The Last 8

by Laura Pohl

  “Just ignore her,” she tells me. “Everyone else does.”

  Brooklyn pretends that Avani hasn’t spoken. “Can we call in the others?”

  “No,” Avani says, turning back to her equipment. “Don’t overwhelm her. She’s tired. And underfed.” She turns to me again. “I think you have three broken ribs that haven’t healed properly. I’m surprised you haven’t died.”

  At least she didn’t say that I was lucky.

  “I’m going back to the messroom,” Avani says. “Don’t talk too much, and remember to breathe between sentences.”

  Brooklyn rolls her eyes as Avani disappears from my sight. Brooklyn stays, her green eyes observing me. Sputnik gives a small bark, pawing the glass again.

  “How long did it take for you to figure it out?”

  “It didn’t take a genius.”

  I realize too late that this might be the wrong thing to say, but Brooklyn laughs it off. “Couldn’t make it too hard. Never know who’s still out there.” Then she asks, “Do you want to eat? You look hungry.”

  I nod my head. My stomach grumbles on cue.

  Brooklyn comes back a couple of minutes later with a plate of food. She slides it through a special cutout in the glass but doesn’t open the door. I sit behind the glass eating spaghetti, my stomach rumbling. Brooklyn sits cross-legged in front of me and looks like she doesn’t mind talking while I eat.

  “So, this is the main lab. Usually this is Avani and Flint’s area. We have loads more labs, of course, but this is the one we use most.” She’s doing a tour-guide voice, which makes me wonder if she ever used to give actual tours. It’s strange to remember that people did different things, normal things, before the attack. “The compound can actually hold more than three thousand people, at full capacity. And, of course, they had it stocked with supplies to support three thousand people living here. Engineers, office people, pilots, military personnel, and whatnot.”

  I nod, because I feel like that’s what I’m supposed to be doing.

  “That’s how we’ve been here for so long,” she continues in the same tone. “We have enough supplies to sustain all of us for at least five more years.”

  I don’t ask her if she’s planning to stay locked up in this place for another five years. It looks like a fortress, which makes me wonder what kind of people really did live here and whether the stories about Area 51 were true. Whatever the case may be, they were right about something—we needed to be prepared for a possible alien encounter. Or in our case, an alien annihilation.

  Not that they had actually been prepared. Although there is a vague military look to the place, it’s clearly a basic compound to harbor scientists and technicians, and possibly some army officials.

  “How many people are here?”

  “There are seven of us,” Brooklyn explains. “It’s kind of a genius hub. I’m not a genius, of course, but the rest…” she says, gesturing toward nothing. “Avani’s one of those weirdos getting a college degree at age seventeen. The rest aren’t far behind.”

  When I finish my plate of spaghetti, Brooklyn slides something else through the cutout. It’s a Kit Kat bar, which I regard with wonder.

  “It’s edible,” she says, seeing my face. “It’s no Milky Way, and it’s a little stale… But still, it’s chocolate.” She gives me a bright smile.

  I tear open the wrapper, afraid that this will turn out to be a weird nightmare and it will taste like dried passion fruit or something, but it doesn’t. I bite into it, and the chocolate overwhelms me. I close my eyes for a moment. Ever since I heard Brooklyn’s voice on the radio, I’ve been driving nonstop. There was no time for luxuries.

  Brooklyn laughs out loud at my expression. “Guess you didn’t find many candy bars on the road.”

  I shake my head. “No, not really.”

  Brooklyn lets me enjoy the rest of my chocolate in peace. My heart breaks a little when I bite into the last piece, knowing that this is probably a treat she’s given me, and not a normal ration.

  “So, who’s this good boy?” Brooklyn finally asks, peering at the dog.

  “He’s a she, and the name is Sputnik.”

  “What kind of name is Sputnik for a dog?”

