by Amy Cross
"Of course," he says, not entirely convincingly.
"We'll take two guns," I say. "One for you and one for me."
He nods.
"But we've got another problem," I say after a moment. "Mom's -"
"We'll deal with it," he replies, "but right now, I don't know how. Let's just take one thing at a time. Doesn't Mom have a load of cleaning products? Maybe if we wrap Lydia's body in a sheet without actually touching her, we can get her out of the house and bury her somewhere. Then we can use gloves or something to pick up the bits, and then we can clean the room and maybe lock the door for a while. Then when the power and everything comes back on, we can clean properly."
"You think the power's gonna come back on?" I ask.
"Don't you?" He turns to me. "Seriously? You think this is the end of the world?"
"Sure looks that way."
He smiles. "No chance." Walking over to the back door, he steps outside and makes his way toward the barn. I watch as he goes inside and, a couple of minutes later, he emerges carrying two rifles and a box of ammunition. When he gets back over to the house, he rests the guns against the wall before opening the box and looking at the bullets.
"You know much about guns?" I ask, joining him outside.
He shakes his head.
"Didn't Dad ever teach you how to shoot?"
"Just stick a bullet in the gun, then point and shoot," he replies, holding up one of the bullets. "How hard can it be?"
He walks around to the front of the house. Following him, I eventually spot our mother, over by the washing line. She's taking down some clothes she washed before the power died, but she keeps having to stop so she can cough.
"What's wrong with her?" Joe asks, his voice sounding tense.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," I say. "We've got another problem. It's Mom. She's sick."
He turns to me. "How sick?"
"Sick."
Over by the washing line, our mother breaks into a particularly long coughing fit.
"Like... flu sick?" Joe asks eventually.
"Like properly sick," I reply. "She says she's fine, but I'm not sure. I think she might have what Lydia had."
Chapter Two
Manhattan
"There are five convenience stores within a two-block radius," Bob says, pointing at the rough map he's sketched on the wall. "There are also two pharmacies and three restaurants. Then there are various shops, not to mention an assortment of vending machines. In other words, there's a huge amount of food potentially in the area, as well as significant quantities of bottled water and other beverages. We need to find, gather and then sort all these items and determine the correct order in which to use them. This isn't going to be an easy operation but I'm confident that, if we're smart, we can pool together a significant stockpile of food that'll last us for many months. And that's before we start exploring further out." He stares at the map for a moment. "Then there are the bins," he adds, seemingly lost in thought. "It might be worth going through the bins."
We all sit in silence for a moment. Bob convened this little meeting so we can listen to his plan, which so far seems to be making sense. With Mrs. DeWitt having refused to leave her apartment since the disaster struck, there are basically four of us left in the building: aside from Henry and myself, there's Bob - who has somehow taken on a kind of leadership role - and there's also a middle-aged guy named Harrison Blake who keeps himself to himself and seems happy to sit at the back of the room and listen to Bob's ideas.
"So..." I pause for a moment. "You think we should go and steal food?" I ask eventually. "I mean, do we really need to do that?"
"Bob's right," Henry says. Frankly, at this point I think Henry would back up anything that Bob said. It's becoming alarmingly clear that Henry has chosen to ally himself with Bob and follow every order he's given; I guess my little brother likes holding a rifle. "We can't just sit around waiting," he continues. "We have to take action."
"What about you, Mr. Blake?" Bob says, walking past me and approaching Harrison at the back of the room. "You've been very quiet, but I'm sure a smart man such as yourself must have plenty of ideas."
Blake shrugs.
"Well," Bob says, "I propose we put things to a vote. Those who think we should follow my plan and go out to gather food, raise your hands."
Henry immediately raises his hand high into the air, and after a moment I do the same. Turning, I see that Harrison Blake hasn't move at all, and hasn't raised his hand.
"Mr. Blake," Bob says, sighing, "do you have a problem?"
"Not at all," Blake replies. "I just don't like the mob mentality. Smashing windows and pilfering food isn't quite my kind of thing."
