“Her son,” his dad said. “Was a little younger than me, big kid, smart, too. They had a big basement with a lock, and he went out every few days to find food. The way she told me, she was always sure he wouldn’t make it back healthy each time, but he was always fine. Kept her fed, kept her alive.”
“What happened to him?” Simon asked.
Another head shake. “Car wreck,” he said. “Survived who knows what dangers in 2010, then lost a fight with the bottle. Got drunk one night a couple years later and drove into a tree.”
It was Simon’s turn to shake his head. “That makes sense,” he said. “Mrs. Cox was talking about driving safely like it was just so important. I tried to explain to her that I was walking, but it didn’t matter.”
Simon’s dad started mixing the salad with the tongs. Simon pulled a rough-wrapped hunk of cheese from the refrigerator and started grating it. The wrapper for the cheese looked almost like an old wrapper from a slaughterhouse and had “Res. for Roger Stone” scrawled on it. Wherever it had come from, it hadn’t been a regular supermarket. Roger, standing over the salad, picked up his humming again, in the same barely-there tune he had been using before.
“Is she religious?” Simon asked after a moment.
His dad looked up. “Mrs. Cox? Yeah, she always was. Taught regular school during the week, Sunday school on weekends. Doubled down after 2010. Why do you ask?”
Simon shrugged. “Something she was talking about. Sins. Seven of them? I didn’t really understand, but she said that she was worried about people my age doing them.”
Roger chuckled. “Seven deadly sins,” he said.
“What are those?”
“Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, pride,” Roger said. “From the Bible.”
Simon stared at his father like he was trying to memorize the list. “So … we shouldn’t do those things?”
“Depends on who you ask. You ask me, some of that is overstated. Others really shouldn’t be their own thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, think about it,” he said. “Sloth. Means laziness. Means you shouldn’t sit around when there is work to be done. Well, imagine you were an Out There in 2010. The one thing you knew without a doubt you couldn’t do was be lazy, was sit still. And I guarantee that’s what those people wanted to do most. The people who could just be were the safe ones. No, no one should be too lazy, but there’s a place in this world for some real relaxation. I don’t believe someone needs to work 24/7 to be of any use.”
He pulled a colander out from one of the cabinets and placed it in the sink. As he went to dump the pasta in, he continued. “Lust,” he said. “Lust is one of the best things in this world.”
Simon squirmed. “Dad…”
“No, no, calm down. You know good and well that your mother and I have had sex. I’m not describing the details, just that it happened. You’re a big boy. Sex is good. Sex is what keeps us going. Just like anything else, it’s moderation, but the desire for sex is a good thing, not a bad one.”
He returned the drained pasta to the pot, added the sauce and started mixing. “Wrath. What’s the problem with wrath? Turn the other cheek? My friend was raped when she was a teenager. Her dad came upon it happening and beat the guy who did it to death. Literally, he beat him, smashed his head in. Would I have done that? Probably not. But I assure you I’m not condemning that man for it, and I’m not going to listen to anyone else who does that, either. Moderation, but wrath has its place.”
Simon scraped the grated cheese into a bowl and placed it on the table as his dad continued. “Gluttony. There were times in my life, especially in 2010, when I thought I was going to starve to death. If there’s food in front of me, I’m eating it. Don’t take from someone else, but don’t forgo food just because. Food is wonderful.
“Greed, envy, okay, those are fine, definitely sins, but really it all boils down to one thing. Pride. One deadly sin. If you’re envious of someone, jealous of them, it’s because you think you are entitled to what they have. Pride. If you’re greedy for something, hoarding things from others, it’s the same. You think you deserve something more than they do. You’re too proud. Gluttony is the same, when it goes too far. Seven is a nice number, but they could have stopped at ‘pride’ and the list would have been just fine.”
Roger carried the pot of pasta toward the table. As he did, Simon hurried over with a trivet that he put down first, and Roger put the pot down on top.