  “What kind of person from New York is called Brooklyn?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Like I haven’t heard that one a hundred thousand times. My parents were from California. We lived there till I was eight, and then we moved to New York. And yes, kids pointed this out to me at every single school I went to.” She barely pauses to take a breath. “Now, why Sputnik?”

  Sputnik demonstrates by taking three quick turns around Brooklyn, sniffing from one side to the other.

  “She kept following me around like that, always going in circles,” I say. “And when I started calling her that, she listened.”

  Brooklyn nods. “Sputnik is actually masculine in Russian,” she says. “But, you know. World’s ended. Gender is a social construct built by a society that no longer exists. So who cares?”

  Sputnik finally quiets down, sitting on the ground, her fur spreading around her. She’s still eyeing the glass, but at least she’s stopped whining.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  “Five months and one week.”

  “You got here fast.”

  She nods. “There wasn’t much to stay for back home.”

  There’s an awkward pause, and I’m not sure what to say. I’m sorry? Yeah, same? In a decent world, none of these words would have to make sense.

  “So I came west,” Brooklyn continues. “I hoped that there would be somewhere that was safe.”

  “Were there other people here when you came?”

  I’m so curious about what happened everywhere else. All I know is my own horrible experience.

  “A few,” she said. “Most died from the plague. Flint, Andy, and Boss turned out to be the only survivors.”

  It feels like she’s just throwing out random names.

  “Boss?” I ask tentatively. “Is he an adult?”

  Brooklyn turns her head to look at me, as if she can guess my thoughts. “No adults in this world anymore, Clover,” she says. “You better get used to it.”

  My throat dries up, and I shift slightly. My head doesn’t hurt so much anymore, and my lungs are back to breathing like they usually do.

  “Where is he?”

  Brooklyn laughs. “Boss is a she. She’s on the outskirts, scouting our perimeter.”

  I nod. It makes sense—somebody has to keep the defenses up. It’s a miracle that the aliens haven’t found this place yet, considering how huge it is. They must have some kind of great security to go undetected, and it looks like much of the complex is underground.

  “So,” Brooklyn says. “How did you survive?”

  I raise an eyebrow, surprised by the question.

  She gets up, walks over to somewhere I can’t see, and brings back two bottles of beer. She snaps them open with her teeth and then grins, dissolving all the toughness that had appeared a moment before. She puts one inside the glass opening for me. “It’s probably the kind of story that deserves a drink, isn’t it?”

  I shrug, grabbing the beer. It’s strange to be drinking and telling stories, something that normal teenagers would do. But I’m not a normal teenager. Not anymore.

  “Nothing much to tell,” I reply. It had been luck. That’s how I survived. “Just pure…luck, I guess.”

  Brooklyn nods, her mood somber again. She takes a swig from her bottle. She doesn’t look that much older than me—eighteen, maybe nineteen. She’s a tiny thing, and she only looks tough because of the absurd amount of eyeliner that she’s smudged around her green eyes. Her nose ring and the all-black clothing with band logos help, too.

  “Guess there’s a reason I’m named Clover.”

  Brookl
yn laughs, and I wonder how she does it. I don’t think I’ll ever smile again. “I’ll drink to that.” She raises her bottle in a friendly gesture.

  I don’t answer her, but I take a gulp from my bottle. The beer tastes acidic and bitter at the same time. I can’t see how people willingly drink this stuff. I set it aside.

  Brooklyn smiles easily again, as if she feels right at home. She looks like this has been her home all her life, as if the outside world doesn’t even exist.

  “What about you?”

  Brooklyn shakes her head slightly. “Not much to tell, either. My parents were in the Philippines.”

  “Oh.”

  “They were visiting Mom’s parents,” she adds, taking another sip of beer. “They left me at the apartment. I even went to class at NYU the day. Took a god-awful test on semiotics. When I got out, the whole world was falling apart.”

  “In my town, we were all on lockdown.”

  “I mean, it’s New York,” she said with a smirk. “No one was going to stay indoors for a whole week.”

