I’ve survived. General Tsao has killed everyone else and for some reason has spared little Hannah Barton. And because of that, I’ve arrived here. I’m beginning to realize that where I am doesn’t matter a whole lot. The obligation of survival always beat you home.
What am I obligated to do? Continue the species? That’s a joke. Even if therewas an Adam to my Eve, first of all, ew. And second, creating a sustainable population doesn’t work that way. Even the crazy Bigfoot shows I used to watch agreed on that point. What had they called it? A breeding population. Enough diversity to make sure no one dated their brother. Again, ew.
So what’s the point? That’s a stumper. Doesn’t the simple fact of my survival mean that survival is possible? I think about the military barricade in Cincinnati. That barricade hadn’t held, but maybe others had. There are big cities on the east and west coasts. Hell, Texasitselfis the size of most European countries. And what about the rest of the world? Europe? Russia? Africa? Surelysomebodyfigured out how to build an effective quarantine. The military, maybe. Or other government people. If I’ve survived, someone else must have survived, too. Probablylots of someones.
But what if they haven’t? I remember the crazy panic that surrounded the Ebola scare a few years back. The TV news said Ebola was hard to catch. It wasn’t airborne, and you had to come into contact with bodily funk to spread it. Something like General Tsao was so contagious that it spread like a gasoline fire. The military had to have had a plan. All that government sneakiness, they wouldn’t have let themselves die from the flu. The police station in Cincinnati had had a plan. That meant others must have, too.
So where are they? A secret base in Nebraska? Hiding under the ice in the Arctic? If peoplehave survived, and even if I can eventually find them, would I even be welcome? What, just walk up to their giant Jurassic Park gate and knock on the door and say I’m feeling okay, let me in?
Traveling from Detroit to Charleston took a long time. How long would it take me to get somewhere else? New York? Washington? California? Atlanta, where the CDC is located? And when I got wherever I was going, what would happen when no one was there?
I’ve grown accustomed to silence. The world is very quiet without people in it. I drag my feet slowly through the water beside the pier. The question still remains, though. What do I do now?
“I’ll relax. Do what I came here to do. Find a house on a beach and stop worrying about things.”
If other people have survived, I’ll find them. Maybe not today, and maybe not even this year. But people have a habit of being found. We’re a social animal. We can’t help it. If someone else is out there, I’m pretty sure we’ll meet up eventually.
Which brings me back to you, now that we’re talking about it. Whatever or whoever you might be. Because you sure aren’t the talkative type. I feel you watching me, though. I feel you inside my head. A part of me hopes you’ll make yourself known. God knows it’s lonely out here. But another part of me is afraid of what the existence of you means for me. Stupid thing to think, but Dad always said the only stupid question is the one you don’t ask. I talk to you because you’re there. I don’t have many options left. Maybe you’ll say something. Leave a clue. Or maybe you’re just some figment of my isolated mind. It’s hot. I’m going for a swim.
The Beach House
I leave the bike at the edge of the beach, in a public access parking lot. Sand has blown across the pavement. It looks like the beach is in the process of eating the asphalt. I slip off my shoes and tuck them into my backpack. The pack is lighter without a sleeping bag and cans of food. It reminds me of going to school.
Even after the trauma of my family’s eviction from Flint and madcap move to Detroit, I still did well in school. It wasn’t school itself—all the social crap and smelly seventh graders made me feel like an alien species studying Earthlings for an extra credit experiment. I just love to learn. Whether it’s math or science or English, whatever new concept dances through the air around me, my brain chomps down on it like a Venus Fly Trap. Does that make me a nerd? Grace certainly thought so, and was pretty vocal about it. But for me it’s like unlocking some new hidden language. All those people for all those countless centuries, toiling and experimenting and dreaming, and there it is right in front of me. A stream of the collected knowledge of humankind. I tried to explain that to Grace once. I was met with my sister’s derisive “nerd”, and her perpetual expression that looked as if she had smelled something awful.
