by Ann Christy
When she sees us, she tosses down the clothing she’s mending and calls out for the kids to keep it down.
“Well?” she demands as she marches up to us.
I don’t take this personally. It’s just her way. Savannah is older than all of us, but she isn’t in charge and I think she feels conflicted about it. She could be in charge, have more input into decisions, but she avoids it. Then she’s snappy when she doesn’t like the decisions. She came here with Charlie. I get the feeling that for the two years they were together before we found them, she was in charge, their lives depending on her every decision. So, I think she’s just done making decisions. As in, done.
Charlie sends a quick look my direction, then says, “We’re going.”
An almost explosive sigh comes out of Savannah, but she doesn’t launch into another tirade about how stupid we are. Instead, she follows the sigh with a deeply indrawn breath and closes her eyes tightly for a moment, as if gathering patience from some deep—and almost drained—well. When she opens them again, she gives each of us a hard look. “You’re sure about this? I mean, she’s pretty far gone. This isn’t likely to work. You two do realize that, right?”
I nod, because that’s what’s expected, but not because I believe it. I do think it will work, or that it’s at least possible that it will work. Emily’s tumor is what killed her and her heart stopped for just over thirty seconds. She’s not like Sam—verbal like he was—because of the tumor pressing on her brain, not because of the short time she was dead. I can see her in there sometimes, flashes of who she was behind her one working eye. And I’m sure I’ve caught a word from her at least once. It was my name, or I think it was. If it will work for anyone, it will work for her. Still, they expect me to agree, so I do.
Savannah is an eye-roller of such exquisite skill that she should go professional, and she sends one of her best my way. She looks off toward the kids, her mouth twisted into a dramatically overdone expression of exasperation. Charlie and I share another quick glance and he crosses his eyes, forcing me to suppress a grin, which would not be helpful at this moment.
She catches the move, gives us a dirty look, and says, “This isn’t a game, you two.”
Before she can launch into a lecture about responsibility, about risking what we have here in this oasis of life or start talking about taking a shovel to Emily’s head again, I hold up my palm toward her and say, “No games. I’m going. Even if I have to go alone, I’m going. She would do the same for any of us. No one is asking you or the others to go. The kids need protecting. I know that.”
Charlie starts nodding while I’m talking, at first tentative and then with more confidence. Emily scooped the two of them up while they were trapped inside the back room of a long-since-looted liquor store, the crowd of deaders all around the front of the building a dead giveaway that there was something alive inside. It might have been a deer or a cat—most of the time it’s something like that—but she had patiently taken care of that crowd, dozens strong and stinking to high heaven, just to be sure. Even if Savannah seems to have forgotten that, Charlie hasn’t. I take courage from that wordless support.
“And, we have to know if it works. That’s the true bottom line. Things aren’t going to get better unless we figure out a way to break the stand-off. Maybe we can find more information there than we can imagine now. I mean, they made the stinking nanites at that hospital in the first place. Or, at least some kinds of nanites,” I say, trying to convince her yet again.
I’m not even blowing smoke up her skinny rear end. What I’m saying is the truth. We’re not the only ones who’ve achieved something like homeostasis. So have the in-betweeners and the deaders that roam the world. The difference is that they have free reign over the outside, while we take our lives into our hands every single time we pass outside our fence.
Where we’re going—where I want to go—is the hospital where Emily was cured the first two times her cancer appeared. In the two years since she rescued me I’ve learned a lot from her. Once her headaches got constant and one side of her body began to grow clumsy, she had to tell me about her tumor returning for a third round of fun and games. I know what to look for and I want to go before she’s been an in-betweener too long.
I’m reaching. I know this. It doesn’t matter.
Savannah blows out another exasperated breath and does it with so much force the two kids stop their chattering and running. Jon looks guiltily in our direction and Maribelle plants her hands on her hips, both of them clearly thinking that she’s doing it in response to their raucous play. It only takes a second for them to see that we’re the targets of her ire instead of them and they return to their full-speed smack-fest.
“I can’t talk you out of it, so I’m going to stop trying. But I want you two to listen to me.” She shakes her finger at us as if she’s a mom instead of a former college student. “You are one half of the work force. That leaves just two people to work the gardens and keep watch since one of us has to watch the kids. If anything happens to you, you’ll be putting those kids in a bad spot. Remember that. Don’t take any risks you don’t have to.” Her pointing finger shifts toward the kids, at play and unconcerned, so we get the full dose of guilt.
It works. Charlie and I look at each other and I’m careful to give him no sign of my thoughts. I’m giving him a chance to change his mind. He returns an almost imperceptible nod so I know we’re good. Guilt or no guilt, we’re going.
He grabs Savannah’s still outstretched finger and pushes it downward, pulling her into a hug at the same time. They are close, as close as Emily and I were. I suppose I’m a little jealous that I no longer have anyone to hug me like that. I miss the way Emily used to hug me—tossing one arm around my shoulders and squeezing me close—at the slightest provocation or just because she knew I needed it. I shake that thought off because it’s depressing when I consider that we were just discussing that she looked “juicy” a few minutes ago.
