Positive

by David Wellington

  In the back of the SUV, one of the girls started to cry. Not noisily or obtrusively, just a soft, liquid sound. I could see her in the rearview mirror, but she didn’t meet my look.

  “Stones, you know how to go along to get along? Do you? Because that’s what we need in this company.”

  “Sure,” I said, because it was clearly what he wanted to hear.

  One of the other girls grabbed the crying girl’s arm and twisted it cruelly. Her mouth was set in a hard line. The crying stopped soon afterward.

  CHAPTER 18

  Adare asked me nothing of my past, and I didn’t volunteer any information. Even when I was feeling well enough to talk—­though still ravenously hungry—­I let him carry most of the conversation. It seemed crazy to think I could ask him to just drive me to Ohio and the medical camp, which meant I was going to have to find some other way to get there. That meant I would be spending more time in the wilderness, and it was clear Adare knew how things worked there. I had spent much of my life listening to first-­generation survivors go on and on about the way things were before the crisis, about all the things we’d lost—­and I’d found that if I paid attention, I could learn a great deal about the few things that remained. I figured the same strategy would work with Adare.

  We spent the greater part of that day just driving. I have no idea what roads we took or even what direction we were headed. Adare seemed to have some destination in mind, and I figured that was better than being lost and standing still. While he drove he provided me with a wealth of information about the government—­most of which proved to be false, though it was closer to the truth than what I’d heard over the radio. He told me about the looter communities in New Jersey, like Linden and Cape May, that were safe havens for those who could pay for the privilege. And he told me the ones to avoid, like the desperate secret camps in the Pine Barrens that were rumored to be full of cannibals.

  If I’d thought that rumor had any truth to it, I would have been chilled to my core. I knew that early in the crisis, when it looked like humanity was facing its extinction, ­people had been forced to desperate ends. But the idea that twenty years later anyone was still eating human flesh was a nightmare, and it was so horrible I refused to give it any credit.

  Hearing about it did make me a little less hungry, I guess. Though not as much as you might think. It had been nearly two days since I’d had any food at all.

  Adare had plenty of supplies. Between the seats of the SUV, under the legs of the girls in the back, in every possible space inside the vehicle were boxes and bags of gear and preserved foods. Adare had no real home—­the SUV was where he kept everything he owned. Yet somehow I never managed to ask if I could have so much as a strip of beef jerky or a moldy half of a bread roll. I guess I was waiting for him to offer it.

  So when he asked me if I was hungry, after three or four hours of driving on an increasingly empty stomach, I nodded vigorously and burbled over with gratitude.

  “One thing,” he said. “Nobody eats for free. You have to work for it.”

  “I’ll do anything,” I said.

  He grinned wickedly, and I realized I should probably have asked first what would be required of me.

  He didn’t beat around the bush. For a while we had been driving through increasingly narrow suburban streets, over roads that were little more than fields of rubble. On either side of us were row after row of two-­story houses, jammed up against each other even tighter than the skyscrapers in Manhattan. Now Adare brought the SUV to a stop in the middle of one such road, and my eyes went wide with the realization we’d reached our destination.

  “This is how I make my living,” Adare told me. “You see these houses? They’ve been sealed up tight since the crisis. Probably nothing but bones and old keepsakes inside, but sometimes I get lucky.”

  “What are you looking for?” I asked. I understood what he meant. He was going to go through those houses looking for gear or canned food, just as I had done in the skyscrapers back in New York. Ike and I had spent much of our youth doing that, and I’d never thought of it as looting. I figured I could do this.

  “Liquor, mostly,” Adare said, rolling his head along the muscles of his neck, working out kinks and stiffness. “Pornography is always good. Medication, any kind of medication. You think you can recognize that stuff if you see it?” I nodded. He popped open his door and slid out onto the road.

  I opened my own door and got out of the SUV. I had a bad moment when I put my feet down on the road surface—­I had felt safe in the vehicle, but being back on solid ground just brought back my ordeal on the road sign—­but I forced myself to walk around the pinging hood of the SUV to stand next to him. Behind me one of the girls slipped out as well and joined us. She had long hair the color of rain-­slicked concrete, and a bad, poorly healed cut across the bridge of her nose. She smiled at me when she saw me looking, and I tried to smile back. She had a tattoo of a plus sign on the back of her left hand.

  “This is Kylie,” Adare told me. “She’s got a nose for this shit.” He glanced at her and chuckled. “Half a nose for it, anyway. She’ll show you the ropes. Why don’t you start over there?” He pointed at a house at the end of the street. “Work your way along this side, then do the other.”

  Then he climbed back into the SUV and started its engine again.

  “Wait!” I said. “Wait—­you aren’t going to drive off without us, are you?”

  Adare shook his head. “I’ll be around. I’m going to take the rest of the girls a block or two over.”

  “But—­what if zombies come?” I asked.

