by Kirby Howell
When I realized what had happened, I felt silly. The opened umbrella rolled lazily on the floor where I’d tossed it. My tight grip had accidentally triggered the automatic open, and I’d startled myself unnecessarily, again. The surprise from the quick burst of the umbrella popping open was enough to shake my excitement over the shadow and bring me back to reality. I rationalized that the shadow was probably caused by a bird flying past one of the many tall windows in the apartment.
But the shadow was the shape of a person, I thought stubbornly. And the silhouette was motionless for a brief moment before I called out, and then it disappeared altogether. Maybe the loneliness was starting to make me go crazy.
It was a bird. It had to be a bird, I told myself as I walked back to the kitchen and went back to my chores in an attempt to regain focus. I’d been on the verge of looking at my rations, taking a list of my remaining food. I started piling what was left of my meager store on the countertop, breathing deeply and reading each label carefully to force my mind back into the mundane task.
I learned quickly that food always looked like more than it really was when tucked into a cabinet. I could never accurately keep track of what I had if I left it hidden away. One day last week, I opened a cabinet, surprised to find an unopened box of crackers hidden toward the back. I could have sworn they hadn’t been there before, but there they were, the yellow box of carbs shining like a beacon in the darkness.
So now I stood on a chair and chewed on my lip as I dug through the cabinet above the stove. Where was it, I thought, shoving aside tins of cinnamon and allspice. I was sure I’d seen a tiny bottle of honey in here just last night. Crap. This was why I needed to do inventory more often. Did I down the rest of the honey like cough syrup while sleepwalking? I didn’t sleepwalk... did I? I perched on the counter, resting for a moment and tried to sort out my thoughts.
My iPod blared music in the living room. In the interest of keeping myself from going insane, which didn’t seem to be working presently, I’d planned several projects. One of which was listening to every album I owned, from beginning to end, three times in a row. I used to have the problem of buying an album and getting hooked on a song or two and then never listening to the other songs. My iTunes informed me I had nearly twenty-six days of music, the majority of these being un-listened-to tracks, so I figured it would be a good time to finally get familiar with my collection. If nothing else, it kept my ears busy, which in turn, kept my head busy.
Listening to the music helped distract me from my thoughts of the boy who’d rescued me a month earlier. I’d been unable to stop thinking about him since. He had disappeared as abruptly as he’d appeared. I often stood by the window, looking down at the cluttered street, imagining a boy striding toward The Water Tower, long legs and a soft wool sweater. When it got to the part where I had to imagine his hair, eyes and face, I drew a blank and the fantasy shattered.
I wondered if he’d meant what he said about coming back for me to join him and the other survivors when it was safe. I had no idea how long it might take to set up a secret camp. What if he’d forgotten his promise? Or what if he’d gotten hurt? Or left Los Angeles entirely? I tried not to think too negatively. I needed to believe he was coming back. It was sad, but it was the only thing I had left in the world to look forward to.
I rested on the counter behind me, then leaned forward, resting my head on my knees and letting my hair fall to my ankles like a red waterfall. I sighed. There were so many little mysteries surrounding the boy. Not only did I not know his name, or see his face, but the question of how he’d gotten me all the way home and into the penthouse still puzzled me. True, I had told him where I lived, and about the safety precautions my dad took. I was slightly embarrassed, though, thinking about him carrying me multiple blocks while I probably snored like a mule on his shoulder.
Despite my embarrassment, I’d almost left a couple times to go to Hollywood High School to find him, but ultimately talked myself out of it. He’d told me to stay here and that he would come get me. So I stayed put, rationed my food and water, listened to my music three times in a row and tried to ignore the frequent dreams where I heard him call my name over and over. In those dreams, I could never find him. My chest ached when I woke up, but there was also a very blunt happiness from feeling near him again. I didn’t feel alone. I was warm and safe in those dreams.
Music echoed into the kitchen and around the mess I’d made as I sifted through both the food on the counter and my thoughts of the boy. I sighed again, feeling the emptiness of the apartment press on me like Southern humidity. The honey was nowhere to be found.
The collection of miscellaneous boxes, cans and jars didn’t add up to much: a couple packets of Ramen noodles, a box of instant oatmeal packets, a miniature tin of anchovies, a can of tomato paste and a nearly full jar of roasted sesame seeds. Half of the box of crackers was left and also some random baking products I’d already tasted to check if they were at all edible. I had nearly choked on the baking powder. It burned the tip of my tongue, and I spat it out quickly. The cream of tartar wasn’t bad; it had a tangy flavor. I knew enough to not try to eat flour or baking soda. I did like carrying the small square tin of cinnamon around with me. Smelling it made me think of coffee shops and Christmas.
I decided to save the noodles, oatmeal and crackers for a treat and grabbed the jar of sesame seeds. I opened the fridge and grabbed a full water bottle from the empty cavern, cool and white. The refrigerator was bare now except for my water bottles. When the plumbing quit working, I started using water from the pool to wash myself, clothes and dishes, and limited myself to two bottles of drinking water a day from the stash of Sparkletts jugs in our laundry room. But now there was only a jug and a half left. I would have to find a way to get more soon.
