The Last Place on Earth

by Carol Snow

  When he pulled back, his smile was gentle. “Now you’ve been kissed.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. No way was I going to tell him about Kyle, so I just nodded.

  We scrambled down the other side of the boulder and walked along a short path that led to the house, hurrying to catch up to Mr. Hawking. I couldn’t wait to get clean and to take a long, long nap in the stuffy bus.

  The front gate was open. “So you could get in if you came back,” Henry explained.

  I picked up my pace. “I never thought I’d be so happy to see this place.”

  When I got to the open gate, Henry grabbed my arm. “Wait. Something’s wrong.”

  Mr. Waxweiler stood on the front steps, a shotgun poised.

  Mr. Hawking came up behind us. “Don’t shoot! It’s us!”

  In his oddly high voice, Mr. Waxweiler called out, “WE HAVE AN INTRUDER!”

  A young man stood in the shadows next to Martin’s car. I couldn’t see his face, but I recognized the way he held his shoulders, the slight paunch around his waist, those long skinny legs.…

  “Peter!” Overjoyed, I sprinted toward my brother. But Henry ran after me and grabbed me by the waist, holding me back.

  “Let me go!” I tried to pry his hands away, but he held tight.

  “I don’t want you to get sick.” His breath was warm on my ear.

  “It’s Peter.”

  My brother saw me. “Daisy? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Dirty, but safe. And healthy. Are you okay?”

  Peter stepped into a patch of sunlight. He needed a shave even more than usual, but that didn’t matter because his cheeks bloomed with color. Peter was okay.

  “I’m going with you!” I called out.

  “No!” Henry protested, still holding on to me. “He might be infected.”

  “He’s fine. Just look at him!”

  “He’s fine now. But he could still get sick. The symptoms come on quickly.”

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked Peter. “Is she still okay?”

  “She’s fine. She’s … at home.”

  From the pause, I guessed that they had gone to Henry’s house. Henry’s parents wouldn’t like that, but I was past caring what Henry’s parents thought about anything.

  “Is Mom going to work?” I asked.

  “No. Her office is closed till this thing blows over.”

  “If it blows over,” Mr. Hawking said.

  “Pretty much everything is closed,” Peter said. “They shut down LAX this morning.” He looked at Mr. Waxweiler, who was still poised to shoot. “Sir? Can you put that down?”

  “Only if you promise not to move,” Mr. Waxweiler squeaked. “We can’t risk infection.”

  “I won’t move,” Peter said. “I totally understand why you’re freaking out because it’s scarier than a zombie invasion out there. They’re telling everyone to stay home. This is the first time I’ve left the house in a week. I’ve been shut up with my mother and her boyfriend, and no one’s sick.”

  Mr. Waxweiler lowered the shotgun, but he kept both hands on it.

  “Randy’s still around?” I said, incredulous.

  “Turns out he’s good in a crisis,” Peter said. “Talks a lot, though. It’s been a long week.”

  “What about looters?” Mr. Hawking asked.

  “None that I’ve heard of.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” Mr. Waxweiler grumbled, shotgun still firmly in his grip.

  “Is the power still on?” Mr. Hawking asked. “The water?”

  “Um, yeah. But it’s scary. The news reports? If you get this thing, you pretty much die. But I read on the Internet that they’re close to a cure.”

  “They’ll say anything to avoid mass hysteria,” Mr. Hawking said. “Even if they’ve found something that works, it’ll take months to get it to market. Years, even.”

  I said, “Mr. Waxweiler? Please don’t shoot, but my brother and I are leaving now. Come on, Peter.”

  “Daisy, no,” Henry said, even as he loosened his hold on my arm.

  “I need to go, Henry.”

  My shower would have to wait until I got home. Home. I was finally getting out of here.

  But Peter didn’t move. “Slight problem,” he said.

  “What?”

