The Scattered and the Dead (Book 2.5)

by Tim McBain

  I shrugged. She could do whatever she wanted with it as far as I was concerned.

  “Hey,” Breanne said, suddenly tearing her eyes from the glossy pages of her slut mag. “Who were you talking to yesterday?”

  “Huh?”

  “I saw you sitting out by the edge of the cornfield, talking to one of the guys.”

  “Oh. It was Max.”

  She stared at me for a second and then grinned.

  “Of course it was.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “You have a total lady boner for him, don’t you?”

  “No,” I said, glancing around to make sure none of the kids were listening too closely. Breanne has no filter whatsoever.

  “Liar. I can see it on your face.” She threw her head back and chuckled. “You’re such a freak.”

  “What now?”

  “I don’t know. He’s just so… gangly and dorky.”

  I kind of liked that she called him dorky. Because I’m dorky, which we’ve already established, ad nauseum.

  “But whatever. If he’s your type, more power to ya.”

  “I guess they all can’t be perfectly sculpted hunks of manmeat like Bennett,” I said with no lack of sarcasm.

  Breanne stuck her tongue between her teeth.

  “I know, right? Sex-on-a-stick.”

  Then she sighed and went back to her magazine, presumably gleaning 10 more ways to please her man.

  Sgt. Foressi — she’s the one in charge of the dozen or so “unaccompanied minors” — marched over to our table and told the kids it was time to clean up before dinner.

  Let me pause a moment to describe Sgt. Foressi for you. Imagine, if you will, the snarling visage of a dragon: all piercing eyes, sharp teeth, and big fire-breathing nostrils. And don’t forget the scales and claws.

  OK, in all seriousness, she’s not quite so hideous as that. But she is kind of mean and scary. She rules over the children with an iron fist and a towering height of about 5’4”.

  Her nostrils really are pretty huge, though. That part was real.

  In my peripheral vision, I watched Izzy snatch the elephant I’d made off the table in an attempt to hide it from Sgt. Foressi. But the dragon-lady misses nothing.

  “Isabelle. What do we do with the Play-Doh when we’re finished?”

  “We put it back in the container with the lid on. But-”

  “No buts.”

  “But Erin made this for me and I-”

  Sgt. Foressi didn’t even interrupt. She just put out her hand, and Izzy relinquished the elephant.

  I watched as Sgt. Foressi’s fist closed around the clay, demolishing the trunk and legs and big floppy ears. She had a… I would almost say a gleeful look in her eye as she wadded up the ball of Play-Doh.

  Breanne caught my eye over Sgt. Foressi’s shoulder and mouthed psycho, then pantomimed a stabbing motion with one hand.

  She handed the shapeless lump back to Izzy, who now appeared on the brink of tears.

  Sgt. Foressi held up a finger.

  “No crying, unless you want a sit in the Time-Out Corner instead of eating dinner.”

  See what I mean?

  To Izzy’s credit, she fought back the tears and gave old Sgt. Foressi one hell of a hateful glare for an eight-year-old.

  When they’d gone, Breanne rolled up her magazine and held it to her mouth like a megaphone.

  “What a biiiiiitch.”

  “Who? Dragon Lady?” I asked, returning the closed Play-Doh cups to a Rubbermaid storage container.

  Breanne cackled.

  “Oh my God! She is totally a Dragon Lady!”

  She slapped the side of my arm with the magazine.

  “Are we done? Can we go now?”

  “Yeah,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what her hurry was, considering there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.

  So we milled around until it got dark, and then we retired to our separate tents for the night.

  We’ve been here almost a week, and there’s still no word on when power might be restored to the “non-metro areas.” Hey, just because we live in the suburbs doesn’t mean we should be treated like second-class citizens. Right? Right. Although, it would be kind of awesome if school got postponed or canceled because of this. But I don’t really want to imagine a scenario in which we are still here in September. I’ll never make it. My tombstone will read:

  Here Lies Erin.

  Died of Boredom, Horrid Food, and Mother’s Nagging.

  Remember how in eighth grade I used to ride the bus home with you from school on Fridays, and then we’d get on our bikes and cruise up to the Sandhill Inn for clam chowder night? I wonder what the old ladies that waitressed there thought about us. Two unaccompanied thirteen-year-old girls coming in to get their clam chowder on. A big ass bowl of that chowdah would really hit the spot. And the salad bar. And some of those garlic rolls they make with the poppy seeds on top.

  Man, I wish I hadn’t just written that. I have to go to bed now with thoughts of clam chowder and garlic rolls dancing in my head. I’ll probably have dreams about talking food.

  Your BFF, who would absolutely stab a bitch for clam chowder right now,

  Erin

  Erin

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  3 days before

  Kel-

  It’s official. I’m in love.

  (I’ll give you a moment to wipe the tears of joy from your eyes. I know how happy you are for me.)

  I was reading in my tree again. I’ve finished all the books on my summer reading list, so I started Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for maybe the tenth time. But it’s my favorite. Also, I didn’t load many other books on my reader before we left. I’m not complaining. If I were stranded on a desert island, I would be more than happy to read it over and over. I don’t think I’d ever get sick of it.

