But he felt that his point, whatever it was, hadn’t yet been proven. Shawn would still be there. Volt would still be gone. Anyway, in a strange way, he was enjoying himself. He felt contentedly removed from life, a secret observer of the college students and the locals on their daily routines. Worried about their girls and their jobs. It was so stupid. One day, they would all be dead.
He went back to the library, read Ender’s Game until they closed, then returned to the post-sunset of winter’s end. It was cold again. Brittle bro
wn maple leaves spotted the sidewalks. He texted Tim again and returned to the park east of town to take a nap. He woke at 11:07 PM hungry and sore. He had just enough time to walk to the Jack in the Box before they shut their lobby for the night.
He wasn’t sure what he would say to the cashier if it was the same teen girl who’d served him earlier, but a balding man waited behind the counter instead. Ness treated himself to a bacon double cheeseburger with jalapeno poppers and a Dr. Pepper, then headed back toward the park, cutting across the tree-lined downtown streets.
In a bar parking lot, three college kids peeled from the back stoop, cigarette cherries glowing orange. Their feet scuffed behind him. He quickened his pace. So did they. He cut into an alley between a mechanic’s and the grain silo. One of the boys whistled and they broke into a run, circling in front of him.
They were all tall. They lifted weights. They could have been tight ends for the Vandals. The one who spoke had gelled and frosted hair.
“All that running’s got me hungry.”
Ness froze. Someone snatched the paper bag from his hands. He yelped. They laughed. One of them kicked his knee and he buckled to the pavement, skinning his palms. Someone grabbed his ass. He prepared to scream, but they were just taking his wallet. The boy with the frosted hair thumbed out his cash, his debit card, and flung the wallet in Ness’ face.
“Got any weed?”
“No,” Ness said.
One of the boy’s friends had eyes like pine-knots. “Check his socks.”
“I don’t do drugs!”
They laughed and peeled his socks past his ankles. The third man tore open his poppers and chewed one whole, licking the grease from his fingers.
“I don’t do drugs,” the boy with the frosted hair laughed. He sniffed hard. Ness had heard UI had a cocaine problem. Should he run? A cop car cruised past the far end of the alley. He thought about shouting but it was too late. The boy sniffed again, jerked his chin, and turned away. The other two followed.
Ness headed home.
Shawn’s truck was still parked in the gravel driveway. The lights were out. Ness whispered to Volt, then strained his ears for the rustle of weeds, for her inquisitive mewl. Five minutes later, he headed back up the mountain. He had stopped crying by the time he crossed the ridge.
The Rogers’ lights were on, flooding the yard with yellow. Widget wagged at Ness. He waited at the edge of the light, hoping Mrs. Rogers would appear silhouetted in the doorway and ask who was there so he could emerge and sheepishly wave. Widget snugged her head between his paws. After ten minutes of waiting, Ness clunked up the wooden steps and pressed his nose to the window. The TV flickered, but the couch was empty.
Heart hammering, he went to the side door and found it unlocked. The house smelled like copper and farts. The fridge buzzed down the hallway to the kitchen. In Tim’s room, the DVD screensaver bounced from one corner of the TV to the other. Tim was sprawled beneath the blankets. Ness cleared his throat, then tried again, louder. He stood there for three minutes before he realized his friend was dead.
4
“Alden!”
Tristan streaked across the grass. The blond girl screamed. The girl with dark hair clamped her hands to her mouth and danced back. Tristan slid into the damp grass beside her brother. She touched his head, as if that would tell her anything, then circled her fingers around his wrist. His pulse thumped beside the tendons of his forearm. She wanted to scream.
“What should I do?” Pete said.
“Call an ambulance and get the fuck away.”
He flipped out his cell. “Like hell. I’m not going anywhere till we know he’s safe.”
Alden’s chest rose and fell, but otherwise he didn’t move. Should she turn him over? What if his spine were broken? She reached for his hand. It was warm from exercise. Pete finished with the dispatcher and hung up.
“I’m going to call your parents.”
Tristan nodded numbly. He was trying to reinsert himself into her life, she knew that, but she was too overwhelmed to protest. Ten feet away, the blond girl cried, the edge of her palm pressed to the flesh beneath her nose.
“It’s okay,” Tristan said. “You don’t have to stay.”
The girls disappeared, were replaced by a small crowd of kids and joggers. A shirtless man gazed blankly, his German shepherd panting happily by his side. A few feet away, a black chihuahua strained at its leash, arfing at the oblivious shepherd. Tristan clung to Alden’s hand.
“Mrs. Carter?” Pete said into his phone. “It’s Pete. There’s been an accident.”
A siren moaned in the distance. The ambulance swung into the lot and a pair of paramedics jogged across the grass. A husky man with a buzz cut and a mustache knelt beside Alden.