Savannah doesn’t say anything else when he lets her go. Instead, she waves us away as if we’re bothering her and goes back to her crates and her endless mending. I can tell she’s choked up by the stiffness of her strides and the squareness of her shoulders.
I tap Charlie’s shoulder and whisper, “Let’s get ready.”
He starts a little and I’d swear the rims of his eyes are going red, but I don’t indulge in any teasing despite the invitation that offers. His complaints over Savannah’s bossiness are a daily ritual, like washing behind his ears. They pretend that they annoy each other, but they’ve been together since shortly after it all went to hell, with a group others at first, but eventually on their own. So, yeah, I know they care for each other deeply.
I was thirteen when the world changed, Charlie was fourteen. I had Sam for two years and then Emily for two more. I loved them both. Scratch that. I still love them. I know Charlie must feel the same about Savannah, no matter how much they squabble.
He coughs as a cover, but his voice is husky when he says, “Yeah. No time like the present.”
It’s a nice morning, a little cloudy, but the air is sweet and mild, with just enough wind to cover the noise of careful footsteps. It’s the kind of morning that’s usually perfect for scavenging. The furniture warehouse is where we’ve collected what we’ll need for this endeavor, so we head that direction.
Matt and Gregory are already out in the fields and will be until lunch. They aren’t really fields, but they function as such now. The green spaces required by the laws of our earlier, ordered world have been repurposed to a much better use than lawns. The long, wide strip of grass at the back of the complex is for the more obvious veggies, the kind that show what they are like tomatoes and eggplant. The front spaces, or at least the parts of it that are well away from the fence and the road, are for the less obvious ones. Out front there are no rows or neat lines, just potato plants, parsnips, carrots, and other stuff that won’t advertise what they are. That’s to keep things less tempting
looking in case someone happens by. They are planted in clumps all over so they look as natural as possible, but it does make for more work in the tending.
We don’t exactly make a point of it, but both of us hurry our steps past the gaps between the buildings so the guys won’t see us. Matt and Gregory are an interesting pair. They’re brothers, but they seem to be nursing some grudge between them that makes them almost completely ignore each other.
They work in the fields, do their share of chores, and behave in perfectly personable ways with the rest of us, but it almost seems like they look through the space the other occupies unless otherwise required. Even now, one works the back field while the other works in the front, each avoiding proximity to the other. For now that works, since it does allow someone to watch both sides of the complex, but still, their avoidance of each other can be a pain at times. I did try to ask about it once, but Matt shut me down in a way that made it clear I should never ask again.
Still, they aren’t happy about the idea of us leaving and I’m in no mood to hear another lecture. I know they think it’s stupid. I know there’s the possibility that it’s a pointless dream. I also know I have to go.
“I’ll go get water,” Charlie says and peels off to do so before I can answer.
I lift my hand in a half-hearted and unseen wave behind him and say, “Okay,” before stopping at the warehouse I need.
The warehouse door swings open with the loud squeal of unmaintained hinges. We don’t oil the door fittings at all, ever. A creaky door is a good thing. The bikes we’ve liberated from some of the fancier apartment buildings downtown gleam in the sunlight that pours in behind me. I leave the door open and dust motes disturbed by my entrance float in the air. It’s funny that something as mundane as dust can make the light beautiful like that for a few perfect seconds.
The bikes are in the cleared center area, along with all of our gear. Emily told me she used to keep the car that got totaled on the day we met right here. We’ve not found another car since then that we can charge enough to make it run reliably. I know there’s got to be a way to put together a new rack of batteries, but none of us knows how to do it, so it’s nothing more than wishful thinking. Hence, the bikes.
We’ve got a fine selection of bikes and a whole host of replacement parts. These are the kind of bikes that my parents would tell me cost almost as much as a used car, meaning I shouldn’t have even asked for a bike and used the brand name in the same sentence. And we’ve got so many there are spares for each of us. We even have kid seats. I have so many I can choose which one to use based on my mood or the color that strikes my fancy on any given day. Well, I can so long as I have wheels for that model and a good tire on those wheels. And that’s the tricky bit.
The tires and inner tubes are our big concern. Those don’t last forever in their boxes. The inner tubes have started going brittle and they crack as soon as they’re filled with air the first time as often as not. We’re supplied okay for the moment and we keep air in all the good ones now. We even squeeze them like we’re all doing some sort of bizarre hand exercises to keep them supple. The kids help with that and they seem to get a kick out of it. There’s so little that children as small as they are can do to really help that I think it makes them feel useful. Making a game out of it is just a bonus.
For this trip, we’ve chosen sturdy bikes suitable for off-road riding, but still passable for street biking. They’re the kind of bikes that will survive an impact or getting dumped if we run into trouble and need to get off quick. We installed panniers on the sides big enough to pack food and a spare set of clothes, so that we can keep our backpacks light. Packs on the front of each bike have been rigged out of smaller bags scavenged elsewhere. And then there are the weapons holsters, definitely not a stock item. All things considered, they’ll do.