  She shrugs, like it’s no big thing. Like I don’t know what she’s not saying—that she never got to say goodbye to her parents. But at least she also didn’t have to watch them die.

  “I wish they would’ve warned us, you know?” Brooklyn says at last. “Then I wouldn’t have wasted time studying for that test.”

  Unexpectedly, I laugh. It’s amazing that in so little time, Brooklyn has managed to bring laughter out of me.

  “You were in high school?” she asks.

  “Finishing my junior year,” I answer. “Almost there.”

  She eyes me closely. “You didn’t bring any weed, did you?”

  I snort, then shake my head. “No.”

  She groans, pressing her forehead against the glass. “Ugh, I hate you.” She glares at me. “There’s only cigarettes here, and I hate the smell.”

  “Sorry.” I shrug.

  “Nothing like aliens to cure bad habits, you know?”

  Brooklyn fills the gaps in our conversation easily, telling me stories about NYU and how everyone expected the Asian kid to major in math. But she went into linguistics, which, as she puts it, is the mathematics of language. I observe her easygoing manner, her quick smile. She acts like everything that she left behind lies forgotten in a distant place.

  When our bottles are empty, I look at her, waiting.

  “Can you let me out of here?”

  She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Sorry, Clover. Higher orders. It’s procedure. We’re just making sure that you didn’t bring anything with you.”

  “And if I did?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” she replies. “Until then, you’re supposed to stay in isolation.”

  I snort. I’ve seen isolation. I’ve been in isolation for the last six months.

  “I promise I’ll take good care of this girl,” Brooklyn says, petting Sputnik. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I nod, frowning. When the lights go off, I force myself to breathe slowly and try to sleep.

  Chapter 11

  “It’s a shark.”

  This is the first sound I hear as I open my eyes. The white lab lights are strong, and just in front of my cell, I see the boy I almost ran over. His skin is a deep brown, and glasses perch on the bridge of his nose. His hair is cut in short curls that sit close to his head.

  He shakes his head and keeps drawing on a whiteboard.

  “A whale?” Avani says. “A plane?”

  The guy looks annoyed, gesturing to his drawing.

  “A sea lion?” Avani asks, but then a timer goes off.

  “It’s a dolphin,” he says. “Seriously? A plane? I’m amazed.”

  “This is difficult,” Avani complains. “Don’t blame me if you can’t draw, Flint.”

  I swing my feet to the edge of the bed, knocking them on the frame as I try to rub the sleep out of my eyes. Avani and the guy named Flint look up sharply.

  “Clover, you’re awake,” Avani says. “Good. That means your body is functioning properly.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  “Sorry if we woke you,” Flint says. “There isn’t a lot to do around here.” He approaches the glass, eyeing me with curiosity.

  “Given that I almost ran you over, I think we’re even.”

  He gives me a big smile, full of white teeth. “It’s fine,” he says. “Good to be reminded now and then that we’re still alive.” His accent is British.

  I look over at Avani. “Are you still examining me, or can I leave now?”

  She purses her lips. “I’m sorry, it’s really not up to me to let you out.”

  “It can’t be that hard to figure out whether I’m contagious or not, with this much equipment around,” I say, gesturing toward the lab.

  “Your tests look fine,” Flint says. “It’s just that we need to review them with someone else.”

  “Boss?” I guess, remembering what Brooklyn told me last night.

  Flint and Avani exchange a look.

  “Yes,” Avani finally answers. “Look, we’re not even supposed to be talking to you this much right now. We need to be certain that everything is all right before we let you out. Run more blood tests.”

  I cross my arms, getting impatient. “I can’t stay in here forever.”

  “Look, it’s not that bad,” Flint says. “We can bring the TV around, if you want, and I’m sure that everything will be sorted out in a couple of days.”

  I don’t approach the glass. I feel tense—I know that something is wrong here, but I can’t put my finger on what.