"But eating's your kind of thing, isn't it?" Bob asks. "Drinking's your kind of thing. Breathing's your kind of thing. You just acknowledged that this has become a dog-eat-dog world, so I'd have thought you might be more willing to accompany us on this mission. Was I mistaken in that belief, Mr. Blake?"
"Not necessarily," Blake replies. "While I agree with you in principle, Bob, I have doubts about your long-term plan. It seems to me, and you must correct me if I'm mistaken, that you plan to gather as many supplies as possible and keep them here. It's like you're planning to turn this building into some kind of fortress."
"That would be one way of describing it," Bob says. "We need to give ourselves the best possible chance of surviving."
"And that's a very admirable sentiment," Blake continues, "until you realize that it's completely doomed. You'll essentially be sitting here, waiting to die. It doesn't matter how much food you scavenge and how long you think you can make it last, at some point you're gonna run out. I give you all a month, maybe three months at most, and then what? By then, the city's gonna be overrun by vermin. Think of all those dead bodies. There's gonna be disease. At the very least, rats are gonna be a big problem." He pauses for a moment. "You stay here, you die."
"And what's your alternative?" Bob asks, clearly unimpressed.
"We leave New York," Blake replies. "We head out of the city and find somewhere to start again. It's not ideal, but it's better than clinging nostalgically to New York simply because it used to be a good place to live. Seriously, I don't think you've got any idea how fucking awful this place is gonna get after a few weeks."
"We can't leave," I say.
"Why not?" he snaps back at me.
"Because..." I pause, realizing that I might sound stupid if I suggest there'll be other survivors. To be honest, I'm still clinging to the hope that my parents are going to somehow show up, but I can tell that Harrison Blake would shoot that idea down immediately. "Because we have resources here," I say eventually. "We can make it work."
"Bullshit," Blake replies. "Think about it. There are dead bodies everywhere. In all the buildings, in all those cars. Dead bodies don't just disappear neatly. They're gonna start to rot, and stink, and then there'll be all the rats, and before you know it, you'll be in this middle of this infectious, disgusting soup that'll just destroy everything." He smiles. "Face it. This place is going to become uninhabitable real fast, and sticking around is basically a kind of slow suicide. The sooner we pack up and get moving, the better. We're all still fairly strong, none of us seems to be sick, so we need to find the right place and start again."
There's an awkward pause for a moment as we wait for Bob to speak. He walks slowly back over to his desk and looks down at some papers for a moment, before glancing back over at us. "What are you waiting for?" he asks, acting as if he doesn't give a damn. "I'm not stopping anyone from leaving. I profoundly disagree with Mr. Blake here, but I'm not gonna stand in your way. Elizabeth and Henry, you're free to do what you want, and to go where you want. If Mr. Blake actually goes through with his plan to up sticks, that's fine by me. We need people here who are dedicated to the cause. If you want to be elsewhere, or if you think this plan of mine is a bad idea, then I'd rather you leave."
"I'm not going anywhere," I say.
<
br /> "Me neither," Henry says quickly.
"You're gonna stay and wait to die?" Blake asks incredulously. "Seriously? Two young, strong, healthy people, and you're gonna just sit around and wait for the inevitable to happen?"
"It won't be like that," Henry says. "We have a plan."
"Everything's in hand," Bob says.
"And what does that mean?" Blake asks.
"It means that I have everything all planned out," Bob continues. "We can become entirely self-sufficient here, given time. Meanwhile, I want to remind you that one of our primary objectives here is to gain access to the pharmacy. They'll have useful things, like antibiotics and -"
"It won't work," Blake says, getting to his feet and walking over to the door. "I'm out. I'm gonna get my shit together and head on out of here later today. I'm gonna head south and try to find somewhere warm, and then I'm gonna set up shop on a nice piece of land and see what I can rustle up. You're all welcome to join me, but there's no way I'm staying here."
"Then there'll be more steak for the rest of us," Bob says.