  He scratched his scruffy chin. “I drove to the place where we parked last time. I walked a little bit into the woods, but I was afraid I’d get lost, so I went back to the car. But when I tried to start it up, nothing happened.”

  “The car’s dead?”

  He nodded. “We’re kind of stuck here.”

  Thirty-Eight

  PETER’S DESCENT INTO the bunker wasn’t as traumatic as mine for several reasons. One, he got to climb down the rope ladder into the decontamination chamber instead of free-falling into a dirt hole. Two, he knew he was being put into quarantine and how long it would last. And three, over the past few months, Peter had built up an impressive tolerance for spending long hours in confined spaces without daylight. Of course, he couldn’t get cell phone reception and there was no gaming console, but Henry gave him a Nintendo one of the Dunkle boys had left in the house, along with a stash of solar-charged batteries.

  But still. It was weird watching my brother disappear into the ground. Gwendolyn’s dad had opened up the hatch, but then he made a big deal about getting far away before letting Peter approach. From a distance, Mr. Hawking told Peter how to lock himself inside. He made it very clear that if Peter got sick (he wouldn’t get sick … I couldn’t let my mind go there), no one would help him.

  That’s not true. I would help him. I would never abandon my brother.

  Henry and I stood on the edge of the clearing. “He’ll be okay,” Henry said. “If he was infected, he’d be exhibiting symptoms by now.”

  “Then why does he have to spend a week underground?” I was still angry at Henry for holding me back when I tried to run to my brother. And I was angry at everyone for treating Peter like he had cooties.

  Henry said, “We need to be one hundred percent sure he’s not sick. It’s community policy.”

  “Community?” I turned to face him. “Half of your community never showed up, and the other half is gone.”

  “Do you actually miss the Dunkles?”

  “Some of them.”

  “This is about Kyle, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “I saw the way he was looking at you this morning.”

  “You did not just say that.”

  He checked my face and then looked at the ground.

  Suddenly, I was furious. “You’re jealous? Seriously? Kyle has nothing to do with nothing. I mean anything.” (Two days in the wilderness with those people and my grammar was shot.) “It’s weird that he kissed me, but I’m just going to pretend it didn’t happen.”

  Henry’s eyes widened. In my anger, I’d forgotten that I hadn’t told him about the kiss. It used to be that I told Henry everything. All that had changed.

  I continued, “I don’t dislike Kyle as much as I used to, but I don’t like-like him. If he like-likes me, whatever—I really don’t care. I just want to go home. I just want things to be the way they were. Though you and me, our friendship—I don’t know if that will ever be the same.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t have to be the same. Maybe it can be something more.”

  “Is this … a new idea?” I asked.

  “No. I’ve thought about it for a long time.”

  I tried to interpret Henry’s expression, but the sun was in my eyes. Not that it mattered. I couldn’t read him anymore. Maybe I never really could.

  “If you felt that way, Henry, it would have been helpful if you had said something sooner. You didn’t even like Hannah, but she went after you, so it was easy. That’s what you always do—take the easy way out. I used to think you stayed home from school because you’re so smart, you didn’t need to go. But really, you stayed home because you knew I’d bring you your makeup work and tell you what yo
u missed. You’re just lazy.”

  On that note, I turned and stomped into the woods, in the direction of the house. When I heard Henry behind me, I started running, at least as much as I could without tripping over a rock or stepping on a snake.

  “You’re going the wrong way!” he called.

  I halted and looked left. Then right. Everything out here in nature looked the same—all, you know, nature-y. Randomly, I chose a direction and ran.

  “Stop!” he yelled. “You’ll get lost.”

  I stopped. I waited. I had no choice. I couldn’t survive out here on my own. I didn’t like Henry much right now, but I needed him.

  When he caught up to me, he was breathing hard.

  “You mean the world to me,” he said. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  I’d always considered Henry the most original person on the planet, and here he was, spouting canned phrases from all those sappy romances I’d made him watch. I didn’t say anything, just crossed my arms and waited for him to point me in the right direction. He pulled out his compass and peered at the dial.