Two neat checklists peek out from beneath the backpacks on the floor by our chosen bikes. Emily taught me the power of the checklist. Her mom was military and Emily told me that their entire lives were run off of a series of checklists. Grocery lists were nothing compared to her mother’s aisle by aisle attack plans. I remember her laughing as she described their rapid-fire filling of a shopping cart.
Stories aside, she showed me their value and now I live by them too. I never had organized parents like that. I had parents who made a lot of money and who fought quietly with gritted teeth behind smiles in front of me and then more loudly behind closed doors. I had the kind of parents who looked perfect when they absolutely had to show up at my school for something, and then got on their phones to talk business the minute we left the school again. Neither of them could have told you my favorite food or color even if you put a gun to their heads. They certainly never taught me how to be organized.
I like these checklists. Creating them makes me feel secure, like Emily is still here, guiding my hand and making sure to say, “Fantastic! You rock,” every time I do something well.
While I wait for Charlie, I start unpacking the bags we’ve already packed and lay everything out in a neat line, checking each thing off on my lists as I go. Except for the water—which needs to be fresh—everything is there. Ammo? Check. Spare underwear? Check. Map, plastic bags, can opener? Check, check and check.
A shadow falls over me as I start re-packing the packs. Charlie sets down two bags containing a dozen big bottles of water and then hands me a water filter fit into a bottle, like those used for camping. Then he hands me a little ultraviolent pen, the kind Emily said are used when you have to kill germs in water that you can’t boil. If we get into a situation where we can’t make a fire or have to use water from a questionable source, these will be invaluable.
“Gah!” I exclaim. Neither of those things was on my list. I am so not a pro at this. What else have I forgotten?
Charlie laughs and taps his temple with a finger. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got the best list of all right up here.”
I shove the lists at him and ask, “Anything else I’m forgetting?”
He scans the lists and then looks uncomfortable, a distinct rosy shade rising up on his cheeks.
“What?” I ask, snatching back the papers and searching for something that might be amiss.
“Uh, we’ll be gone a week. What about…uh…you know…” He trails off, his blush rising further.
I know exactly what he’s asking. Will I need “girl” stuff is what he’s wondering? Poor guy was stuck with temperamental Savannah for way too long. She apparently made his life a living hell once a month. Now he never fails to look for lotion, deodorant, and all sorts of girl stuff when we make a scavenging run.
I laugh and slap at him with my list. “You’re such a guy. I’m good. No worries.”
We’re packed within minutes and really, there’s nothing more to delay us except us. It seems rude, maybe even wrong, to just leave like this, but that’s what we need to do. Life is weird now and social conventions have definitely changed. They all know we’re going and saying goodbye—even if only for a short while—freaks the kids out. Too often people don’t come back.
As we pause there, straddling our bikes but not yet in motion, Charlie asks, “Do you want to see her again?”
He’s talking about Emily, of course. In a way, I would like to, but I’ve said what I needed to say to her already. If she’s like Sam, if she can remember, then she knows where I’m going. If not, then seeing her again won’t change anything. The others that we have caged, well, I don’t love them. I hate them and I certainly don’t want to have to listen to their hungry growls yet again.
“No,” I say, nudging my bike forward. “Sooner gone, sooner back. Right?”
“Right you are,” he says, and puts his feet to his pedals. The light of the sun blurs him at the doorway, slims him down and makes him indistinct for just a second. It sends a chill through me, and I silently ward off whatever bad luck might be preparing to stalk us along our journey. Then I spin one of my bike pedals backwards, listening to the harmonious c
lick-click that tells me the bike is in fine repair and just waiting on me.
I stop the spin, slamming my foot forward on the pedal until it jolts to a stop, making my back wheel jump a little. Then it’s my turn to ride into the light.
Twenty Months Ago - Campfires without Songs
Emily coaxes our little fire to life, bending low to blow the embers into flames. Fall has finally given way to winter, though so far, it’s been a mild one. The cool nights make our evening fires a pleasant break between the work of the day and the long nights tucked up in our sleeping bags. Flames rise at last and in the orange light, the pale scar around her head stands out starkly against the black of her hair.
“How did that happen?” I ask before I can think twice about it. Jon stirs on my lap, his thumb finding his mouth automatically as he settles in. I look down at his sweet face as an excuse not to look at Emily. I’ve seen her scar many times. She doesn’t take any particular pains to conceal it, but it always seemed like it might be rude to ask about it.
When she doesn’t answer, I look up, expecting a reprimand or even a snub. But there’s nothing like that on her face. Instead, she’s looking at Jon with a soft expression that alters her appearance dramatically, and reminds me of a statue in my old church. The way that statue looked down at the baby in her carved arms is the same way Emily is looking at Jon now. She’s not a particularly pretty girl in general—she’s not at all ugly either—but right now, at this moment, she’s beautiful.
Her eyes rise to meet mine and her features fall into more normal lines. She says, “It was a long time ago.”
“So it wasn’t from this?” I ask, meaning some battle because of the way the world is now.