"Steak?" Henry asks.
"I happen to have had some rather tender steaks in my fridge when all of this happened," Bob explains. "Rather than try to keep it good indefinitely, I was planning to light a small fire outside tonight and cook the last of the steaks for us all. It seems only fitting. But if you won't be with us, Mr. Sharpe, I suppose that just means more for the rest of us."
"Sounds like you've got everything all worked out," Sharpe replies. He turns to walk out of the room, before stopping and glancing back at Bob. "By the way, if you're worried that I might be like Albert Carling and try to steal some of your precious food, you're way off base. I have a small stash in my apartment still, so I'll be taking supplies exclusively from there. If I have anything left over, I'll happily donate it to the cause."
Once he's gone, the rest of us sit in silence for a moment. Personally, although I could never even consider leaving the city while there's still a chance of our parents showing up, I can see Blake's point; life in New York under these conditions is going to become intolerable at some point, and eventually Henry and I are going to have to make a difficult decision. In a few weeks, or a few months, we're going to have to decide if we've reached the point at which we need to move on; that moment hasn't arrived yet, however, and I guess that means we have to work with Bob, at least for now.
"You two still with me?" Bob asks, his voice a little quieter than usual.
"Yes, Sir," Henry replies.
After a moment, I realize they're both staring at me. "I guess," I say, my voice sounding a little weak. Looking over at Henry, I can see from the look in his eyes that he's committed to Bob's plan.
"Excellent," Bob says, grinning broadly. "Let's get going. There's no time like the present, and if we work hard all day, we can be back in time for steak by sundown."
Chapter Three
Oklahoma
"I'm fine," my mother says, pulling some tins from the cupboard. "What would you boys like for your lunch? I'm afraid we don't have much, but I could heat up some beans. Desperate times call for desperate measures." She smiles, and then she lets out a small grunt, as if she's desperately trying to hold in a coughing fit.
"You sure?" Joe asks. He and I are standing in the doorway, watching for any sign of our mother's health getting worse. It's kind of a grim moment; we haven't discussed the matter, but the fact that we're standing here at all is, I guess, enough of a sign that we're both worried.
"I might have a slight cold," she says, grabbing a can opener. "Apart from that, I think I'm doing okay, all things considered."
As she opens the first can, I look over at Joe and see the look of concern in his eyes. He might not have vocalized his fears yet, but I can tell he's thinking the same thing that I'm thinking: our mother's sick, in the same kind of way that Lydia was sick, and it's pretty clear that she's going to get worse.
"Are you boys going stand there watching me all day?" she asks after a moment. "Or are you going to go and do something useful? Thomas, are those water butts ready? I think it's going to rain soon."
"They're ready," I say.
"Perhaps you should double-check that they're clean," she continues, pouring the beans into a saucepan and taking extra care to avoid eye contact with either Joe or myself. "We don't want any contaminants getting in there, do we? I remember one year, your father got them all set up and didn't notice there were slugs in the bottom. No-one wants to drink slug water, now, do they?" She carries the saucepan over to the stove. "Excuse me," she says, hurrying through to the pantry and shutting the door. After a moment, she starts coughing; not just coughing, but really wheezing her guts up. I swear to God, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. It's like I've been thinking that this moment could come for a while, but it's finally here. Sometimes, I hate being right about stuff.
"She's sick," I say quietly.
"Shut up," Joe replies.
Suddenly the pantry door opens and our mother comes back out, smiling a false smile. "Now what are you two boys talking about? I could hear you whispering. Are you still worried about me?" Taking the saucepan from the stove, she hurries outside to the little brick fire our father set up before he left. Joe and I walk to the door and watch as she uses some matches and a little paraffin to get the fire going. "I wish you boys wouldn't fret," she continues after a moment. "I'm quite okay. If you're thinking that I'm going to go the same way as Lydia, I'm afraid you've got another thing coming. I'm fighting fit and ready to go. I've just got a little bit of a cold, that's all. To be honest, I was already feeling it long before Lydia turned up, I just didn't want to mention it and -" As she picks up the saucepan, her hands fumble slightly and she drops the beans all over the grass. "Now look what you made me do," she says, starting to speak faster and faster. She carefully scoops the beans back into the pan. "Well, you'll have to just work around any grass you find. We can't afford to be throwing things out, can we?"