  “It’s that way.” He pointed.

  I nodded once.

  He turned. I followed, keeping half a pace behind. We said nothing.

  When we got back to the house, the Dunkles’ RV was gone from the front yard. A quick check around back revealed that they had taken the school bus, too. At first, panic seized me—all of my stuff must be gone!

  And then I remembered: I didn’t have any stuff. And anyway, stuff didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was that my family was healthy and that we would all be together, hopefully soon.

  Thirty-Nine

  “MY MOTHER TOLD me to give you these.” Henry held out beige trousers and a shirt made of some moisture-wicking material.

  After a brief hesitation, I took them. “Thanks.” I’d pretty much had it with the Hawkings’ “favors,” but the My Little Pony shirt really needed to be washed. Or burned. One of those.

  Henry lingered in the doorway. Since the bus was gone and the Platts weren’t coming, his parents were finally allowing me to sleep in the room with the couch.

  Henry said, “Dinner’s at six. But my mother is cooking, so don’t expect much.”

  Twenty minutes later, clad in my awesome new beigeness, I found Mrs. Hawking in the kitchen, banging pots around and muttering bad words under her breath. When she saw me, she didn’t look pleased, exactly, but she looked less displeased than usual. If her opinion still mattered, I’d count that as progress, but at this point I really didn’t care what anyone thought about me. I just wanted to go home and hole up with my mother and brother and Randy. Maybe not Randy.

  “Dinner is at six,” Mrs. Hawking said. “Or whenever it’s ready. I’m making spaghetti.”

  “Okay.”

  She banged a couple more pots. “I was not supposed to be in charge of cooking. Ever. I have a lot of skills, a lot of expertise to contribute to this community. But cooking—I made it clear from the beginning that someone else would have to take responsibility for meal preparation.”

  “You want me to make a salad or something?” I offered.

  She froze, looking baffled. “Yes. Please. Except. There’s no lettuce. Except. I guess. The garden. You can pick something. That would work. Right?”

  A broken egg lay in front of the chicken coop. Gwendolyn and her mother stood nearby, bickering with each other and stressing out the animals. Instead of her DRILL shirt, Gwendolyn wore a long-sleeved, baggy gray T-shirt that probably belonged to her father. The stench from the rabbit hutch permeated the air. I held my breath and hurried over to the garden patch without making eye contact.

  The first lettuce head I picked was laced with bug bite marks. So was the second. I’d just have to pick through the leaves. Most of the tomatoes were wormy, but I finally managed to find a big juicy one without any obvious tenants, along with a spiky cucumber.

  Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Hawking stood hunched over the giant island, sobbing. I tried to sneak back outside, but she had already seen me.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Her face was red and puffy, and her glassy eyes looked possessed.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Turn back time.”

  We held each other’s gaze. Finally she took a deep breath and drew herself up straight.

  “The salad,” she said. “You can make the salad.”

  At dinner, everyone spread out around the enormous plank table, the Hawkings clumped at one end and the Waxweilers at the other, except for Martin, who sat in the middle. I took a seat next to him.

  “Your brother’s really here?” he asked when I put my plate next to his.

  “In the bunker.”

  He chewed his lip. “Could be worse, I guess.”

  “Could be better. He could be in the house.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “Did he say anything about the outside?”

  “He said … it’s bad.”

  “How bad?” I wanted to tell him everything was going to be fine, but I couldn’t lie.

  I said, “People are sick. Dying. And…”

  “What?”

  “Everybody is just waiting for it to be over. Just like we are. Peter said something is going around the Internet about a possible cure, but who knows if that’s true.”

  “Did Peter mention anyone in particular? Who’s sick? Or … anything?” He looked scared.

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  He nodded and jabbed at the overcooked pasta swimming in a watery sauce.

