365 Days Alone

by Nancy Isaak

“So, you’re saying that only the animals that were pets of people got taken?”

  “I think it might even be more than that. Remember the horses down on Driver? They were pets and they weren't taken. What if it had to be a pet that actually lived in a house with you?”

  “Then that means that there are probably still dogs out there…at least, living outside.”

  “And cats,” I agreed. “But they'll also probably be going wild pretty soon.”

  “And if there are wild dogs,” said Jay, looking worried, “then we really do have to find some weapons.”

  “Which means it probably is a good idea to go through the rest of the townhouses, if only to see if we can find some guns.”

  Jay frowned. “I hate the idea of guns, even though I know you’re right. And I suppose we should also look for other stuff that we can use. I'd rather take our supplies out of the townhouses now than have to go back to Ralphs again.”

  “You know, we'll have to go back to the store sooner or later—at least to check if anyone has seen our message…and the Sheriff’s Station.”

  Jay shivered. “I vote for later.”

  * * * *

  So, now you know the amazing thing.

  We’re not alone! There's someone else alive beside us.

  It's very scary—but it's also very exciting!

  FLUSH AWAY YOUR CARES AND WOES

  Three nights later, the water stopped.

  Just after midnight, we heard some gurgling in the pipes—like when there's too much air in the system. That was followed by some brown gunk coming through the faucets.

  About ten minutes after that—the water stopped completely.

  Needless to say, Jay and I were extremely happy that we had been smart enough to have picked up the baby wipes at Ralphs.

  * * * *

  It's odd—the things you need to think about when the world changes so dramatically.

  At first, you think that you've acquired complete freedom. No adults telling you what to do, no school, no police—no authority figures at all.

  You can go where you want, when you want, take what you want, do what you want. There's no one to stop you, no one to tilt their head down and give you that disapproving look that all adults (especially mothers) seem to be capable of, no one to disappoint when you just can't seem to meet their expectations.

  Ironically—at the end of the world—it is your own expectations that become disappointed, because the freedom you suddenly think you have, turns out not to be freedom at all. Instead, your level of responsibility rises—along with the amount of work that you now have to put in, just to accomplish what were once the simplest of things.

  The perfect example for Jay and me was…going to the bathroom.

  * * * *

  “Do you remember Ms. Capadouca (our guidance counselor) talking about that camping trip she and her husband went on in Canada?” Jay asked. “It was on some ice field up near the Arctic. They couldn't dig in the ground because it was frozen, so they had to bring along this special camping porta-potty. Maybe we should find one of those to use as our toilet.”

  “Where would we find one?”

  Jay shrugged. “A few days ago, I would have just looked it up online. I guess we have to check in a phone book now. Maybe look for a camping store.”

  “Do you have a phone book?” I asked, curiously.

  “No, I don't think so,” frowned Jay. “I've never seen one in the house. Do you guys have one at your house?”

  I shook my head. “We’re going to have to find a phone booth, I think. They’ll probably have a phone book in there.”

  Jay thought about that for a moment. “You know…I don't think I've seen a phone booth anywhere around here. Everyone just uses their own phones now.”

  “I'll bet they’ll have one at school. I mean, a phone book—not a phone booth. The office will probably have one we can use.”

  The thought of walking through the dark hallways of our high school did not make Jay happy. “Why don’t we just check the townhouses around here? Someone is bound to have a phone book. We might even find some camping equipment while we’re at it. Maybe even a porta-potty if we’re really, really lucky.”

  That gave me what I thought was a brilliant idea.

  “What if we simply go and check out someone's house who we already know camps a lot? Maybe they might have exactly what we need already.”

  Jay considered that. “I don't know where Ms. C lives…do you?”

  “I didn't mean Ms. Capadouca. I was thinking about someone else who does a lot of camping.”

  It took Jay only a moment to figure it out.

  She waggled a finger at me, grinning. “You were just waiting for a reason to go and see if Jacob Riker is still alive!”

  “Well, he's always talking about going camping with his family. It just makes sense that we check his place out.”

  “And you know that because you’re always eavesdropping on him when he talks to his friends!”

  “That doesn't change the fact that his family might have what we need.”

  Jay thought about it for a moment. Then she grinned again. “Wouldn't it be ironic if it was Jacob who's been hanging out at Ralphs?”

  “I hadn't thought of that,” I said, trying to look innocent.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #7

  It's been a while since I last wrote in this journal, and a lot has happened since the night the water stopped running.

  First—Jay and I never did manage to find one of those camping porta-potties. Instead, we used the Israelis’ townhouse for two days. (Yes, I know it was childish, especially since they’re not even here anymore—but I'm still ticked about how mean the Israelis were to my mom). After two days, however…well, that was about as much as the bathrooms could take…or our noses.

  I mean, that stink got nasty!

  After the Israelis’, Jay and I talked about going from one townhouse to another, using their bathrooms until they were full, but that just seemed wasteful and a little ridiculous. Instead, what we eventually settled on was designating one area of the culvert to the right of our complex for our ‘business’.

