by Anna Abner
“Okay.”
Thirty minutes later we met at the back door carrying empty bags, both table legs, fishing line, and a paring knife.
“Where did you learn to set snares?” he asked as we ventured through the rear sliding glass door, around a covered swimming pool, and across a long lawn ringed with trees and hedges.
“Pollard taught me.”
“Pollard.” There was that tone, like he’d eaten something sour.
“He used to catch small animals all the time and cook them up for dinner,” I said in a rush, disliking the way the mood between us had shifted at the mention of Pollard’s name. “I’m not very good, but maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Ben watched attentively as I did my best to set up two tension snares near the shadow of the hedges with the fishing line and a couple small branches I cut and interlocked. I wasn’t as skilled at trapping as Pollard was, and I’d only ever seen him do it once, but I was confident as I stood back to survey my work. One good tug at either noose and one unlucky squirrel would be flung into the air and killed instantly.
“Keep your fingers crossed,” I said as we reversed trajectory and ambled back toward the street.
The house next door was even bigger and more grand than our temporary lodgings.
“What do we need more than anything else?” Ben asked, opening the door and holding it for me.
“Water,” I recited. That was an easy question. There was never, would never, be enough water. “And then clean clothes. I’m so dirty.” I held up my arms. “I’m wearing your shirt and pajama bottoms because I don’t have anything else.”
The house to the right was almost identical to our temporary lodgings on the exterior, but on the inside it was much, much different. The first thing I saw upon entering through the front door was a poster-sized portrait of three white-haired babies—triplets—two in blue onesies and one in a pink onesie. From there, the first floor looked like a baby shop had exploded all over everything.
Multiple swings, high chairs, rockers, bouncers. The scent of baby powder clung to every surface. And then there were the clothes. Tiny outfits in every shade of the rainbow were scattered across the furniture. One pair of red cotton leggings hung from a lampshade.
“They must have left in a hurry,” I said, plucking the leggings off the lamp and laying it beside a gauzy pink tutu.
“I’ll search the kitchen.”
He didn’t seem as fascinated by so much baby paraphernalia as I was. But signs of the triplets’ home life reminded me of growing up a multiple. There was so much my brother and I had in common. And so much more we didn’t. But that didn’t make us any less a family.
Trying valiantly to stay on task, I filled up my canteen from a large jug of clean water, and Ben liberated a steak knife from a butcher’s block.
“Better than nothing,” he said, slipping it into his pack. “Do you want to look upstairs?”
Alone? “No. It’s okay.” Instead I went through the laundry room at the end of a short hallway and found a bunch of clean clothes still in the dryer. I chose clean jeans and two tops that would fit me. They must have belonged to the triplets’ mom, and it made me feel good they wouldn’t go to waste.
“On to the next house,” I declared, snatching a paperback of To Kill A Mockingbird off the desk in the media room. Obviously, someone’s escapist reading. It was stamped with the name of a public library.
We crossed the lawn and headed for the house next door. Ben, though, spotted a cherry red sports car in the driveway and got distracted.
“What a beauty,” he breathed, running his fingers up the curving wheel well. “I’ve never seen one of these in person.” He cupped his hands on the passenger’s side window and peered inside.
A car alarm squawked like a dying parrot, and Ben leapt back so fast he fought to keep from falling. Too loud. Too loud. My heart pounded ruthlessly against the inside of my skull like a bass-pounding rock anthem.
Too loud.
“Turn it off,” I gasped. “Ben. You have to turn it off.”
Every Red within miles could hear it. We had just rung the dinner bell.
He grabbed one of the table legs in both hands and shattered the passenger’s side window. He tried unlocking the doors, and then cracked off the cover beneath the steering wheel and yanked wires.
But his attempts weren’t working. The alarm kept right on squawking, oblivious to him and me and how loud it was.
Panicking, I lifted the second club and ran out into the street to see the neighborhood better. I wanted to spot any Reds the second they appeared around a hedge or a block wall. Every second counted.
“Ben,” I called. “Please.”
“I’m trying!” He smashed the hood with the club until it crumpled, ruining the beautiful lines, and yanked up the bent metal. Using the table leg like both a hammer and a lever he disconnected everything he could reach, tossing bits of metal and plastic over his shoulder.
“Come on,” I murmured to myself, turning in a circle. “Come on, Ben.”
He removed the battery and threw it down the driveway where it skidded into the gutter. Finally, the alarm died, and the only thing I heard was Ben’s heavy breathing and the echo of the alarm in my ears.
“We have to get to back inside.” He waved me over. “Hurry.”
He offered me his hand, and I took it.
Chapter Ten
We ran into our temporary house, and Ben shut the door. But he had broken the frame when he’d kicked it down the night before and it couldn’t be locked anymore. Instead, he wedged a kitchen chair under the knob.
I tried to control my breathing, but it sounded so loud in my ears. The fear of being chased wouldn’t go away. I tensed to run, but fought the instinct. I didn’t even know which direction the Reds would come from. I had to wait.
“All the other doors and windows are locked,” he whispered, backing away from the foyer. “I already checked.”