Carrying my lunch back to the living room, I sat down on the couch. I pinched several seeds between my thumb and forefinger, sprinkled them onto my tongue and then crushed them between my teeth. They had a pleasant earthy flavor.
I let my mind wander back to three days ago when I splurged and ate an entire six-ounce jar of maraschino cherries as a reward for finishing my first big project: watching every single movie we owned. I watched them in release date order. My mother’s films were sprinkled into the lineup. I’d enjoyed watching her, her curly red Irish hair always featured almost as a character separate from herself, her kind, deep green eyes and that smile I knew so well. She always smiled more with the left side of her mouth to hide a slightly crooked incisor on her right side. I liked it most when she laughed and forgot about hiding her crooked tooth, her one flaw, perfect.
A smile stretched across my face as I thought about her. My mind wasn’t strong enough to hold on to the happiness, though, and my face immediately began to crumple. Tears welled up and overflowed down my cheeks, and I took a gigantic deep breath to calm myself. Keep busy, I mentally repeated, like a parent telling a child on a carousel to hold on tighter.
I decided to refill the water bottles. I swiped the back of my hand across my wet cheeks as I stood up and slid in my socks over the floor I had spent yesterday polishing. Unable to stop skating across the floor in time, I crashed into the partially closed laundry room door and caught myself on the doorjamb when it didn’t open. Confused, I pushed on the door again. It seemed to be blocked. I poked my head around to see what was blocking it. My mouth fell open, and prickles streamed across my back like cool water.
Two full Sparkletts jugs were wedged behind the door. I slid into the laundry room and stared at them, then looked behind me at the other two jugs sitting in their usual spot; one full, the wax safety seal still in place and the other, just under half full, the water slightly trembling from the vibrations of the clothes dryer running next to it.
I looked back and forth at the two teams of water jugs as if they were playing ping-pong. I tried to sort out how I could have forgotten having two in reserve. Sitting behind the door like they were, it was hard to imagine I could have mi
ssed seeing them. Where did they come from?
I shook my head, irritated. “I guess I really am going crazy.” I pulled the door closed behind me and returned to the couch to think. So I wasn’t as low on water as I thought, but I would run out of food soon. I knew I couldn’t keep eating sesame seeds for lunch, but it was still too dangerous to go outside to forage food from what was left of the city.
From my eagle’s nest perch on the terrace, I had a three hundred and sixty-degree view of the city below. The Front was running rampant through what was left of the marina, emptying stores, then burning them. I watched one day last week as Karl oversaw a group siphoning gas from a station across the street. Even at that distance, I could see the evil and beauty pulsing from him, weakening everyone around him until they were broken enough to submit. Though I was a good distance away from him, I still felt the urge to get further away from him and was frustrated at my inability to do so. I reminded myself that for the time being, I was safe in my tower. Safe, but also trapped like a cat in a tree.
I sprinkled more sesame seeds onto my tongue. I would just have to use the closest and safest source to me to replenish my stock: the thirty-six stories of condos below me. I didn’t relish the thought of what might be awaiting discovery in some of them. I wasn’t naïve to the fact that the residents hadn’t just disappeared in a puff of smoke after the Crimson Fever claimed their lives.
I felt slightly sickened and panicked at the thought of entering a dark, unfamiliar apartment, utterly still with secrets. I unconsciously touched the silver Celtic knot charm I always wore on a necklace. I heard Mamó, my Irish grandma, say to me, “Ye canna always be brev on the inside, Fòmhair1. But ye ken be bold on the ootside. "Fortiter2,” she would remind me, shaking her wrinkled fist under my nose until I laughed. “Boldly,” it meant in Gaelic.
I loved the sound of my name in Gaelic. I didn’t know much of the ancient language, but Mamó taught me a few words and “Fòmhair” was one. It was really just the translation of the season, but she said it was close enough. She lived just outside Dublin with my Grandpa. Being as Irish as they came, she was incredibly spunky and very superstitious, and it was obvious my mother didn’t drop far from the tree.
I wondered for a brief moment if my grandparents in Ireland could have survived. What if my immunity was genetic? I pushed the idea away. There was absolutely no way for me to find out. Ireland was thousands of miles away and across a very large ocean.
I directed my mind back to the problem before me. Restocking my food supply from the apartments under me. Fortiter. I’d just have to find a way to bear it.
I sighed and screwed the lid back on the jar of seeds. How would I even get past the locked doors? I wasn’t particularly skilled at picking locks. And I sure didn’t have a crowbar hanging around. Maybe there was a janitor’s closet in the basement with one I could use.
Suddenly, a thought popped into my head. A janitor wouldn’t need a crowbar. He’d have keys to get into all the units. He didn’t have a key for our suite, of course, because of the high security for my mother. But he’d have keys for all the others. I could help myself and lock up again to keep anything else safe for later use.
I grabbed my own keys from the table in the entrance hall and left the apartment, locking the door behind me and riding the elevator down thirty-seven stories.
When the elevator doors slid open, I stepped out and peeked around the corner to the lobby. It was a mess. It had obviously been looted. I shivered, thinking about Karl in my very own building. I looked out the windows warily, as if he would suddenly burst in.
