“I’ll be back.” I wave to Missy. “We’re going to check on the babies.”
She nods, but for once she’s more interested in what the other little girls are doing. I take the welcomed opportunity to sneak away from her, guilt-free, and I follow Sheryl-Dean to dorm A.
The three of them who can, sit in an area enclosed by a multi-colored plastic gate, playing with blocks and balls, while the others lie in separate cribs—five of them.
“Eight in this room now,” Sheryl-Dean says. “The twins still don’t have names, so . . . if you want to name them—feel free.”
“Um . . . okay?”
“Joy’s been callin’ ’em Smiles and Sunshine, but . . .”
“But?”
“She doesn’t want to get attached. None of us do. Naming them, well, that kind of seals the bond. And those bonds are very breakable these days.”
“I like Smiles and Sunshine.”
“I thought you would.”
Fifteen
After twelve hours of shuffling little girls from room to room, Sheryl-Dean scans me and I’m off the clock before “last meal” time. The tiny number in the bottom right corner of the scanner now says 20
A woman I haven’t seen before wipes her nose with a trembling fist, then fidgets with her shirt sleeves beside the desk.
“Cassie, Grace. Grace, Cassie,” Sheryl-Dean says, motioning between the two of us. “Cassie’s starting soon, so I’m goin’ over a few things with her this evening.”
“Nice to meet you.” I give her cold hand a shake.
“You, too.” She wipes her nose again, sniffs. She’s high as shit. Coke, maybe?
Well, that’s just who we need watching the kids around here. I suppose the Tunnels’ daycare service doesn’t drug test their volunteers.
Good thing.
“See ya in the morning, Grace.” Sheryl-Dean waves and I return in, scanning myself into dorm B.
“Have a great evening,” I call down the hall.
“You, too, hon.”
Not until I’ve changed clothes, kissed Missy goodnight and reassured her I’d return soon, and made it to the front desk, does the magnitude of my day catch up with me. Though it went by fast because I was so busy, the cycling of the same, sad routine, and the overall dirt-poor quality of life those girls have is disheartening. Is safety worth all of this? Locked away in a semi-colorful dungeon for the rest of your life, with two bland meals a day and hardly anything else? Would even a week of freedom beneath the black night sky be worth the swift death that would surely follow close behind?
On the verge of breakdown, I approach Peggy at the desk, who’s now reading a small paperback.
“Oh, hey!” She sets down her book. “Congratulations on earning your first twenty ration points, Ms. Davisson. You’ll see your total number of RPs at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen.”
“I saw that, yeah. Thanks. Where’d you say that hairstylist was again?”
“Second floor; right above the entrance to sector three.”
“Cool. And where’s the best place to get clothes?”
“Yvette’s, near the sector four entrance. She has tons of stuff, but most of it is in piles. If you don’t mind digging, it’s worth the one ration point per item.”
“Do they have shoes?”
“Yes, ma’am—more than you can imagine.”
“Awesome.” Because tomorrow might be different once the moonshine is out of my system. And I don’t care how much pain I’m in, there’s no way in hell I’m putting those fucking grandma sneakers back on.
§
I’ve just spent the last twelve hours of my life caring for the lonely, forgotten, and left behind girls in a crack in the ground a mile beneath Texas. But they’re safe, right? Might as well get my hair done.
This is so fucked. But until I figure out this place, I have to blend in, go with the flow, learn the ways of this new tribe of people who may as well be from Mars, or China. Maybe my mother’s here somewhere.
I feel silly, scanning the expressionless faces of passersby for a ghost woman, not even aware of what she looked like before she was a phantom. Even if I did, though, the likelihood of her being a survivor, of her being here in this place when she couldn’t even raise a child . . .
Slim to none.
I shake the animosity away, searching for crumbs of forgiveness, of which I find none. But I’ll try again tomorrow.
“Excuse me?” a man says behind me.
I find a tall, lanky White guy with bloodshot, deer-in-the-headlights eyes. His hands shake and he twitches, clutching his middle.