"We're going to go hunting later," Joe says solemnly. "We thought maybe we could find a deer or something."
"I hope your father gets back today," my mother continues after a moment. "It's not like him to miss dinner three days in a row. Still, things are probably rather hectic over in Scottsville. I bet he's been roped into all manner of jobs, keeping that place going. Your father's a smart man, you see, so he'll have seen all the things they're doing wrong. No wonder he isn't back yet. We shouldn't get too worried if he has to delay his return a little longer, should we? He might be there for -" She starts coughing again, and this time she doesn't have time to go and hide in the pantry. After a moment, she grabs a bowl, ready to serve up the beans.
"Actually, Mom," Joe says after a moment, "can you keep those beans on hold? I think Thomas and I should get going."
"But they're ready!" she says, with a look of absolute shock in her eyes.
"We'll eat them later," Joe replies, grabbing my arm and leading me away. "We can't eat those," he whispers.
"Do you think -" I start to say.
"Let's just get going," he says, interrupting me. "We're running out of daylight." We walk on in silence, but there's an unspoken understanding between us: our mother's sick, and if she's going to go the same way as Lydia, neither of us wants to be around to witness her final moments. When we get far enough away, so that she won't hear us, Joe stops by the barn and kicks the wall. "Fuck" he mutters, before turning and walking off to the back of the building, leaving me standing alone on the grass.
Chapter Four
Manhattan
"Stand back," Henry says, holding the butt of his rifle up against the shop door. He pauses for a moment, before slamming the butt against the window; unfortunately, the glass seems to be strengthened, and nothing happens. He tries several more times, but with no luck. "Fuck it!" he says, pausing to catch his breath.
"You won't get in like that," Bob says, sliding the safety catch from his gun.
"Are you sure you want
to waste a bullet?" Henry asks. "I can keep trying."
"It's not a waste of a bullet," Bob replies, aiming at the window as Henry steps aside. "It's tactical use of one finite resource in order to gain access to a greater finite resource." There's a loud bang as he pulls the trigger, and the window in the shop door explodes, showering glass across the sidewalk. "Besides," he adds, with the sound of the gunshot still echoing in the empty street, "I've got quite a stockpile of ammo back in my apartment. Don't you worry about that."
"You thought ahead," Henry says, using the butt of his rifle to knock some of the remaining glass out of the way. He turns to me. "You hear that, Elizabeth? He thought ahead."
Standing out on the dusty sidewalk, I stare in stunned silence as the pair of them start loading their bags with produce from the shelves. It's kind of hard to believe how quickly and successfully Bob and Henry seem to have formed this bizarre double-act.
"Elizabeth!" Henry calls out to me.
Glancing over at the other side of the street, I see a couple of abandoned cars. It's hard not to think about what might be inside; are there dead bodies in every vehicle, and in every building?
"Elizabeth!" Henry shouts. "Come on!"
Reluctantly, I step through the doorway and find myself in a gloomy little convenience store. Bob and Henry have already managed to empty quite a few of the shelves into their rucksacks, so I head over to the canned goods aisle and start collecting various items. I can't quite throw my energy into the looting business with as much enthusiasm as Bob and Henry, and I still have this voice at the back of my head that keeps telling me that this is all wrong. However, in the absence of any kind of external authority - there are no cops, no government, no other people at all - I figure I need to get over my concerns and just do what's necessary. I figure I can always explain my actions to my parents if they ever come back. They'll understand.
"Put the bags in here," Bob says, having found a shopping cart at the back of the store. "We can get more in one visit. Frankly, I don't much like being out in broad daylight. We're easy pickings for anyone who happens to spot us."