“What happened?” he said.
Tristan pointed to the tree. “He jumped. I’m his sister.”
“Have you moved him?”
“Was I supposed to? Is he okay?”
The man clicked on a penlight. “Are you going to ride with us or follow in your car?”
“My car,” she said dumbly. “I can’t just leave it here.”
Pete shook his head. “I’ll drive. We’re not sending two Carters to the hospital today.”
Tristan tightened her jaw. Pete slipped his hand under her elbow and she let herself be led away. The paramedics wheeled Alden to the ambulance and clunked the back door shut. Tristan fumbled her keys to Pete, who closed her door and slung himself behind the wheel.
The car smelled like warm plastic and moldy laundry. She rolled down her window. On I-5, the wind buffeted her face, stealing her breath.
“He’s going to be all right,” Pete said. “Probably just rattled his brain.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Kung fu heroes don’t get hurt jumping from trees. If he’d been saving the Emperor’s daughter, maybe that’s another story.”
Pete smiled at himself. Tristan gazed at him, simultaneously repulsed and wishing he’d pull over and crush her to his chest. The stony smell of the river whisked through the window. At the hospital, he dropped her off and pulled out to park. She sat in the waiting room with her hands folded so Pete wouldn’t try to take one. They’d have to go back together to get his car, wouldn’t they.
Her parents arrived with each other. Her mom’s hair was sweaty and frazzled, as if she’d run the whole way. Her dad’s eyes were penned behind his frameless glasses. A doctor appeared, murmured something soothing about X-rays, and went on his way.
“How did this happen?” her dad asked.
“He was practicing his tumbling,” Tristan said. “Like, when you get thrown.”
Her mother swung her head from side to side. “I just don’t know what to say, Tristan.”
Her dad leaned forward, voice as sharp and thin as a paring knife. “The doctor said he jumped from a tree?”
“He was trying to impress some girls,” Tristan said.
“And you let him.”
“I didn’t let him. He’s not three years old.”
Her dad’s brow bent. “You think thirteen-year-olds have better judgment?”
“It was my fault,” Pete said. Her parents jerked their heads, as if just noticing he were there. “I dropped by. Caught Tristan off guard. We start talking, argue a little, next thing you know Alden’s got his Superman cape on.” He glanced away. “I’m sorry.”
Her dad removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “Is this what things will be like if you move back home, Tristan?”
She clenched her jaw so hard it ached. Pete reached for her hand. She bolted from her chair and went to the drinking fountain, then continued deeper into the hospital, finding herself in the courtyard. It was shady and cold and sparrows peeped from the trees. She watched them play until she felt capable of speaking more softly than a shout.
When she got back, the doctors had a verdict. His spine appeared to be fine. He had a mild concussion and a broken collarbone. They w
anted to keep him another day, but they thought he would be okay.
Her parents exhaled like pearl divers. Her dad went outside to call work. Tristan muttered something about making a call, too, then wandered the parking lot until she found her car. She drove.
Ten minutes later, stopped at a light, her phone rang. She almost didn’t look at it, certain it would be Pete, but Laura’s name showed on the small display. She’d heard Alden had been hurt.
Tristan fed her the details. “He’ll heal. Unlike my relationship with my parents.”
“Do you need to talk?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“I’ve got lunch in a few minutes,” Laura said. “Swing by?”
She drove straight to the bar. Laura was out back smoking a Parliament. She wrapped Tristan in a hug, holding her cigarette away from their hair.
“So your parents are freaked?”
Tristan laughed hollowly. “If I don’t answer my phone later, just check the nearest hill. I’ll be the one dangling from the cross.”
“Jesus,” Laura laughed. “What about you?”
“Well, it’s my fault, isn’t it?”
“Your fault? Did you leave out the part where you shoved him from the tree?”
“I wasn’t watching him,” Tristan said.
“He’s thirteen,” Laura said. “He’ll be attending high school this fall.”
“And if he’d landed just a little different, he’d be attending a cemetery.”
“If anything, this is Pete’s fault. He’s the one who stalked you across town like that astronaut with the diaper.”
“You know why Pete was there?” Tristan said. “He’s worried about our relationship. And he should be. Because there isn’t one.”
Laura blew smoke from her nose. “It was an accident. Why do you want to make yourself feel like shit?”
“If I’d been honest with Pete, none of this would have happened. Instead, I fucked some guy I’ve got zero long-term interest in because deep down, I hoped that would be enough to break us up. And it would—if I had the balls to tell Pete about it. Instead, I ran and hid. Because it was easy. And now my baby brother doesn’t know what day it is because his skull lost a fight with the ground.”
The Last Days: Six Post-Apocalyptic Thrillers Page 108