“Uh . . . yes?”
“You’re pretty.”
“Um . . . ?”
“I wanna see your pussy. Show me it.” He rubs the growing bulge in his crotch.
“How about you go fuck yourself, you perverted sack of shit.” I pivot to leave, but he follows me, stroking himself and moaning. I spin around, fists clenched, ready to pulverize this asshole, but behind him, two guards head toward us at a brisk pace. Maybe it’s best not to get myself kicked out just yet, so I back off, allowing them plenty of space to tackle him.
To my dismay, they don’t, though—Ugh!—just a quiet escort, one on each side, leading him off through the crowd. He doesn’t even fight them, and in fact, I’m pretty sure he’s still stroking his cock. What. The. Fuck.
People push by me in the crowd, most of them oblivious to my presence, as usual, I’m discovering. They’re lifeless drones, except for that guy, who needs to be hung by his dick from a tree. A nice piñata for the flesh eaters. Am I more insane for having a strong desire to witness such an occurrence? I don’t give a shit. The more the shock wears off, the angrier I get, and now his peaceful escort wasn’t enough. I should’ve clocked the motherfucker in the nuts with my steel-toe when I had the chance. If I ever see him again, he’ll have a front row seat for Grace’s rage display, which parades through my mind and limbs now, too close to the surface for comfort.
With slow and steady breaths, and deliberate footsteps past the crowded library, my blood pressure drops to normal levels again, and I unclench my fists. I cut through the crowd beneath the mega-jumbotron to the escalator on the other side of the Cross, near the entrance to sector three. I haven’t been on one of these things in ages.
When I climb aboard my tummy flutters from the jerk upwards, and I feast on the view as I rise to the second floor. Being higher makes the space seem larger, especially now that I can see the rest of the establishments: Jen’s Dentistry, Harry’s Electronics, Susan’s Snack Shack, and Conner’s Pool Hall, just to name a few. Directly above the entrance to sector three is a blinking sign with blue, graffiti-style letters that say Jacki’s.
Through the doorway, I spy three chairs that may have once sat old-school mobsters, with wood grain and chrome, and fancy swivel bottoms. In front of the door is a rotating peppermint stick, red paint on a rotating white light. This must be the place.
I sit in the waiting area on one of two metal benches that remind me of my old high school locker room. An upside-down milk crate with a board rested on it occupies the space between them, and atop the makeshift table is an old wine bottle with the label removed, a bouquet of orange, silk poppies sprouting forth from it. It reminds me of Eileen. She loved poppies. Then again, I doubt there was a flower she didn’t love.
The hairstylist—Jacki, I assume—has an ombre purple pixie cut that starts deep purple at her roots, then goes to soft lavender at the tips. Evie would’ve loved it. When it’s my turn, the girl calls me over to the chair with the wave of a tattooed hand. She scans me without a word, then guides me to one of the three chairs.
“So, what are we doing?” She drops a sheet with a hole cut in the center over my head to drape around my body.
“Can you make it not look like shit? That’s really
my only request.”
She chuckles under her breath, like it’s something she’s not used to doing. “I can do that. Any color preference?”
“Surprise me?”
“I can do that, too.”
“Something light, though,” I add.
“Gotcha.”
And for the next hour and a half or so, Jacki goes to town on my hair, deep in her zone. I watch her face in the mirror in front of me, reminded of Eileen again, and how she’d zone out like that when she worked in the garden. She’d get lost in it for hours, so at peace. I wish I could’ve seen it then for what it was.
When Jacki spins my chair around after a quick blow dry and style, I’m astonished. Not much shorter, but shaped to frame my face, and layered a little so it falls the right way. She made the color look more natural by adding highlights and lowlights, and a chunky strip of burgundy in my bangs. By far the raddest haircut I’ve ever had—and it only cost me half a day’s work.
“It looks fucking awesome, thanks.”
“You bet.”