Teachers loved me. I could take or leave them. I never felt outright animosity toward them. They were simply the delivery devices for knowledge. Whether I scored an A+ on a test was irrelevant to me. Of course I scored an A+. I’d learned something new. That’s how it worked.
My teachers in Flint had tried to get me to compete in something called an “Academic Triathlon”. It was a contest between schools where the best and brightest answered trivia questions. I hate sports and I hate teams. There’s more than enough knowledge to go around. Why fight over it? My teachers didn’t see my point.
I didn’t learn because I wanted to do well in school. That was just a side effect. I learned because I wanted to know. School was secondary. When my classmates were playing sports after school and melting their minds with video games, I read. And I readeverything.
I walk across the wide beach. The sun has heated the sand enough to warm my toes but not enough to burn them. I remember the height of the afternoons when I was here with my family. The beach had been a burning trail of lava. It made sense to me then why glass was made of heated sand. My feet had felt like they were being sliced.
The Atlantic Ocean stretches in front of me like blue infinity. Whitecaps crest and fall along the coastline. I drop my backpack into the sand and sit down beside it. I reach into my pack and pulled out a bottle of water. I haven’t found any more of the sparkling Italian stuff I had in the house on the mountain in Tennessee. I pulled a case of Aquafina from a convenience store near the motel where I’m staying. It’s warm, buteverything is warm. I’m used to it. Maybe someday I’ll rediscover refrigeration. Sort of runs in the family, doesn’t it? I can carry on the family business. Heating and cooling, fourth generation.
I stand up and pull my clothes off. I thought about looking for a swimsuit, but modesty is something I’ve gotten used to living without. Pooping by the side of the interstate makes short work of one’s inhibitions. Besides, who’s going to see me?
I run naked into the ocean. The spray splashes over my skin. I haven’t bathed since the mountain house waterfall, and the feel of getting clean is a shock to my system. I dive beneath the waves and feel them crash over me again and again. And then I hear an odd sound. I’m laughing. When was the last time I’ve laughed? The mountain house?
As the sun rises higher and I’ve sufficiently dried off, I pull my clothes back on and head farther along the beach. The ocean has reinvigorated me and I feel like exploring. The public beach disappears behind me. I’m in uncharted territory now. Private beaches.
“How can someone own abeach?” I’d asked. Mom and I had taken a walk late one evening. The sun disappeared behind thick groves of trees as brilliant stars burst open over the ocean. I was sunburnt and sore.
“That’s the reason they buy houses here,” Mom replied. It was a reasonable, matter-of-fact answer, but I wasn’t buying it.
“They’re not evenusing it,” I cried. “Look at what they’re missing!”
Standing in front of the same “PRIVATE BEACH” sign makes me feel close to Mom. Closer even than when I wandered through that empty house in Detroit. This is why I left Detroit in the first place. It feel like I can reach out and take hold of Mom’s hand. And oh how desperately I want to do that.
I step past the “PRIVATE BEACH” sign. For a second, I imagine someone from one of the big, secluded houses will run me off. Turns out, not even rich people are still alive.
The private beach winds around the coastline for a long way. I catch glimpses of elabo
rate houses through breaks in the thick woods. There aren’t many palm trees near the private beach. I suppose they only kept those around for the tourists. I wonder if the big yachts I saw at the marina belonged to the owners of these houses. Probably. They have to belong tosomebody.
As I round a bend in the beach, I stumble upon a secluded bay. A small sandbar separates the ocean from the calm blue water on the shore side. A beach wraps around the bay and leads to the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.
I’ve never really cared about houses. The house in Detroit was cool, full of unexpected nooks and crannies, but it never got me as excited as it made Dad. Even in the mountain house, I was more interested in the library. This place, though, it takes my breath away.
The entire front of the house that faces the bay and ocean is made of glass. A sharply sloped roof cuts through the glass walls horizontally, like a scar. It’s almost as if a single pane of glass has been melted out of the sand around it. The roof and the house disappear into a grove of trees that rise like gently swaying smoke behind it. The sun reflects off the glass, making what’s inside invisible. I sling my backpack higher on my shoulder and walk up the beach to get a better look.