  And then You-Know-Who showed up. (Hint: not Voldemort.)

  I can’t remember exactly what we talked about at first, but eventually he dropped this bomb on me:

  “Have you figured out what you’re gonna do with all that brain power yet?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your calling in life, young Hedy. What is it?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Well, are you planning on going to college?”

  A very unattractive snort came out of my nose. Like my mom would give me a choice in the matter.

  “Oh yeah. No doubt about that.”

  “And you think you’d study… what?”

  I made a non-committal grunt.

  “Come on. You must be interested in things. I want to know.”

  My heart fluttered in my chest when he said that. It is the most wonderful and the most awful feeling in the whole world. I feel good when he says those things because it makes me think he actually cares. But knowing that he doesn’t care that way always sends me crashing back down to earth.

  “I like plants,” I said finally.

  “Plants?” he laughed. “That was not what I was expecting.”

  Even though I could tell his laugh wasn’t cruel, I clammed up again. He must have sensed it.

  “Hey, I’m not laughing at you. I just anticipated something more… ordinary.”

  “Like what?”

  “I figure most girls your age go with the sort of cliché answers: teacher, artist, doctor, actress.”

  I cringed inwardly at that girls your age part.

  “Well did you always want to be in the National Guard?”

  “Hell no. I only joined to pay for college. I did always want to be an engineer, though. Or some kind of builder-of-things.”

  “Ah, so this isn’t an attempt to play out some GI Joe fantasy from when you were five?”

  “Not even a little,” he said. “If it had, I would have been cured of that fantasy a long time ago anyway.”

  “Is it the pants?”

  “Pants?”

  “It’s just that I’ve noticed that even
though it’s hot as balls out, you guys always wear pants. The National Guard hasn’t heard about shorts?”

  Max’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he laughed.

  “Shorts? Can you picture us riding into some dangerous situation in a Humvee or a PC, and then we all hop out in our little cammie short-shorts?”

  “I didn’t say they had to be short!”

  His eyes squeezed almost all the way shut as he laughed some more.

  “I take it you kind of hate it, then? Being in the National Guard?”

  “Eh, it’s paying for school. And it’s taught me a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  He pulled one leg to his chest and leaned an elbow on his knee.

  “Like never, ever volunteer for an assignment. No matter what.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. You might be thinking that you’re gonna get stuck with a job anyway, so you may as well get it over with and volunteer for a detail that doesn’t totally suck. But you always end up regretting it. Always.”

  I let my head tilt to the left and regarded him from my sideways vantage point.

  “Isn’t joining the military kind of the ultimate act of volunteering?” I asked.

  “Exactly. And I learned my lesson. Believe me.”

  For a while we just stared out into the seemingly endless wall of green corn standing before us.

  “So what about plants?”

  “What?”

  “You said you like plants. What about them?”

  I shrugged and scratched a mosquito bite on my calf.

  “I don’t know. I had a garden when I was a kid. Really it was my dad’s garden, but he gave me my own little section and let me pick out all the plants and seeds for it. I grew a bean teepee one year.”

  “A bean teepee?”

  “Like beanstalks grown in a teepee shape, with a little space like a door so I could crawl inside.”

  “That sounds cool,” he said. “You don’t have the garden anymore, though?”

  I shook my head. “Anyway, I feel like plants just make sense to me. I know a lot of plant names without even really trying. They just kind of stick in my head when I hear them and stay there.”

  I pointed at a raggedy plant a few yards away with a green stalk and periwinkle flowers.

  “That’s chicory, for example. I don’t know why I know that or when I learned it. I just do.”

  I pointed at a tall spike of pinkish-purple flowers.

  “That one is dame’s rocket. A lot of people think it’s wild phlox, but it’s not. It’s pretty, and it smells awesome, but it spreads like crazy because each plant is capable of producing thousands of seeds. It’s considered an invasive species.”

  Max squinted around at the surrounding foliage.

  “What about that one?”

  He pointed to a tall daisy-like thing with feathery petals.

  “Fleabane.”

  He kept pointing and I kept naming.

  “Crown vetch. Spotted knapweed. Yarrow.”

  I scoffed at the next one.

  “Queen Anne’s lace. Way too easy.”

  When he got to a tall thing with lance-shaped leaves but no flowers, I had to pause and ponder it.

  “Hard to tell without blooms, but I think it’s probably goldenrod. I’m allergic to it.”

  Max applauded, and I gave a miniature bow.

  “Alright, I’m sufficiently impressed. So you’re a budding botanist. No pun intended.”

  “Hm. She might actually allow something like that,” I said, thinking out loud.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just that my thinking was more along the lines of being a landscape designer. But that’s not academic enough for Mommy Dearest.”

  “She’s said that?”

  “Not exactly. But I said I wanted to be a chef once, a couple years ago. She said I would be wasting my potential on a vocational career.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. It’s like if it doesn’t require some kind of advanced degree, it’s not up to her standards or something.”