  “Fight ’em off,” he told me, and threw his vehicle into gear and drove away. I started to run after the SUV, terrified of being left alone, but Kylie called out to me and told me to stop.

  “You can’t let him see you’re scared,” she said. “He likes it too much.”

  I turned and looked at her. “What?”

  She didn’t elaborate. Instead she started walking toward the first house we were supposed to search. The door was sealed shut, with thick planks hastily nailed across its width. Over twenty years the wood had nearly rotted away. “Come on,” she said. “Help me get these boards down.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The interior of the house was dark and still. So quiet it worried me. When Ike and I had looted the skyscrapers of Manhattan, it had never been so quiet. There had always been noise from ­people moving around in the streets below, or the sounds of the buildings themselves, swaying in the wind, creaking as they slowly fell apart. Here the air inside the house was as solid and motionless as if the whole structure had been encased in glass.

  Two or three shafts of gray sunlight cut across the front room, leaking in from places where the boards across the windows had fallen away. The house had been sealed during the crisis in a way I’d seen before—­­people back then had really believed that the crisis was a temporary problem, that they would be coming back to their homes in a few days or weeks. They had closed up their buildings with wood across the windows and doors, just enough to keep zombies out. Based on what I’d seen in New York, I had some idea what I would find inside: sheets and clothes folded neatly and put away, furniture covered in plastic wrap to preserve it from dust and mildew.

  A stairway led up to the second floor at the far end of the room, and a kitchen lay beyond that. All of it felt empty and—­not even dead. Sterile. Like nothing had ever lived there. I didn’t even see any signs of rats or bugs.

  “Come on,” Kylie said, walking past a piano covered in old photographs.

  I glanced at the pictures, but they were old and faded, like images of ghosts. Some had spots of mold on them, while others had slipped down in their frames, cutting off a face here, obscuring what someone was holding or doing. I followed Kylie into the kitchen and together we pulled open all the cabinets. They were stuck tight by damp, so we made a lot of no
ise in the process. I kept glancing at the windows that looked out on a tiny backyard.

  “What if there are zombies here?” I asked in a whisper.

  Kylie shrugged. “There will be. That’s how this always goes. They can’t get into sealed houses, though. They mostly stay in the yards and under porches, places out of the sun, unless they’re hunting. They probably already know we’re here, so whispering isn’t going to fool them. They’ll be out in the street by the time we’re done.”

  “And we just—­what? Run past them?”

  She turned to look at me. Her eyes were like two balls of cut glass, totally blank of emotion. “Unless you want them to eat you,” she said.

  The cabinets were full of old cans, but Kylie ignored these, passing over soups and preserved vegetables and all the things I would have grabbed if this had been a skyscraper in New York. I was so hungry I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed a can of cream of mushroom soup but quickly found I couldn’t open it. I grunted in frustration and turned to the sink, intending to bash it open, I was so desperate.

  Kylie put a hand on my arm and pinched me hard. I yelped, but she ignored the sound and went to a drawer next to the sink. Opening it as if she’d lived here all her life, as if she knew exactly where everything would be, she reached inside and took out a can opener and handed it to me.

  “How did you know that was there?” I asked.

  “I’ve been in a lot of old houses. There were a lot of ­people before the crisis. Maybe hundreds of thousands, if you count everybody around the world,” she said. “They all lived the same way. All the knives and forks and spoons in the same place. All the cans in the upper cupboards, pots and pans in the lower cupboards.” She shrugged. “Sometimes you see that somebody did it different, but it doesn’t matter. They’re still dead. Being different didn’t save them.”

  While I opened the can she found me a spoon. I ate the soup inside, thick and gelatinous and cold. I choked it down, not because it tasted foul but because I was so hungry I wasn’t tasting it at all, just shoving big spoonfuls in my mouth and swallowing them as fast as I could.

  In a cabinet next to the dead refrigerator, Kylie found a bottle of bourbon that was still half full. She found a plastic bag in a closet and put the bottle inside. “Drugs will be upstairs, in the bathroom. Come meet me up there when you’re done eating.”

  We probably should have stuck together, but there was so much food in those cupboards I couldn’t drag myself away. I ate a can of string beans, gray with time but they still smelled okay. I ate half of a can of pork shoulder before my stomach started protesting. I was full to bursting, but still I wanted more. As long as I had food in my mouth I didn’t feel so scared.

  I forced myself to stop and went upstairs, looking for the bathroom. The second floor was a series of rooms attached to a single long hallway. Pictures of other houses hung on the wall, houses lit up in pink and blue light. Some of the pictures showed houses by the ocean. The wallpaper was coming down, curling in great tongues that licked at the old, moldy carpet.

  The bathroom was at the end of the hall. The door stood open and I could hear Kylie inside, so I went to the door and looked in.

  She was sitting on the toilet, her pants down around the ankles. She looked up at me with the same blank expression she always had, and I heard her urinating into the bowl.

