by Tara Brown
I was slumped over her, sobbing a tearless and painful cry when I heard him. He was inside a bottle, or I was. One of us was very far away and impossible to understand.
His hands gripped, pulling to cradle me in his large arms.
“She’s gone, Zoey. She’s gone. Fuck, I can’t believe I forgot to come sooner. I’m so sorry.” Owen lifted me up and held me tightly. He wasn’t alone. In the bottle I could hear another voice. It was Westley’s. When I opened my dry eyes, she was in his arms. He held her tightly like Owen did me. Like he cared my friend had died.
“She didn’t die alone, Zo. You were here.” His words warmed the stillness of my battered heart, but it was his worried stare that drew my eyes down to my arm where a small bleed had started. My eyes were dry but my arm wept for her. My fingertips shared the same stain. He swallowed and I hated that Westley saw me hurting myself. I pulled my sleeve down and wrapped my hand around the wound, wishing I could take away the feeling of being stuck in a cloud of white noise, fuzzy white noise.
Owen turned and walked for the back door to the library, the one he’d come in. She must have left it unlocked. He always parked back there when he picked me up from work.
“I’m our last employee. I have to finish putting it back together.” I struggled to get out of his arms.
“You don't have to do it.” When he got us outside, I took a heaving gasp of air. Owen held me tighter. “It’s okay. You don't have to go back there. We’ll make sure it’s fine.”
“No.” I shook my head, fighting the panic as it tried to choke me. “I have to make it the way it’s supposed to be.”
“We’ll go and put the books away and lock up. We’ll make it look the way it should—and then even when we’re all gone, it’ll be how it should be,” Owen repeated and put me in the back seat of the car and knelt, rubbing my legs.
“I’ve never seen it before,” I whispered and covered my eyes, smelling the blood on my fingers. “I’ve never seen someone die before.” I was too stunned to cry and yet frustrated at the lack of tears. My heart was broken so it only made sense my face should be flooded. The absence of tears in this moment made the dryness inside me more pronounced. At least my arm was weeping slightly.
“She loved you. She spent her last moments with you. She knew she was dying, and she chose to be with you.”
“She just dropped, Owen. She said something weird and she dropped.”
“You can’t save them. They simply fall and they’re gone before they hit the floor.”
Westley came jogging out, minus my friend and boss. He climbed in the back seat on the other side and sat close to me, so I was sandwiched between them. “I put her on the front steps. The body trucks will find her. I locked the front door and closed the windows.” He rubbed my arm. “I’m so sorry, Zo.”
Mrs. Henry was lying on the road like in some horrible story about a plague, awaiting body collection. I covered my face and hated everything about this world. But it didn't matter if I hated it. It was almost over.
We were halfway.
In two weeks, Elaine would die.
I would be an orphan.
I was mid pity party and panic attack when it dawned on me that Owen’s dad was gone. I glanced up, still heaving for breath but managed to speak, “Did you go see him?”
“Who?” He was confused.
“Your dad.”
His mouth opened and he had something he wanted to say, but he didn't. He just nodded once.
“Is he gone?” I asked it, knowing he was. Although with him there was always the worry that he was so evil even God didn't want him.
“He must be. He was in his fifties,” he said slowly.
“Did you say goodbye?”
“I was there and he was drunk and didn't want to see me. My mom told me to go.”
Most of our parents were late thirties and early forties, but his dad was in his late fifties.
My mom was thirty-eight. She was finishing college when she had me.
West and I reached out and hugged him, both of us melting into him. With Westley behind me and Owen in front, I felt safe for the first time, in a long time.
We hugged hard for a moment before Owen left the embrace and walked back inside to make sure the place I loved the most remained as it should.
Westley and I sat silently in the car, not moving away from one another. It wasn’t awkward, it was dry. The ride home was too. Silent and blank.
When we got back to my place, Owen didn't get out of the car. He sat with it running.
“You going to stay in the car all night?” I asked as I stepped out, but he didn't move. When I closed the door, he put the car in reverse and drove away.
“Maybe he’s going to see his dad. To be sure.” Westley took my hand in his. I liked the way he did that. I sensed the ache to grip my skin with my fingernails and then his hand was there, like the breeze that blew away the storm clouds.
“I hope he didn't die alone. His dad was a jerk, but he was still his dad.”
“I kinda hope he did die alone. He was a dick.” Westley wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me inside the house. “Once we lost a game and he slapped him, right in front of us. Hard too. I almost went at him, but Coach said it would be worse for Owen if I did.”
“That's the truth. Owen never fought back.” I closed the door, with my nose pressed against the glass. “Except one time. His mom got in the middle of them. His dad struck her by accident and broke her arm.” I peered up at Westley’s sickened expression. “Owen almost killed him. It’s the one time he fought back. That’s the weird part, Owen could have taken his dad easily. He never did except that one time. I think deep down Owen knew that was the only form of attention he would get from him. So in some twisted way, he told himself it was affection.”
Westley winced. “Our dads had things in common I guess.” I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn't know how to tell him I was sorry his dad was cruel. I hadn’t known until this moment.