“Maybe no one heard us.” But it seemed unlikely. Of course they’d heard us. People in the next town had heard the car’s alarm. There was no background noise to drown it out.
I tiptoed into the kitchen, setting my bag down in slow motion on the mauve and white tiled floor. I felt safer in there surrounded by knives and surgical-looking utensils. If I couldn’t run, at least I had weapons on hand. Ben joined me, the table leg still in his fist.
I covered my mouth with one hand, trying to force my breath to quiet down.
It wasn’t working.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his eyes on the window above the sink.
“It’s not your fault.”
I approached the window to take a peek, but Ben made a hissing sound to get my attention.
“Stay back. They’ll see you.”
Very carefully, I edged away from the window into the far corner next to the fridge. My hip brushed the wall as footsteps crunched through flowerbeds right outside.
They were on the other side of the kitchen window.
I sank to my bottom on the floor and held my breath, not caring that it revived my earlier headache and made my chest ache. Quivering in terror, I glanced at Ben across the kitchen island. I didn’t dare say anything out loud. Like a nervous tick, I signed, “They’re here,” letting my palms circle in the air for longer than necessary.
He didn’t need to know ASL to get the gist. He nodded, tried for a bolstering smile, but managed only a grimace. He raised the table leg as if to reassure me.
The footsteps crossed to the front patio. Someone tried the doorknob, and when it didn’t turn, they pushed on the wood. The chair keeping it closed creaked, and I hopped to my feet, ready to run.
I wasn’t sure if I heard groaning or imagined it, but the footsteps faded away.
I didn’t move, though, and neither did Ben. We stood there like ceramic statues for five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
“I think they’re gone,” he said so softly I barely caught the syllables. “I’m going to check all
the windows to be sure.”
There was no chance I was staying in the kitchen by myself. I followed him without asking. Very quietly, he checked the chair in front of the door, and then peered through the narrowest of cracks in the vertical blinds in the dining room. He did the same in the den, the window overlooking the covered swimming pool, and then the formal living room, and finally the kitchen.
“I don’t see anyone,” he said. “We should be okay if we stay quiet and keep everything locked.”
I bobbed my head, numb and exhausted from the rush of emotion. But once I settled onto the second sofa in the den there was nothing to do. I couldn’t sleep. I hadn’t packed any cards or puzzle books. There was too much adrenaline still chattering through my bloodstream to allow me to sit still.
“I have a book,” I announced.
Ben turned from his guard duty at the window. “Which one?”
I dug the tattered paperback from my pack, sat down, and patted the cushion beside me. “To Kill a Mockingbird. Have you read it?”
After a last look out the window, he joined me on the sofa. “I don’t remember.” He studied the cover. “I don’t think so.”
“Good.” I found a comfortable spot with my legs crossed and opened the book to the first page. “You’ll like it.” I started to read, softly, so my voice didn’t carry beyond our four walls.
Immediately I got sucked into Scout’s story and I read twenty-five pages before I changed positions and lay on the carpet on my stomach. Ben stretched out on the sofa, crossing his long legs at the ankles.
I read to him all about Jem and Tom and Boo. By the time I hit the final chapter I had rolled onto my back and he’d joined me on the floor, sitting with his back against the sofa.
The last words tumbled from my lips and seemed to reverberate in the air for a moment. I didn’t move right away, enjoying the quiet and Ben’s nearness. He was relaxed, finally, an attitude I hadn’t seen much, and I didn’t want to speak and ruin it.
He reached down and tugged the book from my fingers, flipping pages. “I liked that story,” he said, pausing on a section near the middle.
“What did you like about it?”
He turned to a different page. “It’s about good and evil, right?”
“Yes.”
“And how much good or evil people…” He struggled to find the words.
“How much of each to emphasize?” I supplied.
“I guess so.” He closed the book and handed it to me. “Thanks.” His gaze fixed upon my hair, and his brows came together. “Your poor hair.”
I sat up fast and patted it. Oh, right. My impromptu haircut to free myself from Walter. I’d forgotten.
“How bad is it?” I asked, feeling the chunky and uneven ends.
He shrugged. “It’s not straight anymore.”
There was no way to fix it. I wasn’t any good at hairstyling. And then I glanced up into Ben’s red eyes. “Will you fix it for me?”
An expression of terror crossed his face. “I’ll mess it up.”
“No, you won’t,” I said, getting more excited by the second. “It’s already awful. You couldn’t cut it any worse than it is.”
“Oh, yes I could.”
I smiled at him. “I’ll find some scissors.”
He didn’t argue any further and I took that as acquiescence. In the kitchen was a pair of sturdy shears. I grabbed a comb from the hall bathroom, and met Ben at the kitchen island.
“Try not to cut it too short,” I instructed, balancing on a tall stool.
He was very careful. He paid attention to detail, which I’d already figured out, but he raised it to new levels as he combed my hair and arranged the sections. At first I sat ramrod straight, worrying every time he touched me, but eventually I slumped lower and lower in my seat and slid my eyes closed.
Snip, snip, snip. Black curls rained down over my arms.
It wasn’t exactly like my last haircut at a professional salon that smelled of strawberries and cream. It wasn’t even like the haircuts my mom used to give my brother and me when we were in grade school.