I finger with my new ’do on my way out of Jacki’s, relishing in the softness of hair without bleach-burnt ends. My quality of life just “leveled up,” as Gideon would say.
When I venture out into the bustling Cross again, this time I’m on the lookout for perverted creeps as I step off the escalator. Why am I so surprised? Some of them had to survive the end. But that the dead aren’t solely out to get them is my beef. Why couldn’t all the perverts of the world have just died and left all the good folks?
With that thought, the flood of fire returns, because that asshole is still here, and my parents are dead. My best friend is dead. My sweet baby brother . . .
But walking hard-ons like that douche-nozzle are still alive and well? The simmering rage brings tears to the surface, but I push them away, making a bee-line to the clothing place. A little “rummage therapy” (as Eileen used to call it) will help, I hope.
Sixteen
Yvette’s has no sign, but it’s hard to miss what they sell here. There are at least thirty stacks of clothes in the tiny space, with shoes lining the walls of the entire perimeter. In the corner, a little old woman with thick, round glasses, operates a sewing machine. Wow. I’ve only seen those in old movies. She appears foreign, but I can’t place where she’s from by her appearance. Her caramel skin sags at her cheeks, and her long nose curves down at the end. She glances up at me when I enter and stops sewing to greet me, taking a cane from the desk beside her.
“Hallo, hallo, please come in,” she says. “You are new?”
“Y-yes.”
“I knew.” She chuckles, then coughs into her fist before offering it in a handshake. “My name Yvette.” Her cold fingers barely clutch the sides of mine.
“Grace. Nice to meet you.”
“Have a look around, take what you like. Only one ration point per clothes item, five for shoe.”
“Okay, thank you. Are they organized into sizes or anything?”
“No, Miss Grace. No time for organize. Must to sew more clothes.”
And with that, she hobbles over to her sewing desk, hunched at the waist, as if she’d been sitting there her entire life.
I choose the stack nearest me and the aroma of death and mothballs recalls to mind thrift store shopping with Eileen as a pre-teen. But now, as we’d joked once or twice, I know for a fact that these items came from people who are now dead . . . or close to it. With an inner cringe, I begin my dig, finding an infant’s onesie and a pair of XXL men’s corduroys. I might be here for a while.
About mid-stack, I come across a pair of black jeggings that appear to be my size, and with an eighty-dollar price tag from Tiara’s still attached. Now, just one ration point at your friendly neighborhood underground bunker.
“Can I try stuff on?” I ask Yvette.
Hyper-focused on the floral print before her, she hangs a small, wrinkled finger in the air behind her, toward a navy-blue curtain slinked across the far corner of the room. Better than nothing, I guess.
After another ten minutes or so of digging, I locate a few clothing items for Missy—one pair of tiny, dark leggings, and two dark cotton T-shirts. Deep inside the stinky stack, I locate a few more that appear to be my size, and comfortable—a pair of skinny jeans, a long-sleeved black cotton shirt, and a dark blue ribbed tank top. Only after I’ve collected everything do I realize I got all dark colors, though it’s unnecessary now. Old habits die hard, I guess. We may be safe here for the moment, but . . . just in case.
To my relief, there is a general area for undergarments, though the pile of used underwear and socks is one of the scariest things I’ve seen since the end. With held breath, I dive into the rainbow of stains and aromas, grabbing two pairs of little girls cotton underwear. One has a teddy bear pattern on it and says Wednesday in pink on the front, and the other has blue-and-silver paisleys, and has that stiff, just-opened feel, with creases still, from being folded in the package. That’ll work.
I haul my findings to the “fitting room,” take off my boots, and when I set my right foot down, something pokes my toe. When I bring my foot up and remove the straight pin—with no pain—I’m again disturbed and bewildered by this place. Why give people something to make them feel no pain?
My heart’s in my throat when a shrill alarm sounds, and the lights flash. I peek through the curtain at Yvette, who I expect to find worried, as well, but she continues her sewing like it’s something that happens every day. The alarm stops, along with the blinking lights, but my heart still pounds inside my chest.