What did you say when someone told you something they had tried so hard to hide? None of the responses ever made the person feel better. People said them to make themselves feel better. That was something I had learned in my seventeen years.
After what seemed like ages of me watching the silent street, I turned and walked into the kitchen, slumping into a chair.
When it was completely dark, Westley walked in from the living room. He paused in the doorway, contemplating something. He flicked the light switch but nothing happened. My insides instantly ached. She had been right. The power was out. The world was about to get darker in every way.
“The power’s out.”
“My phone wasn't working either.” I stood and opened the fridge. Everything was covered in condensation. “And this is going to go bad. We have to eat all of this. It’ll go bad.”
“Everything’s going to go bad no matter what, we don't have to eat it. It can just go bad. We’ll throw it out.” He stood directly behind me, opening the freezer by reaching his arms around, almost hugging me. He grabbed the box of burgers and a bag of fries and lifted them over my head, pausing for a moment. “We can eat what we want to eat,” he said walking out to the barbecue. “Thank God for barbecues.”
As he left through the back door to the deck off the kitchen, Owen came in the front. In the pale light of the moon, his eyes were noticeably red and his cheeks were flushed to match. He closed the door and leaned his back against it, pressing his lips together.
My own mouth burned to ask if his dad was gone or if he was okay. But clearly, he wasn't. I didn't need to ask anything that would only fill the silence weighing on us both.
So neither of us spoke until Owen’s legs gave way and he slid down the door, still pressing his back to it. His lip quivered as he stumbled on his words, “I never—I mean—I didn't really—” He covered his face in shame, and I knew exactly what he hated himself for. He hated himself for not being enough. For making his dad angry. And most of all,
for hating the man, even now as he lay cold on the floor in his house.
I crossed the room quickly, wrapping myself around him as best I could. He let himself go, releasing his sobs into my shoulder. I held him and wished selfishly I could cry this way.
He went quiet after several minutes, finally whispering, “You remember when we were twelve and Annie’s dad died in that car accident? She was so sad, the whole town was so sad.” He glanced up at me. “You remember?”
I nodded.
“I wasn't sad. I was jealous. I wasn't sad at all. I wondered why her dad; he was a sweet man who never hurt anyone. Why her dad and not mine?” His words made me sick, and yet I completely understood. “Why him?” doesn't seem so insane when your father is a cruel drunk. Annie’s dad was a sweet man. His wife was pregnant at the time. It was a tragedy.
Week six sucked, all round.
9
Virginia Beach
Celeste
“RUN!” Roz shouted as the slapping footsteps got closer to us. I pushed harder, sprinting across the road to the side where a bunch of cars were parked. Some had dead people, others didn't. I tried not to focus on it.
We crossed near a house, racing through the side yard and hopping the short fence as if we were professionals.
“Here, kitty, kitty!” a man’s voice shouted. He was breathless like us, but still able to laugh and taunt.
We raced into another yard and across a road to a house, hurrying into the backyard. She paused, watching the road for a moment to make sure we’d lost him before she tried the door with her shaking hands. I almost thought it was locked too, but the handle turned and she burst in, holding it open for me. I dashed into the unknown. Roz closed the door quietly, locking it and sliding a chair under the handle. She closed the shade on the window and ducked, rushing to the front door. She locked it and did the same thing as she had done in the front.
The man’s voice was still there but distant. We hurried down the hallway, staying low, her in front and me behind, always behind. I didn't know how to do this, survive like this.
But she did.
She knew how to be silent in a way that was terrifying. She knew that chairs went under door handles and that shallow breaths were better than holding it. She knew that closed curtains meant nothing and that hiding wouldn’t always save you. She knew of monsters I had no idea about. But I was learning fast. Two days on the road had been brutal. The power was out. The cell phones, maps, computers, and radios were now gone. And like Roz’s social worker had said, the world had changed. Overnight it seemed.
Roz started searching the drawers in the bedroom of the small bungalow. She sighed when she lifted the blackest item I’d ever seen. I’d never touched one. I hadn’t even considered it. I could have lived my whole life without seeing a gun. Particularly a handgun.
But Roz checked the handle for something and slid parts in and out. She held it like this wasn't the first time. It wasn't the second. She was comfortable in a way I was with an art brush or a straightening iron or lip gloss.
“Get under the bed,” she mouthed at me. “Make no noise. None.” She screwed something on the end of the gun so it reminded me of those ones from the spy movies. A silencer.
Jesus, who has a silencer?
What kind of people are these?
My pounding heartbeat and desperate need for a drink of water made my throat burn, but I did what she said. I dropped to my knees quietly and slid under the bed, just fitting.
I was barely hidden by the queen bed when smashing glass and a shout, “They’re in here!” burst down the hallway.
My entire body experienced something I’d never felt before: pins and needles and a type of fear I was sure was about to kill me. This was what heart attacks really felt like.
I started to shake, just a bit, and my breath that whispered in and out wasn't enough. I needed more. I was suffocating!
Thumping steps vibrated on the wooden floors, even from the other side of the house.
My eyes strained from not blinking.