I tried the door to the office behind the front desk. It was locked, but the knob seemed frail enough to break. But not without a little noise. I looked around for something to knock the doorknob off. My eyes settled on a giant stapler on the desk.
I picked it up, weighing it in my hands, and looked out the glass front door again. I raised the stapler above my head, took a deep breath and brought it down hard on the knob. It shattered, and I jumped, startled by its destruction and the loud noise it created.
I looked out the windows immediately, afraid I’d attracted attention, but the banana plants and birds of paradise continued to sway softly in the sea breeze.
I pushed the door open. The first thing I saw was a large box of powdered milk on one of the desks. Underneath the desk were several jugs of water and a box of canned food. Bingo.
I walked further into the office, noticing how one entire wall was glass. Bushes and trees outside shielded the interior of the office from view, but from here you could still see anyone coming up the long, curved driveway. It was a good lookout position.
There was a battered armchair in a corner with a pair of blue fairy wings resting on it. They had elastic straps attached so you could wear them like a backpack. A pair of small pink tennis shoes peeked out from under the chair.
My eyes glanced over the rest of the room quickly, and I saw a small wooden cabinet hanging on the wall. I crossed the room and opened the door on the front. There were several hooks inside, but no keys. This would have been where the keys were kept, I was sure. But they were gone. A piece of wood sticking out from the top of a tall cabinet caught my eye. It looked like a sword hilt. I reached up and slid my fingers around it and pulled it down. It was a machete with a dark curved blade. It looked old. What on earth was it doing here?
And that’s when I saw it. A small bottle of water on the desk. It was wet with condensation. Condensation meant the water had been much colder not long ago. That someone had recently been here and would probably be coming back soon. I should leave. I slid the giant knife back into its place on top of the cabinet, and a stab of fear cut into me when I remembered the door knob. They would know someone else had been here, broken in, and seen their hiding place. I had to keep my presence in this building a secret.
I picked up the pieces of the door knob and, with shaking hands, tried to fit it back together, but it was hopelessly broken. Why did I have to screw up every time I left home? I was swearing to myself that I would never leave the apartment again when a quiet rattling noise behind me froze my insides.
I turned slowly to look over my shoulder. No one was there. I was surprised when my feet carried me to the far corner, where the battered old armchair stood empty except for the fairy wings. There was a grate in the wall beside the chair. I crouched down on the floor and peered inside the grate. A small pair of brown eyes stared back at me.
1Pronounced ‘Foe irr’
2Pronounced ‘For-ti-tair’
CHAPTER SIX
“Hello?” I said quietly. I heard shallow, quick breathing, as if the person hiding were very small. And very scared.
“Are you... are you a bad person?” A high voice answered. The small eyes were wide.
“No. I’m Autumn. I live upstairs. Who are you?” I knelt to see inside the wall grate. I heard a scurrying noise as the frail figure scooted back further into darkness.
“Ben?” The little girl’s voice echoed from the blackness.
“Who’s Ben?” I asked her.
“I’m not s’posed to talk to anyone.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to talk to me.” An idea struck me suddenly. I picked up her wings. “Hey, are these yours?” I held them up in front of the grate. “They’re really pretty. Would you like them in there to keep you company?”
There was silence for a moment, and then a small hand appeared. I pulled open the grate just enough to pass them through to her. I heard rustling, which I assumed meant she was putting them on. When it was quiet again, I ventured another try.
“Who’s Ben?”
“He’s my brother.” A soft clapping noise followed immediately, as if she had clapped her hand over her mouth to prevent her from saying any more.
I positioned myself more comfortably outside her hiding place so the sun fell on me and the little girl could see me clearly. “What’s your name,” I asked her.
There was a pause,
and I could tell she was studying me. Finally, her small voice murmured, “Rissi.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Rissi. I’ve been all by myself for a long time. It’s good to talk to someone else. Do you know when your brother will be back?”
There was a soft scuffling noise and a small, heart-shaped face appeared just on the other side of the grate. She had soft, chestnut curls and big round brown eyes. Her small nose was slightly turned up like a button. She couldn’t have been older than seven. I moved out of the way as she climbed out and said, “He’ll be back soon. He never leaves me alone for long. He’s clearing another apartment.” As she talked, Rissi moved about the room, pulling items from shelves I hadn’t noticed before: books, dolls, more dress up items.
“Do you live here?” I asked, watching her and marveling at her sudden trust in me.
“We live in twenty twenty. It’s easy for me to remember, that’s why Ben picked it. Just for me,” she said proudly and placed a plastic tiara on my head. She giggled and opened a small pink bag at the foot of the armchair and pulled out a white feather boa.
As she wound it around my neck, I asked her, “So, did you and Ben not get sick like everyone else?”
“Nope! We’re im...mune,” she said proudly, struggling with the word. Her tone changed as she said, “Our mom and dad got sick.” She fumbled with a white plastic stick with a glittered star at the tip and a few white ribbons attached to it.
“So did mine,” I whispered, suddenly wondering how many other immune people must have been left alone when their families and friends all died. My stomach twisted as I realized how many children might be alone out there just like Rissi and her brother.