“What was that?” I call out to her.
“Systems check,” she says. “Not to worry.”
My nerves tiptoe around landmines. I hurry to try on my clothes, which stink like death and need to go from here to the Laundry, and I settle on them, even though they don’t all fit quite right. If the shit hits the fan soon, I definitely want to be clothed.
Steadying my breaths, I return to my original outfit, wishing there were four less buttons on these pants. Then, with my five clothing items and Missy’s five draped over my arm, I step around the curtain. Considering I’ll only have one RP left, I’ll have to wait until next time for shoes, which sucks. The thought of putting Missy’s stuff back crosses my mind, but no. She needs clothes more than I need shoes.
I head toward Yvette at the counter, but when my sights land on the shoes lining the walls, I stop. It won’t hurt to look. If I find a pair, I could ask her to hold them for me, and I can snag them tomorrow. As I travel the shoe-lined walls, I imagine the feet these shoes once held. Some of them appear to be brand new, but most are worn and used. Men’s cowboy boots with a blue eagle outline on the side, pink women’s Crocs, and little boy’s Velcro shoes with Ninja Turtles on them. Families, people who were once living, their lives ripped from them as their feet from these shoes. Whoever thought shoe shopping could be so heartbreaking?
Across the room, I spot black-and-white Converse and try not to get too excited as I speed walk toward them. When I pick them up and find they’re in good shape, I also discover they’re two sizes too big. Bummer.
After setting them down, I continue my search, and I’m about to give up when I come to a pair of black-on-black Converse—mine and Evie’s favorite. I prepare myself for them being the wrong size, because they probably will be, anyway. Best not to get my hopes up.
When I peek inside the tongue, discovering they’re a men’s size six—my size—I get so excited that I might cry. Holy shit. Tossing my stack of clothes to the ground, I slip off my left boot and transfer my foot from it to the Converse.
In this moment, as I yank the laces tight, and the snug canvas cradles my every foot curve, all remembrance of sirens and moonshine, loneliness and fear and perverted assholes vanishes in the light of this miracle.
Quality of life: leveled-up. Once again.
&n
bsp; “Ahhh, you have such pretty smile,” Yvette says, watching me from her sewing desk with hands clasped beneath her chin.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You have shoe. I give you—free.”
“Really?”
She nods. “You first smile I see all day.”
Seventeen
I now live in a world where a pair of shoes can be bought with a smile. What have we come to, that a smile is now a priceless commodity? Maybe it should’ve always been that, though. Maybe if it had, we wouldn’t be where we are now.
Near the entrance of Yvette’s, something shiny and silver catches my eye. Unsure of what I’m picking up at first, I stop and pretend to adjust my laces, collecting the token and tucking it into my shoe. Just a button. But old habits die hard. See something shiny, pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck, right? If old world rules still apply, I’ll take all of that I can get. It’ll make a nice “little something” for Missy, anyway. But I hope the penalty for stealing a button isn’t a swift beheading or some other heinous act, because we all know how they punished thieves in the old world.
I shuffle through the thinning crowd of the Cross lobby, carrying my load, and head to the Laundry, which is way too crowded. Apparently, that’s the reason for the waning crowd in the lobby—they’re all in here doing fucking laundry. Fantastic.
With slow, deep breaths I ease my anxiety, zeroing in on the one empty top loader amidst at least thirty. After dropping my bundle of clothes inside, and my boots beside the machine, I scope out the area for soap. I spy a dispenser on the wall near a piece of paper taped above a scanner that reads: 1 load = 1 RP.
When I press my face against the scanner, the pink light changes to blue once it hits my pupils. It zones in on them, like it did the first time Peggy scanned me in, then it changes to pink, beeps, and there’s the sound of something being ejected from the metal slot beside me. I collect the sealed baggie of white-and-blue speckled powder, unnerved as I make my way back to the washing machine. I’m starting to hate those scans.
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