“So pride is a bad thing?” Simon asked. “You’ve always told me to be proud of my accomplishments.”
“Be proud of your accomplishments,” Roger said with a nod. “Be very proud. If you do something good, don’t you ever let someone take it away from you. Pride is a wonderful tool when used properly. But pride can be abused. It leads to men who think they know more than they do, men who think they can do more than they can. I’m a talented man, son. I can fix a fence, build a shed, and make a mean plate of spaghetti. But there are things I’m terrible at. You’ve seen me try my hands at car repair. You’ve seen my decorating skills. You know…” he waved generally at the refrigerator, “…I’m not the tidiest man. And I’ll freely admit those things. I know what I’m good at, but more importantly, I know what I’m not good at. Each one of those things is good to know on its own. But together is where a person can really shine.”
Roger wiped his hands and looked at the dinner table. As he did, Simon started washing his hands at the sink. Roger continued. “You’re very smart, Simon,” he said. “Smarter than me. I know that. You probably won’t admit, but deep down you know it’s true. I’m very comfortable admitting it. I have the wisdom of experience, but my capacity for plain knowledge isn’t what yours is. But as I say that, I want you to remember there will always be someone smarter than you. That doesn’t mean anyone you come across is smarter than you, but you can’t assume no one is. And everyone you ever meet — every single person — is going to know something you don’t. Pride means knowing who you are and what you can do. But pride can keep you from realizing what you can’t. Be proud. Always be proud. But don’t be too proud to defer.”
Simon dried his hands. He turned to his dad and seemed surprised to realize Roger was staring back at him. Simon met his eyes for a moment and then nodded.
“Good boy,” Roger said. “Time for dinner. Go get your mother, if you don’t mind. She’s probably getting bored.”
“Yes, Dad,” Simon said. He called out a quick “Mom!” as he left the kitchen. Roger brushed up the salad detritus from the countertop and dumped it into the trash can. He moved to the refrigerator and pulled out a cup that was already full of some sort of thick brownish liquid. The cup had a lid with a straw attached. He placed that on the table and then sat in the chair that had briefly held the little model house. As he did this, the music somewhere deep inside the house stopped with a scratch as Simon lifted the needle off the record. Roger, who had kept humming almost any time he wasn’t talking, picked up where the record left off and started singing lightly. “Ain’t she sweet. See her walking down the street. Well I ask you very confidentially, ain’t she sweet.”
Moments later, Simon reappeared, pushing a wheelchair, and Roger trailed off. The wheelchair carried a woman who never would have been able to get there without the help. She looked to be about Roger’s age, though whatever had her in the wheelchair had aged every part of her. Her head was wrapped in a headband, covering up any hair she still had. Her dark skin was pockmarked with whiter spots. She wore a loose-fitting nightgown that was wrinkled and bunched up as Roger or Simon had struggled to get it on her. She was late in the progression of her disease , and her mouth hung half-open as she sat in the chair. When she saw Roger, the very edge of her mouth moved up just a bit. Roger jumped back to his feet.
“Hi,” he said with a smile. Simon negotiated his mother to the spot at the end of the table where a chair normally would have been, and Roger picked up the cup. He put the straw into her
mouth and she closed it, taking a drink. Her eyes closed with the effort, but she got enough to take a difficult swallow.
Roger took the cup back and set it on the table, then he and Simon sat down. Roger started to dish spaghetti onto his and his son’s plate. “It’s dinner time,” he said.
Chapter Two: Ain’t She Sweet
2030
Simon and Celia and the rest had been in life-threatening situations several times over the course of the last few days, but he had been stoic through all of it. This time, though, Celia couldn’t tell it was worse than that. Simon always knew what to do. This time, he didn’t.
“Celia, there are so many,” he said. “If we both had guns, if we had another way out, maybe …” He trailed off.
“Hey,” Celia said. “Hey. That’s just one exit. Maybe there’s another way out.” She nodded her head down the hall. “You checked that stairwell?”