  A noise beyond my cell makes me turn, but it’s just more people coming in. I recognize two of them, Brooklyn and the other girl I saw when I crashed the car, who thankfully isn’t carrying her bazooka now. Two others are with them, a mousy girl with dull hair and glasses that take up half her face, and a boy; both are white. For a second, I can see Noah behind the boy’s eyes, and it makes me shudder.

  “Guys, come in.” Brooklyn gestures to them, signaling for them to stand in front of the glass. “This is the fresh meat, Clover.”

  Six sets of eyes peer at me through the glass, as if I were an animal inside a zoo.

  “She’s the one who crashed the car?” the unfamiliar boy asks. “Nice job.”

  “Give her a break,” Brooklyn snaps. “Clover, let me introduce you to the Last Teenagers on Earth. I see you’ve already met Flint and Avani. This is Rayen,” she says, pointing to the bazooka girl. “Don’t mess with her. This is Adam, our mechanic of sorts. Last of the rare species of white boys—first time they’ve ever been endangered.” Adam rolls his eyes at Brooklyn. His smile is warm and his eyes fix on mine before I turn away. They’re exactly the same gray-blue shade that Noah’s had been. “And this is our resident nerd, Andy. Nobody really knows what she’s doing here.”

  Andy gives me a small, encouraging nod and adjusts her blue-framed glasses on her nose.

  They look at me expectantly, taking me in. There’s clearly a reason that they’re calling themselves the Last Teenagers on Earth. Just by looking at them, I can tell that I’m not the only one who has suffered losses.

  “Right,” I say, because I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to say. I wish I could blame my awkwardness on the lack of human interaction for the last six months, but the truth is that I’ve never had a lot of friends. It was strange that I had a boyfriend.

  Ex-boyfriend, I remind myself. It feels weird to think about it in those terms, since I’d seen Noah get turned to dust.

  Thinking about him makes my stomach churn.

  All these introductions are overwhelming, forcing my mind to return to a time when I had lived with people other than myself. It’s strange to be around people again, and the hardness in their stares, their eagerness for something that I c
an’t pinpoint, makes me shrink from them.

  “Nice to meet you,” I finally say, hoping everyone will finally stop staring at me like I’m a zoo attraction.

  “Good job on totaling the car,” Adam says.

  I freeze, and all the others sigh.

  “Oh my god.” Brooklyn shoves him. “Sorry about his manners,” she says to me.

  “Men are pointless,” Rayen states.

  “Ditto,” Brooklyn agrees, rolling her eyes. “That’s why I only date girls.” She high-fives Rayen with a grin.

  An uncomfortable silence falls again to the room, all effort of conversation gone.

  “So,” I finally say, finding my voice again. “Any chance that one of you might let me out of here?”

  “Yikes,” Andy says. “Not off to a great start.”

  Brooklyn turns to glare at the smaller girl.

  “I know it must be hella uncomfortable being in there, Clover,” Brooklyn says. “But that’s just the way it is for now. We really can’t let you out until we’ve gotten authorization.”

  “I swear I’m not dangerous.”

  “I mean, she did bring a dog,” Andy says. “People who bring dogs aren’t dangerous.”

  Avani shakes her head. “It’s not our decision to make.”

  That seems to be the end of the discussion. When the Last Teenagers on Earth turn around to go, not one of them so much as glances back at me.

  * * *

  I spend the day locked in my cage, sometimes pacing back and forth, sometimes lying somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

  There’s one good thing about being locked up—for the first time in months, I’m not afraid to sleep. Even though my nightmares still haunt me, it seems that between these walls, they’re dampened, just like sound is. The only thing I watch is the clock on the wall, letting me know how many hours have passed.

  When night arrives, Brooklyn comes in by herself with another meal.

  “Hey,” she says, sliding the tray to me. This time, she has a hamburger. “Sorry about this morning. Maybe that was a little too much too soon.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her, though I don’t know why I’m bothering to lie to her.