Ben ran his fingers through the length of my hair, and with my eyes closed, his touch was magnified. A pleasing shiver of sensation passed through me.
“That feels good.” I sighed.
His fingers stilled for a split second, and then he swept the comb through my hair one more time.
“All done.” He set the scissors on the counter. “Go look at it.”
I hopped off the stool and examined the damage with my hands.
“I’m sorry in advance,” he called after me as I went into the hall bathroom to see my reflection in the mirror.
For a second I didn’t recognize myself. My hair was shorter than it had been in years. My long black tresses were suddenly a bouncy dark bob. I touched it again. He had done a really good job. No uneven sections. No forgotten strands.
I left the bathroom and nearly slammed into Ben who stood in the hall.
He looked so scared to hear my verdict I couldn’t help a smile. “Thank you,” I said. “I like it.” Shy all of a sudden, I ducked my head. “Does it look okay?”
I imagined I could feel his gaze on me.
“Beautiful. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
I couldn’t look up, not with my face flushed cotton candy pink.
Luckily, Ben went back into the garage to search for more survival gear, so I played songs on my guitar in the den. It wasn’t long before the sun set and it was time to choose a bed.
In the downstairs bathroom I brushed my hair, staring at myself in the wide mirror and feeling alone for the first time in a while.
I helped myself to lotion for my legs, and then changed into a fresh pair of green plaid pajama bottoms. I hesitated at the stairs to the second floor. It would be so simple to run up there and hop under the covers of a king-sized bed, comfy and snuggly for the rest of the night. But I didn’t.
Instead, I lingered in the entryway to the den. Ben was already in the pullout bed, sitting up, as if he were waiting for me.
“Feeling sleepy yet?” He scooted to the far side of the squeaky mattress.
It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but I accepted it all the same.
“It’s funny,” I said, sliding into bed beside him. “I used to be alone all the time. But now I don’t like it.”
Maybe, like the world around me, I was changing into something a little scary, but unquestionably new. Or maybe it was Ben’s positive influence.
He cleared his throat and wiggled around, finding a comfortable spot with at least twelve inches between us. But then he turned on his side and faced me, his red eyes finding mine in the dim light.
“Thank you for coming back for me, Maya. You could have left me there. I told Pollard to leave me.”
“No, I couldn’t.” I twisted toward him and we curled into each other, our knees connecting in the dark. “I told you already. Not in a million years could I have left you in that room.”
“They were going to kill me,” he admitted. “They told me they were going to cut me open and take out my organs.”
Anger ignited, and I fisted my good hand. “They’re awful, terrible people. And I don’t care if my dad’s cure stays a secret forever after what they did.”
“You don’t mean that,” Ben said sternly. “You want to bring the world back as badly as Pollard does.”
I sighed. Yes, I did. “But it’s not worth it if I have to hurt you to do it.”
He was less than a foot away and it didn’t seem to affect him the way it had a few days ago. “You don’t smell me anymore?” I blurted out.
“I still do,” he said, frowning. “But it doesn’t make me hungry.”
“Thank goodness.” I chuckled, and he joined in, his laugh shaking the bed.
“Ben, why did you keep my picture? Even after you were infected?” I asked, braver in the dark than I might have been in the daytime.
“I don’t know,” he said. “
But I wanted to feel all the time the way I felt when I held your photo, even after I caught 212R.” He cupped the side of my face with his palm. “I remember that you were like a light in a dark room. All I could think of was you. I knew you lived in Parrish Meadows and I started walking to you.”
“The first day I saw you,” I said, “you were there looking for me?”
“Yes. Even if I couldn’t communicate it. Yes.”
“What was it like?” I asked.
“Knowing I was infected?”
“Hmm.”
”I drove to Myrtle Beach.”
I smiled. “You did?”
“I wanted to be somewhere fun. Somewhere I had happy memories of. That’s where I was when I finally passed out from fever under the boardwalk and woke up a zombie.”
“I would’ve had a last meal,” I admitted. “And listened to my favorite songs.”
“I don’t like it when you talk about being infected,” he said, coiling inward a tiny bit.
“I don’t like to think of you being infected,” I said.
Even though I had witnessed him as a Red. Even though I remembered very clearly his bloodstained clothes and the sound of his zombie growl, I couldn’t think about it without feeling queasy. He was becoming very important to me, and it had little to do with the antiserum in his blood.
He withdrew his hand. “Good night, Maya.” He turned flat onto his back, jiggling the springs, and I followed, scooting across the mattress to lay my head upon his chest.
“Good night,” I whispered.
Ben slid his arm around me and, feeling safer than I had in days, maybe weeks, I fell asleep with his pulse a steady drumbeat against my ear.
Chapter Eleven
For the second day in a row I woke next to Ben, and it was getting easier. He was a warm, breathing mound beside me, and I instinctively leaned into his body heat.
He moaned, his voice a sleepy rumble. “Breakfast?”
“Yep.” But I didn’t make a move to leave the bed, and neither did he. It was too nice lying safe and toasty beside him. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend the world was the same as it had always been, the plague was a bad dream, and I was at a sleepover.