“Here, kitty, kitty. There’s a good pussy cat.” His tone and the words he chose made me gag.
I regretted everything.
We were about to die, but not first. First there would be something else. Something I’d only done twice. Once with a boy I loved before he went to France for school. And once with a friend and I regretted it. But this wasn't going to be like that.
Forcing my breath to stay slow, fear silently leaked from my eyes, stinging them with the moisture.
The footsteps became louder, closer.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” he cooed. I didn't know which one he was. I’d hardly caught a glimpse of them. We’d been on the pier when they came, three of them. They were late twenties and creepy-looking. One of them grabbed at Roz, but she kicked him right in the balls. She screamed, “Run,” and I did.
It all happened so fast, I didn’t know what to do beyond listen to her.
She kept screaming it, motivating me.
And now we were here, hiding and about to be caught.
All the running and screaming had been for nothing.
The footsteps got closer.
“If you’re good girls and you don't fight, it won’t be so bad. You’ll like it,” he said it as though he was kidding. Someone else snickered as he spoke, “I promise.”
They laughed.
I shuddered.
“Look in there,” the taunting one said.
The footsteps were so close they made me shake as they stomped around the house searching for us.
Black boots with dirt stains came into the room. He paused and stomped his feet a few times, leaving bits of dirt on the clean floor, sprinkling like pepper from a mill. “My mom’s cat always hid from me when I was a kid.” His accent made this all worse, a little more Deliverance than it needed to be. He dropped to his knees, lowering his greasy head to the floor and grinning when the shiny gleam in his eyes met mine. “That bitch always hid under the bed too.” He flashed disgusting yellow teeth. “Hello, kitty.”
My jaw trembled as my mind jumped and raced, trying to find an answer.
He reached in to grab at my hands but I clawed at him.
“Ow! Damn. Kitty wants to scratch, huh?” He got up and turned around. “Get Laurence. She’s in here.”
“The other one got away,” another one of them said.
“That’s okay.”
“You find her?” a third voice asked. I crawled closer to the wall, wiping away tears that threatened to blind me.
“Oh yeah.” The main guys chuckled.
The boots turned back to me, joined by others equally dirty.
The closet door made a gruff sound that was followed by a sweet sound—something whispering and sharp—sliced through the air. Squishy thuds I couldn't place were tailed by grunts. Confusion drowned me until the men staggered back, their bodies landing in the doorway and hall. Blood spilled out onto the floor, joined by gurgling.
“Get up! Move your ass!” Roz shouted, kicking the bed, making me jump.
Blinking several times before I understood what had happened, I scrambled backward, away from the blood and the dying. I scratched my back getting out from under the bed, but I didn't care. I didn’t make a sound.
“You all right?” Roz asked, not different. Not changed. Not crying. Not sad. Just Roz. She’d shot three men in cold blood and was asking if I was okay, almost as if she was annoyed.
I wiped my eyes, seeing how hard I needed to be and how fierce I had to get. How much of my soul I had to cut away and leave behind. The cost of surviving in this world was high, a price you paid with lives. Not your own. That was the big hope. But in that moment, that life-altering moment, I decided there was no way I was dying before my time. No, I would not die being raped or tortured or murdered. If I needed to harden my heart to this level, I would. Because I never wanted to feel this way again, and in the end, I would go the way I was intended to. Peacefully.
And I
didn't care the cost.
“Let’s see if they have any food here and find a vehicle and get the hell out of Virginia Beach. Fucking Virginia Beach.”
Getting up, stumbling on my heavy although weak legs, I wiped my face more. “Okay. Thanks. For that.” I pointed at the dying and dead men as I walked past them, hugging the wall with my burning back.
“They deserved it.” The tone of her voice suggested this might not be the first person or persons she had murdered.
“Have you done that before?” I asked as we got farther away from them, down the hall.
“No.” She lost all the ferocity. “I just wish I had.” She stomped off, her boots reverberating on the floorboards.
The story was clear and I left it there, in the shadows.
She had been reborn, and in this new life, this short novella of a life we would have, was a badass bitch who killed and didn't regret it. She wasn't a victim anymore.
And I was grateful to be with her.
We raided the house. Her badass persona wore off as reality slipped back in, making her fingers tremble when she tried to lift things or open them. After a moment she dropped to her knees, sobbing.
The tough city street kid was gone and in her stead was my friend. I wrapped myself around her as Julia always did me and let her sob. I cried too, not because I was sad she had to kill someone. I wasn't. I regretted nothing she had done. Instead, my regrets were my own. Hiding and crying and nearly peeing myself was weak and she didn't need weak. She needed a partner. She deserved someone who would fight with her, who would shoot someone who was trying to hurt her.
The thoughts of such horrific acts of violence burned inside me.
How wrong my parents had been about the world made me grateful for the first time that they were gone. They couldn't have survived this world. A brilliant artist and a gentle negotiator had no place here.
And if I wanted to survive my couple of weeks left without dying in some horrible tragedy, I needed to let go of the things they had instilled in me.
But my mother’s voice whispered in my head, If I did that, was my life really worth living?