  Of course, Jay and I don’t have a problem using the culvert in the daytime. There is no way, however, that we are going anywhere near it at night. Instead, as disgusting as it sounds, we’re using buckets at night and dumping them into the culvert in the morning.

  It isn’t pretty—but it works.

  As my mom likes to say—at least, it’s a plan.

  * * * *

  By the way, the ‘culvert’ is like a small cement creek—at the bottom of a low ravine—that runs along one side of our townhouse complex. When it rains, it becomes active, the water rushing through it. But this is Southern California and there simply isn’t a lot of rain. So, mostly it's just a dry, cement throughway that the coyotes and other wild animals use to travel quickly from one side of the complex to the other.

  One of the neat things about the culvert is that there are trees obscuring it on all sides. Unless you actually lived near it, you wouldn’t even know that it was there. Because of that, Jay and I have decided that it will be one of our escape routes—if we ever need it.

  In one direction, the culvert will take us quickly to the end of our complex. In the other direction, it will actually go along the far side of Chumash Park and on to Kanan Road and Thousand Oaks Boulevard.

  * * * *

  So—we did actually make it to Jacob Riker's house a few days ago.

  Needless to say, I was really excited about our little ‘outing’. Even though I knew it was stupid and unrealistic, I freely admit to having had this desperate hope that my future husband would—somehow—still be there.

  * * * *

  Because both our bikes were still at Ralphs and neither Jay nor I had the nerve to go back into the store to collect them, we decided to walk to Jacob's house instead. It wasn’t like it was far away—about a half hour from our townhouses—and, besides, the trip would give us a cha
nce to see what had happened to a different part of our neighborhood.

  As we passed by Ralphs, Jay shaded her eyes from the bright sun, and stared across Kanan at the big store. “I think I can see the note that you left on the door. I guess that means whoever was in the condiments aisle hasn't returned, yet.”

  “Look over there,” I pointed. “On the roof of the Starbucks, at the far side of the mall.”

  Jay turned her head to the right and immediately began to clap, delighted. “It's the little calico!”

  Indeed, the tiny black, orange, and white cat was sitting on the roof of Starbucks, contentedly cleaning herself and looking like she didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Definitely feral,” I muttered. “Tough little cat.”

  “I wonder what happened to the coyotes,” said Jay, looking around, with more than a little worry.

  “There’s so many rabbits around here now,” I noted. “I'm sure they just went off and found an easier supper.”

  “Do you think they're dangerous?”

  “Bunnies?” I shook my head. “Not so much.”

  Jay punched me in the arm. “Very funny. You know I meant the coyotes.”

  “How should I know?” I shrugged. “The world is different now. I mean, before, they were just these little wild dogs that raced away from you in the dark. Now—who knows.”

  * * * *

  As always, unattended vehicles littered both sides of Kanan Road. At one point we even passed a yellow school bus, its front end resting on the trunk of a small Camaro.

  “You just know that bus driver was going too fast,” said Jay.

  “They always go too fast,” I added. “It’s why my mom never let me take the bus to middle school. We’d be driving along Agoura Road and these school buses would come barreling up behind us.”

  “Remember when Peyton Buckingham’s mother tried to sue the school district for not putting seat belts in all the buses?”

  “That was so random,” I nodded. “I mean, has Peyton ever been on a school bus in her life? Have any of the Foxes? Peyton even drives her Porsche on all the field trips.”

  “Peyton’s had that Porsche since before she turned sixteen.”

  “And before she got her license, remember that middle-aged muscle-guy who used to drive her every day to school in her dad’s Maserati?”

  “I think that was her bodyguard.”

  “You mean, that was supposed to be her bodyguard,” I sniffed. “Like anyone would try and bother Peyton. She just wanted to appear important, so that she could try and get her stupid reality t.v. show.”

  “You’re still mad about that Jacob-thing,” Jay teased. “About how Peyton wanted him for her sex tape.”

  “Well, duh!”

  * * * *

  We eventually turned off Kanan Road and headed down Pisces Street. From previous stalking-trips, Jay and I knew that Jacob’s house was just a few blocks down, directly across from Sumac Park.

  As in our neighborhood, the houses were all silent—some with their front doors wide open (very freaky). Many of the lawns still had Halloween decorations, which meant that we were forced to pass by witches, oversized plastic rats, skeletal hands sticking out of gardens, and a variety of other monsters and bloody beasts.

  “You do realize that Peyton was probably just joking about making a sex tape with Jacob?” said Jay, kicking a stray candy wrapper off of the sidewalk.

  “Well, if she was making a joke,” I said, even now still feeling a little angry, “it wasn’t very funny. There are enough guys in her own grade to go after. Peyton needs to leave ours alone!”

  “She just said that because of his eyes.” This time Jay booted a large, plastic tarantula from the edge of the sidewalk out into the street. “I heard Peyton tell the other Foxes that the light blue of Jacob’s eyes would pop on television—like Zac Efron’s.”