  “Huh,” he said, and then he was quiet for a while.

  I realized then that I’d been talking a lot about myself, and he was probably getting bored. Why the hell would he care about me being able to name a bunch of stupid plants?

  But then he said, “So there’s a tactile element?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Hedy. I know your secret, remember?” He poked a finger into my arm.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I know what tactile means. I just don’t understand the question.”

  “You like to be hands-on.”

  I snickered. “That’s what she said.”

  “I must be onto something here. I’ve noticed you start joking around the closer I am to dislodging a truth nugget.”

  That started me on a giggling fit. Dislodging a truth nugget? I told you he’s funny.

  “You have a knack for plants, but when I suggested something more in my realm of the science lab, you immediately said you’d rather be out here, getting your hands dirty. Then you mentioned being a chef. Those are both creative but also tactile. And there’s a practicality to them. They serve a specific purpose.”

  I gave him a side-eye glance.

  “Are you sure you didn’t miss your calling as a guidance counselor?”

  He snorted.

  “So is that why you like building things? All the hands-on action?” I made a rude gesture, and Max threw a handful of grass at me.

  “Actually, I’m specializing in 3D Engineering, so most of the building I do these days is on a computer. But I did like putting together these elaborate Lego structures when I was a kid,” he said, and I thought about my discussion with Breanne about horse girls and Lego nerds.

  Max caught me smirking. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not nothing. Tell me,” he said.

  His hand latched onto my inner thigh and squeezed, and while that probably sounds all sexy and stuff, it really just tickled like crazy.

  “OK! OK!” I squealed, and he let go. “I was just wondering if you were one of those people.”

  “What people?”

  “The people that bring their Lego constructions into school.”

  His eyebrows scrunched together.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  I gasped. “You did, didn’t you! You were a Lego nerd!”

  “Lego nerd!”

  He folded his arms over his chest and pretended to pout.

  “It is the official nomenclature,” I said.

  “And here I thought we were friends.”

  “We are,” I said.

  When I found Breanne later, I filled her in on what I’d learned.

  “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Max is a Lego nerd. Or was. You can grow out of it eventually, right?”

  Breanne clapped her hands together. “That’s perfect! We’ll set him up with Collette!”

  My whole body tensed as if she’d slapped me in the face, and Breanne started laughing.

  “Whoa, dude. Calm down.”

  “What?”

  “Your face. You looked like the Dragon Lady for a second the way your nostrils got all flared.”

  “Shut up.”

  She let out a throaty cackle. “Man, you really like him, huh?”

  “No,” I said, then decided it was hopeless to deny it any longer. “Yes.”

  I let my head fall forward onto the table and buried my face in my folded arms.

  “Jeez Louise,” Breanne said. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ll work my matchmaker magic.”

  Whatever that means.

  I almost forgot to mention the air raid sirens. (That’s what people keep calling them anyway, but I want to know who is raiding us, and no one has an answer.) Whatever they are, the alarms started up about an hour ago, just as it got dark. The whole ca
mp kind of panicked for a little bit, and word spread that we should all head to the mess tent for further instructions.

  The further instructions turned out to be: We don’t know what the sirens are about, and so far nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, so… carry on, I guess.

  Easier said than done. Except that we did. Carry on, I mean.

  At first, that non-stop whining sound has a way of getting in your head and driving you a little crazy. But eventually it’s like you just stop thinking about it. I suppose once the world doesn’t end, you kind of get used to it.

  We can see some of the downtown skyline from certain parts of camp, and when I went for a pre-bedtime tinkle just now, I stood and watched the buildings for a while. They must be having electricity issues, because the lights sort of pulsed dimmer and lighter the whole time. It was almost hypnotic, especially with the sweet sound of the air raid siren going in the background.

  I bet it’s deafening in the city.

  One last thing: Drippy McMoistPeepers is gone. She was here in all her runny-eyed glory last night, but this evening her cot is empty. Not sure what’s up with that.

  Your BFF, who thinks that something sinister is afoot,

  Erin

  Delfino

  Rural Missouri

  9 years, 133 days after

  I slithered through the grass, headed the opposite direction from where the men went. It was wet now. Dew everywhere. Slick. A little cold. As I got near the road, I took long, slow, careful strides just to conceal the sound as best I could.

  Of course, I couldn’t see the highway. I couldn’t see shit. Somehow I could sense the opening ahead where the road must lie, though. The place where things opened up.

  Right on cue, the gravel crunched underfoot. I was there.

  I got down on hands and knees and felt for the seam. The line where tar and dirt met. My fingertips found it. It was rough. Harsh. Dry for the moment. The night’s condensation hadn’t touched it yet.

  Feeling that seemed to orient me. Made me a little more confident about what would come next.

  I walked just on the edge of the asphalt, my eyes adjusting so that I could at least see the white line along the side of the road some, but only if I didn’t look straight at it.

  And then I could see the darker places — somehow fuller or denser — where the cars sat. Could kind of discern the hood tilted up in front of the Delta 88.