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” I said, and danced backward away from the door, pressing my back against the wall outside the bathroom so she couldn’t see me.

  “Why?” she asked. “Come in here. You can check the medicine cabinet while I do this.”

  “I—­what?” I asked.

  She didn’t say anything else.

  I decided there had to be different notions of privacy out in the wilderness. I didn’t want to seem like a prude. So I stepped inside and, careful not to look at her, went to stand before the sink. In the mirror I saw her looking up at me, her eyes still made of glass. When she was finished, she stood up, making no attempt to cover herself, and reached for a piece of toilet paper.

  I opened the cabinet, swinging the mirror away from me so it blocked my face. So I couldn’t see her. Inside the cabinet were a number of cardboard boxes and little bottles. There were three pill bottles, bright orange with white tops. I took them and studied them, not wanting to say a word, but eventually I had to ask. “The labels on these have all faded so much I can’t read them,” I told her.

  “Just take them all.” I heard her zip up her fly. “A lot of them will have gone bad over time, but the soldiers don’t care. They buy them anyway. There might be some porno in the bedroom. It’s usually hidden, so we’ll have to search for it.” She went to the bathroom door, but then she stopped, just standing in the doorframe. She was still and silent for a long time.

  Then she turned around and looked me right in the eye.

  “Did it gross you out, seeing me pee?” she asked.

  “No—­no,” I protested. Though it kind of had. “No.”

  “I forget sometimes. I forget other ­people are real,” she said. “I think they’re all zombies. Sometimes. I don’t care if a zombie sees me pee.”

  “I’m not a zombie.”

  “I’m not a zombie, either,” she told me. I was beginning to think she was, in her own way. “Really. I know, well—­this,” I said, holding up my tattooed hand. “I know what it means. But I don’t have the virus. I am definitely not a zombie.”

  She turned around and walked down the hall toward the bedroom.

  CHAPTER 20

  No pornography was hidden in the bedroom, so we moved on. Kylie had a can of spray paint that was almost empty. I stood guard on the front step while she shook it over and over again, a little ball inside rattling back and forth like a signal custom designed to attract zombies. I kept the knife in my hand, my eyes patrolling up and down the street, but nothing showed itself. When Kylie finally had the paint can working, she painted a broad red stripe across the house’s door, to indicate it had already been looted.

  “Different gangs have different marks. You get to recognize them after a while. This is ours,” she told me, pointing to the paint dripping on the door.

  “Sure, whatever,” I said. I didn’t want to be out in the open any longer than I had to. “Let’s just do the next house.”

  “You need to learn these things,” she told me. She peered directly into my eyes until I flinched and look away. “I didn’t know anything when I left Stamford, Connecticut. If I had, it would have been better. If somebody had told me the rules.”

  “Is that where you’re from?” I asked, mostly just to be polite.

  “It’s where I was born. I lived there until I was twelve, and then my sister and I found a zombie in an old abandoned factory. We thought it could be our pet.”

  I shivered in horror at the thought. “What happened?”

  She blinked at me in incomprehension. “I’m here. My sister isn’t.”

  We moved to the next house and tore the boards off the door. The wood crumbled in our hands, and only one nail proved stubborn enough that I needed to pry it away with the knife. Once we were inside I felt better, safer, though of course a zombie could just walk in while we were upstairs.

  In the kitchen Kylie sorted through empty liquor bottles in a blue bin. Then she suddenly straightened up and looked out the window. “I was raped,” she said.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God—­I’m so sorry,” I told her.

  She shrugged.

  Her voice was as flat as a board. There was no expression in her face at all. I’d seen other ­people like her before, ­people who couldn’t live in the present, who couldn’t get out of a bad past. It had always been first-­generation ­people before, though—­­people who had lived through the crisis. Almost every first-­generation person I knew got like that sometimes, and some of them never came back.

  Kylie
was different, though. She was second generation, like me. She wasn’t supposed to be so lost. I wanted to say something, do something to comfort her, but I had no idea where to even begin.

  “It didn’t happen in Stamford. Stamford is good ­people.” It sounded like the town’s motto or something. Like she was repeating something she’d memorized. “After I became positive, my father hired a group of men to take me to a medical camp, somewhere out west,” she said after another long silence. I had the impression she was struggling to put the words together, stringing together memories she’d tucked away a long time ago and tried to forget about. “The men were big and strong, but they never even looked at me. They were just doing a job. A bunch of looters caught them on the highway and killed them all. Everybody, just one after the other. The men guarding me tried to surrender, which just made it easier. The looters cut their throats with a big sword thing. A machete, I think it’s called. One of them was going to kill me, too, but I screamed and wouldn’t sit still so instead of cutting my throat he cut my nose, by accident. Then another one of them came over and said, what the fuck are you doing? She’s a little girl.”