Simon shook his head. “Z’s. Not as many as in the garage, but too many for the tight space.”
Celia turned around, faking like she was looking toward the hallway stairwell he was describing. In reality she could see how freaked out Simon was and she didn’t want him to see his fear reflected in her own face. They had always had a way out. Maybe they didn’t know where they were going or what they would do when they got there, but they hadn’t been trapped.
She thought back to her lessons from her father, his quizzes and scenarios. He had always tried to stump her. Sometimes he had, but Celia had proven adept at being creative. That was what she needed to do. She took stock of what they had. The metal stick. The broom. A gun with two bullets. The walkie-talkie.
The walkie-talkie. Celia had forgotten about it. A plan came together for her in a hurry.
“Radio to the others,” she said. “We need to get Erik to get their radio into the garage. There was only a fence at the far end, it wasn’t that high up, he could probably jump up and place it so it doesn’t break? Once it’s there, we make noises through this one, draw the Z’s away from where we are down to that walkie-talkie. That could clear the path enough for us to escape, right? Wouldn’t it?”
At first, Simon watched her talk like it was an alien language. But as she spoke, his face softened. “It could,” he said. “Do you think we can trust Erik to do it?”
Celia shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll let Stacy do it. But I think we have to try.”
Simon nodded, then got on the radio to their friends at the car. He confirmed they were still okay, then explained their situation and the plan as best he could. Michelle, manning the radio on their end, sounded skeptical, but after some conversation, it was agreed that there wasn’t a better option available to them. Erik agreed to his role, and they agreed that he would radio them at the last moment before abandoning the walkie-talkie. Erik, Michelle and Stacy would wait three minutes from that point to see if Simon and Celia emerged, because their line of communication would be severed, and then they’d go. Nobody was sure how they’d move Michelle if it came to it, but they definitely couldn’t just sit and hope forever.
It wasn’t a perfect plan. Like Celia’s workaround solution on the beach, digging the holes in the sand, it wasn’t meant to solve all the problems. It was really only meant to buy them a few extra seconds. The problem was, she wasn’t even sure it would buy them that.
“Did you see a car we could use when you were out there?” Celia asked.
Simon’s eyes went wide, like he had forgotten that part of the equation. Celia could see him scanning his memory for a number. “I … think so,” he said. “Damn. 47? I think there was an SUV in 47.”
She went back into the little room and checked the peg board. There were keys on each peg from 38 to 43 and then again on 50, but the entire panel in between was empty. That didn’t mean Simon was wrong in his recollection, but it did mean that the keys to 47 weren’t on the 47 peg.
Celia scanned the rest of the keys. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she hoped something would come to her. And then she saw it. A key all by its lonesome near the top of the pegboard, on the peg for “7.” She couldn’t match any of the keys she saw with any of the vehicles out there for certain, especially without knowing where the numbers started and stopped. But she knew for certain there was that small car near the exit, and it stood to reason that the smallest number would be closest to that exit, so if she guessed a key and was wrong, they would at least have that as the fallback option.
“The sports car,” she said, pulling the key from the peg.
“What?” Simon asked. “That car won’t fit all of us.”
“No,” Celia agreed, “but we don’t know which key is which car out there. That one is probably the first one, and even if we’re wrong, it’ll be near the exit. If we miss we might be able to get away anyway.”
“What then?” Simon asked.
Celia shrugged. “We’ll have to see. Maybe we find another car on the road?”
Simon’s eyes lit up. “The garage had two exits, right?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“So all we have to do is make noise. Honk the horn, whatever. Make them follow us. Car’s way faster than any Z’s. Once we’re outside, we lead them far enough away and just circle back.”
Celia agreed it was their best course of action. She looked back at the keys on the pegboard trying to come up with a plan. Before she could do much of anything, though, the walkie-talkie crackled through.
“I’m ready,” Erik’s voice said, his voice barely a whisper above static. “Radio will be in place in two seconds.”