  “He does have beautiful eyes,” I admitted. “Jacob, I mean—not Zac Efron. Although Zac Efron does have beautiful eyes—just not as amazing as Jacob’s.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” said Jay. “Jacob’s one of the nice guys. I mean, I don’t think he’d date someone like Peyton. He’d never date any of the Foxes.”

  “I think Jacob likes those surfer-girl types,” I sighed.

  “Well, you could always take up surfing,” Jay suggested.

  I sighed even harder. “Yeah, right. Except I’m absolutely terrified of swimming in the ocean.”

  “Too bad, because you’ve definitely got the surfer-girl look going for you…blond hair, green eyes.” Now, it was Jay’s turn to sigh. She ran a hand through her pitch-black hair. “Me, I look like a “Slumdog Millionaire”-refugee.”

  “I think you’re really pretty,” I told her, truthfully. “You’ve got beautiful milk chocolate skin and you don’t even have to put eyeliner on because your eyes have these natural dark lines around them. I’ve always been jealous of that.”

  “But everybody knows that you’re American,” she stressed. “With me, they don’t know if I’m Mexican or from the Middle East or Indian. Remember the time that guy thought I was from Fiji?!”

  “But think about it,” I said. “If I lived in Pakistan, people there would be asking me if I was from Canada or the States or Denmark or Poland. It’s just the way it is.”

  “You mean—it’s just the way it was.”

  * * * *

  Sumac Park is smaller than our Chumash Park—little more than a couple of blocks of green space with a playground. Still, because of the quiet, suburban area that surrounds it, the park always appears to be nicely tended, with a running trail and bathroom facilities.

  “Look over there.” Jay pointed to the end loop of the running trail, where a baby carriage sat on the grass—the bigger kind, where the baby sleeps flat on their back. “You don’t think there could possibly be a baby in there, do you?”

  The thought was horrifying to me.

  “No.” I quickly shook my head, hoping I was right. “A baby couldn’t have been left behind. It couldn’t…that would just be so wrong.”

  We knew we had to look, though.

  * * * *

  The top of the baby carriage had been pulled down far enough that, as we got closer, we could see a small, lumpy shape under a pink, embroidered blanket.

  “Looks like a girl,” Jay whispered, almost as if she was afraid to wake the ‘maybe-baby’.

  SCREE!!

  Startled, we both jumped back at the loud, high-pitched noise. It seemed to be coming from the baby carriage.

  “Ohmigod, no!” I cried, racing forward.

  SCREE!!

  Reaching the baby carriage, I quickly yanked back the blanket.

  Except…there was no baby.

  SCREE!!

  * * * *

  “Up there,” said Jay, pointing. “It’s a raven.”

  Indeed, when I looked up, there was an enormous black bird right over our heads—tucked up among the branches of a large eucalyptus tree.

  Cluck-cluck-cluck…

  It made this throaty clacking noise, as if admonishing us for Jay’s and my stupidity in believing that a baby would actually have been left behind. Another raven flew down beside the first, adding its ‘tsk-tsks’ to the first one’s admonishments.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.” I started back across the grass. “Stupid birds!”

  * * * *

  It was weird, standing in front of Jacob Riker’s door.

  Jay and I had actually been by his house more than a few times (yes, I know California has stalking laws!), but never had we breached his actual doorstep. I’d even spent a few hours in Sumac Park last month—supposedly doing watercolor painting—in reality, keeping watch for my ‘beloved’.

  One good thing about all my Jacob-stalking? I knew where the spare house key was hidden. (Thank you, Jacob’s younger brother, Rhys, who never remembers his keys!) Leaning down, I pulled back a piece of baseboard, exposing one of those little hide-a-
key boxes.

  “Jacob doesn’t stand a chance around you,” said Jay, admiringly.

  “I just like to keep track of him, that’s all.” I placed the key in the lock, prepared to turn it, then stopped—suddenly terrified. “What if someone is in there?”

  Immediately, Jay reached out and knocked on the door. “Hey, Jacob,” she called out. “Loverboy!”

  I pushed at her, angrily. “Shhh!!...I thought you were the one who was afraid that someone bad would find us! Talk about giving away our position.”

  Jay just snickered.

  * * * *

  The Riker house was one of those older single-storey homes you see all around Southern California. This one had four bedrooms—two on one side of a large living area, two on the other side. The kitchen and laundry area were just off the entryway, toward the right. On the left was a door, which we assumed led to the garage. At the back of the living area, meanwhile, was a set of glass doors that led to a backyard pool, surrounded by Washingtonian palm trees.

  “This isn’t bad.” Jay said, as she moved through the living room, looking at the art on the walls. There was actually a nice assortment of original oils (mostly landscapes) and—from the signatures—we could see that Jacob’s mother was the artist. “She does good work. I like this one of Zuma Beach.”

  “Maybe that’s why he goes there so much,” I suggested. “Maybe it’s like a family place where they all go.”