The house is even more impressive up close. The glass walls rise three stories out of the ground. It’s like standing in front of a perfectly smooth mountain. I touch the glass, and immediately pulled my hand back. It’s burning hot. I wave my hand in the air to cool it off.
The single pane of glass is actually a wall of doors. Slim wooden handles are embedded flush with the glass. Above my head, the sloped roof separates another set of doors. The roof cantilevers out from the glass and looks like it might be a balcony. The glass extends around the side of the house until it meets with smooth wood. The whole thing looks like it could have been carved.
I try opening one of the doors. I’m not particularly surprised when it opens. I probably should be. Maybe it’s the fact that this is a private beach that the owners didn’t lock the house. Or maybe whoever lived inside hadn’t gotten around to doing so.
Pull the door handle. The door slides sideways, like the sliding door on our patio back in Flint. Sniff the air. It’s become habit now. And yes, there it is, the telltale smell.
“Anybody home?” I giggle. Someoneishome, but they sure won’t be answering. I don’t know why it’s funny. If someone actuallydid answer, I’d wet my pants. But no one answers. The smell does all the talking.
I leave the door open behind me and walk inside. The house looks like one giant room. The living room I walk into has modern-looking sofas and chairs arranged in a semi-circle. A sleek wooden coffee table sits between them. There’s a chess set on top of it. The pieces are frozen in mid-play, as if someone was in the midst of a game. Beyond the living room is a wide, bright kitchen. Shiny metal appliances gleam in the sunlight. A long counter wraps around the kitchen in a half-circle, separating it from the living room. A dining room is behind the kitchen, and a wide, round staircase leads upstairs. Everything is rounded — there are no sharp edges. Throughout all the rooms, dead plants are strategically placed in large round pots. The plants would have made the rooms look tropical, if they’d been alive. Instead, their absence makes the furniture seem mechanical and cold.
Beyond the dining room, behind the staircase, there’s some sort of office or study. That and a bathroom tucked away behind it are the only rooms with doors. The office doors are French doors, the kind with glass panels inside. Past the dining room is the front entrance. There’s a wide hallway that leads to a tall, smooth front door.
I walk the perimeter of the space. Dust has settled on everything. When I run my finger along the kitchen counter, I leave a thin trail of darker stone. The air smells stale, even with that other smell in the air. I walk back across the living room and pull the remaining glass doors open. The sound of the ocean fills the room. A breeze across the bay blows my sweaty hair off my forehead.
I’ve made the decision even before I turn away from the breeze. This has been my goal, right? To be warm, to be safe, to be home. A strange thing, home. It isn’t always where you think it’ll be. Sometimes it’s a place you’ve never been before.
Atlantic Acres
So, kinda’ feellike an idiot. It’s only after a half dozen supply trips along the beach and back that I discover the road on the other side of the house. Thick trees line the opposite side of the house, the side away from the ocean. For awhile, I didn’t step out the front door. And itis the front door. The glass doors that lead to the beach are back doors. Yep, I clearly get that now. On the front side of the house, a large garage is camouflaged beneath the tree line. A long driveway winds through the canopy of trees to the road at the far end.
It’s hot. I plan my trips so I’ll be home before noon. The ocean always provides an afternoon breeze. Today, though, I poked around longer than normal. It wasn’t my fault. I found a bookstore.
The door of the bookstore was locked, but my crowbar made short work of the deadbolt. My scavenging pack has become something like a burglar’s toolkit. Crowbar, hammer, flashlight. No longer a need to carry food. Just a bottle of water. Sniff the air. No bodies. All I smell is books.
A small bookstore has a scent all its own. The big chain bookstores, they smelled like coffee shops. Libraries smelled too clean. But small bookstores, it’s a combination of paper and ink and binding glue and something else. It’s a ghost smell, as if the air remembers every book that ever called the place home. Lingering too long in a small bookstore leaves me feeling lightheaded.