  * * *

  “I’m on lookout duty tonight if you want to hang out.” Henry had followed me into the kitchen, where I was attacking the dinner mess by myself.

  “I think I’ll just go to bed early. I haven’t slept much in the past few days.”

  “I’ll bring my guitar,” Henry said.

  “Okay.” I filled the sink with cold soapy water and slid in a pile of dishes.

  “You’ll come?”

  “No. I meant—it’s okay for you to bring your guitar if you want. Or not. Whatever. But I’m going to bed.”

  He nodded and stood there while I picked up another dirty plate and scraped bits of uneaten pasta into a compost jar.

  “You shouldn’t have brought me here,” I blurted out.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Some lettuce and a chunk of tomato went into the compost jar. “People should finish what’s on their plates,” I snapped. “It’s not like this food will last forever.”

  “You want me to help?” he asked.

  “I really just want you to leave.”

  He stared at me with those sad, dark eyes and then wandered off into the night.

  Forty

  I SHOULDN’T HAVE bothered cleaning up the kitchen.

  When I finished putting away the dishes, I headed upstairs. The house was quiet. No TV tonight. No hanging out or sneaking off into the woods. Instead, everyone had retreated to the bedrooms, eager for the escape that only sleep could provide. After two days in the cave, the stiff couch in my new room felt so luxurious that I fell into a deep sleep the instant my head hit the cushion.

  And then.

  “Daisy! Wake up!” It was the dead of night. Someone was shaking me. A girl. Gwendolyn.

  My first reaction was irritation. If Martin was allowed to sleep through these stupid evacuation drills, I could, too.

  “Daisy! Get up! We need to go!”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, but she persisted.

  “Fire!”

  All at once, I smelled the smoke. My eyes popped open. Gray wisps drifted past my open door.

  “Gwennie! Come on!” Her father ran over and yanked her arm. Together they fled the room, without looking back to see if I was following. Family first, family second, family third.

  I scrambled off the couch. I pulled the beige shirt up over my mouth and nose, grabbed my pink sneakers, and followed the Waxweilers down the wide staircase.

  Thick, black smok
e gushed from the kitchen. We ran away from it, past the dry fountain in the foyer and out the front door, into the clear, cool night.

  “This way!” Mr. Hawking urged, motioning for us to move away from the house, toward the front gate. Martin hopped in his little car, still parked dangerously close to the house, and drove it over to the other vehicles, farther out in the yard.

  The house was really burning now. Beyond the dining room window, orange flames thrashed and danced. Where is Henry? Panic gripped me until I remembered that he was on lookout duty, safely away from the inferno.

  “Looks like it started—” Mr. Waxweiler paused to cough. “In the kitchen.”

  Everyone looked at me, the last one in that room. This is what I get for doing the dishes.

  “Everything was off when I left,” I said. But … had I actually checked the stove? I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t done any actual cooking; that had been up to Mrs. Hawking.

  “I turned everything off,” Mrs. Hawking added. “I always follow safety protocol. Must have been faulty wiring. We never should have trusted Kurt Dunkle with the electrical.”

  “What now?” Mrs. Waxweiler’s voice quavered.

  “We leave.” Her husband put his big hand on her little shoulder. “As according to plan. Go to the evacuation location. Reconvene here in twenty-four hours.”

  “We have to get my brother,” I said.

  But before anyone could respond, the house’s front windows blew out with a flash and a boom. Gwendolyn screamed. Flames spewed out of the windows and slithered up the facade. The blaze had moved upstairs. Orange flames taunted us from behind the upper windows.

  “The roof is fireproof,” Mr. Waxweiler said, as if trying to convince himself that things weren’t so bad. But he’d barely spoken before the fireproof roof collapsed, sending sparks shooting through the night sky and toward the dark, dry, sleeping trees.

  “We need to get Henry!” Mrs. Hawking shrieked, all attempt at composure abandoned. She ran for her SUV.