Celia moved. She didn’t know if she needed to be ready instantly, but her worst fear — short of dying and/or becoming a Z, of course — was that they escape ten seconds too late and find the others gone. Or they have their escape in place and wait too long and the window closes.
So with no time to try to figure out which key was the best to grab, Celia pulled every key in the 38-43 section and shoved them into her pockets. She and Simon hurried back to the doorway, where they each dropped to one knee and leaned in close. Celia picked up the walkie-talkie.
She froze. What sound to make? Should she just scream into it? She didn’t want to do that, because the noise would be as audible through the door as it would be out in the garage. She needed something they could do quietly in there that would be a persistent noise out there.
But she was coming up blank. She didn’t have a monologue prepared. Suddenly, Celia couldn’t think of anything to say at all. Floundering, she looked to Simon.
“I’ll do it,” she said. Simon suddenly looked nervous, but not in the way he had looked when he had peeked into the garage. This was a shy nervousness, the looks he had given Celia in other, calmer times. Simon took the walkie-talkie and cleared his throat, then started singing, softly at first. “Ain’t she sweet. See her walking down the street. Well I ask you very confidentially…”
Simon wasn’t much of a singer, and Celia didn’t recognize the song. There was a tune there, but any notes he was supposed to have hit were vague approximations of music. But his voice got stronger as he went, and before long he was singing in a normal volume that Celia thought would surely do the trick. They looked into each other’s eyes as he sang, their heads only a few inches apart as the knelt next to the door, crouched and ready to go.
The song circled around. Simon sang, “Ain’t she nice. Look her over once or twice. Yes I ask you...” Celia smiled as she watched, enjoying the song as much as she enjoyed Simon’s shy nervousness about doing anything that wasn’t surviving zombies. As he finished that section, Celia motioned at him to sing more quietly. Her gun in her right hand, she pushed the door open just a bit with her left and looked out. The door opened away from where the walkie-talkie would have been placed, so she couldn’t be sure, but she thought it was doing its job.
She motioned to Simon to stop and slowly pushed the door open further. It took until the door was almost all the way open before she saw any Z�
�s, and that was a slow, injured one that was heading toward the radio, and it hadn’t yet noticed the door. Celia held up a hand to Simon to indicate quiet and pulled up to her feet to get ready to move. Simon held the broomstick and metal stick in his hand like clubs and stood at the ready behind her.
Celia pushed the door open all the way and started to run, Simon close at her heels. It wasn’t terribly far from the door to the sports car, but a fast zombie would make their lives difficult if they didn’t do it cleanly, so Celia wasn’t going to dawdle.
And then the mistake. Every time they had passed through the door until that point, they had done so slowly and closed the door behind them slowly. As a result, they didn’t realize how quickly the door might close on its own. As soon as Simon was free from the doorway, the door swung back shut with a slam loud enough to drown out the walkie-talkie even if Simon had still been singing into it.
The Z’s turned. The ones who were converging on the walkie-talkie first took a little longer, but the entire group realized there was something to chase back where they had come from and started that way.
Celia got mad at herself. Being careful with a door was such an obvious thing to do, and it hadn’t even occurred to her. Her dad would have criticized the carelessness.
But there was no time to worry about that. All she could do was do her best to get to the sports car before any of the Z’s caught up with them. Making matters worse, as she rounded the corner of the garage to head down to the lower level, it became clear that a few Z’s from outside the garage had heard the walkie-talkie and were coming in from that way. They were not healthy ones, and they moved slowly, but an extra obstacle was an extra obstacle regardless. Maybe the little sports car was fast, but it wasn’t something she wanted to have to use as a battering ram.
With the key in her hand, Celia got to the sports car. They had passed the car without checking on their first pass, but luckily, the door was unlocked. She jumped into the front seat as Simon ran around the car and jumped in on the passenger side. Celia crossed her fingers that the car would start — she had no reason to think it wouldn’t, she just felt like her luck was running bad — and turned the key.
After Life | Book 2 | Life After Life Page 22