There’s a “local interest” section. Pick up books on the history of Charleston. One is a heavy book with lots of color photos. Maybe I’ll take myself on a tour. Found a bunch of old novels. Some I recognize, likePride and Prejudice. Others, likeMy AntoniaandThe Good Earth, looked too delicious to pass up.
Piled up my books into the bike trailer I picked up at a bicycle store in North Charleston. The trailer is actually one of those mesh-covered bike strollers that families in good neighborhoods used to take their babies on bike rides. The thing has surprising capacity. It allows me to bring back more stuff in a single trip, so I’m not too concerned with how silly I look as I pull it along through town. Not that anyone is watching. As far as I know.
A quick stop at a gas station for some bottled water and warm, flat Mountain Dew and then wind my way home. The heat penetrates me and I’m forced to stop several times to rehydrate. A quick dip in the ocean once I get back home will make everything better. Curl up on the couch, the afternoon breeze blowing in off the water, crack open one of my new books. All told, not the worst afternoon of my life.
Ride across the bridge and make way through the now-familiar back streets of St. John’s Island. I’m picking out landmarks, trees that remind me of different cartoon characters, driveways that get lost under canopies of trees. And then the subdivision. I’ve noticed it before. A sign at the entrance reads “ATLANTIC ACRES”. All the houses in Atlantic Acres are identical, and remind me of Dakota Macrin’s neighborhood back in Flint. Her house had smelled like a home improvement store. Every room was painted beige. Dakota Macrin is dead now. I’m guessing.
Pull to a stop and pick up my water bottle. The heat is ridiculous. And it’s only June, as near as I can figure. I imagine I’ll turn into a melted ball of human jelly by August.
As I tip the water bottle to my mouth, something catches my eye. It’s a glint of light from one of the empty windows of a house in Atlantic Acres. The light looks like a reflection, the same phenomenon I saw a thousand times on car windows during my trip south. But this one, it moves around. The car window reflections were stationary. At first they’d fooled me. I thought a car might be coming along the highway. As I got closer to each one, I realized it was just an optical illusion. This time, though, the light is different.
I climb off my bike. My shoes crunch in the gravel beside the road. The light in the window continues to move. What is it? A reflection in a bedroom mirror? A flashli
ght? If itis a flashlight, that means someone is holding it. Someone alive. Like me.
Are they really like me, though? Or are they some manner of criminal? Theyare a criminal, aren’t they? Lurking around some dead person’s house, taking what isn’t theirs and doing it because there’s no one around to stop them.
“Sorta’ like me.”
The rules have changed, haven’t they? Stealing has become scavenging. Theft has become surviving. Six months ago, I would’ve been arrested based on the contents of my bike trailer. Not just the contents but the trailer, too. And the bike. And my clothes. Six months and the rules don’t matter anymore. How quickly I’ve adjusted to it. Almost as if I’ve had it in me all along.
“I’ll feel guilty about that later.” Now, of course, there’s a light in a window. Another person means new rules. Simple ones, like don’t hurt me and I won’t hurt you. And deeper ones, like how do we divide up the water bottles?
If someone is in that house, do I want to make my presence known? What if they’re a bad guy? Maybe some escaped pervert who’s broken out of the supermax prison where they’d been holding him. Or maybe the months of isolation and scavenging has made them crazy.
“I could hide. But just like with the cougar, I’ll always be looking over my shoulder.”
The words sound brave but I’m feeling anything but. Unfortunately, I’m right. And I know it. If someone else is around, I have to know who they are.
I reach into my trailer and pull out my crowbar. I hold it in my hand as if seeing it for the first time. Holding it means I have some intention of using it. And I do, don’t I? If whoever is in that house is someLaw & Order bad guy, I’ll have to defend myself. I sure as hell hope that if I have to do it that I can.
Maybe it’s you. Who knows? Maybe I’ve finally found where you’ve been hiding. The flash of light? Binoculars. Maybe you’re staring at me now. I don’t think so. I feel you watching me, but not like that.
The First Year Page 8
