by Tracey Ward
“You live here alone.” he says, not even trying to make it a question.
I snort. “I’m not exactly social.”
“Shocking.”
“Don’t take it as an invitation. I can defend myself.”
He looks over at me, his eyes surprised. “Never crossed my mind.”
“Sure.”
He shakes his head in disgust, looking away. “What’s with the exercise bike? Don’t get enough cardio running from the Risen?”
“I don’t ride it for exercise. I ride it for fun.”
“Yeah, you seem fun.” he mutters, kneeling beside the bike to examine the wires trailing from it. They lead a short distance across the distressed floors over to a small generator. From there they lead up to— “Is that a laptop?” he asks incredulously.
I have to suppress a smile as I work to keep the pride out of my voice. “It’s a portable TV/DVD player. Riding the bike powers it.”
“Nice.” he says admiringly. His large fingers gently run along the wires, tracing them. “Do you use it to power anything else?”
“Yeah, of course.” I say, suddenly bristling at his proximity to my world. His hands are all over it and I’m finding that I kinda like it but then again I really don’t. “My iPod, my hair dryer, the fridge, the oven, my cell phone…”
“I get it.” he says darkly, straightening and glaring at me. “Take it easy, would you?”
I shake my head. “Whatever. Do you want to clean your arm before it falls off?”
“Are you doing it or am I?”
“You are. I’m not touching it.”
I’m not touching you. I think, and the problem is that I actually kind of want to.
He’s good looking. Now that I see him in better light, I’m much more aware of that fact. He looks strong, solid. Warm. I haven’t been touched by another person in six months and that was old Crazy Crenshaw who lives out in the “woods” like a wild man by himself. He’s helped me a time or two, though both of us made it clear we didn’t want each other’s company permanently. I went to him when I started running a fever and vomiting awhile back. I couldn’t see straight let alone take care of myself. I stumbled to his hideout in an overgrown city park, shambling and moaning like an infected. He took care of me but when I was better a few days later we went our separate ways. Before that, before he wiped my forehead with a wet cloth and wrapped me up in blankets to fight the chills, I hadn’t been touched in four years.
So, yeah, standing in the same room with a grown man my age for the first time in my life is throwing me more than a little off balance. As I said, I like it but I don’t.
“What’s your name?” he asks suddenly.
I blink as I realize we’ve fallen silent studying each other.
“Jocelyn. Well, Joss.” I stammer, my heart racing. I haven’t said or heard my own name in a long time. It feels strange on my lips. “What’s yours?”
“Ryan.”
I immediately think of Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles, my favorite movie. He looks nothing like him but the association is made. This, I understand immediately, will make things so much more complicated.
I turn sharply toward the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Who knows what germs were in that wolf’s mouth? He could have had infected blood in there.”
Ryan follows me quickly, understanding the risk he’s at. Animals don’t contract the virus but they do carry it. If that wolf took down an infected recently, which he very well might have, he could still have active blood in his mouth. The infected don’t die, not unless you force them to. The virus doesn’t either, making a truly dead zombie almost as dangerous as a mobile one.
I set him up with a couple clean strips of cloth and some alcohol, a tall bottle of Gray Goose vodka I found in a desk in a dentist’s office. That and the handful of toothbrushes I scored were the highlight of my week. I hand the bottle to him then quickly leave the room. He can take care of himself, or so I assume since he’s still alive. Anyone who couldn’t fend for themselves or dress a wound died of starvation or infection years ago.
“So you live here alone?” he calls from my small bathroom. It’s a legit bathroom with a toilet and everything that I use leftover washing water to flush once a day. More than that if things are… well you know.
“Yeah.” I call back, noticing how my voice echoes over the destroyed hardwood floors and up into the vaulted ceilings. I don’t usually speak in here. This is already weird. “You in a gang?”
“Yeah. My brother and—hell!” He gags out a curse. I know he just doused his open wound in the alcohol. When he speaks again his voice is a little breathier than before, more strained. “He, uh, he and I joined them when our parents died.”
I nod to myself, not surprised. All of us out in the wild are orphans.
“What about you?” he asks, stepping out of the bathroom and wrapping the cloth around his forearm. He’s fumbling with it, trying to manage it with one hand. He’s failing.
“Here.” I hear myself say, and I’m across the huge room and in front of him before I realize what I’m doing. I wrap the cloth quickly around the wound, being sure to cover it entirely. Nervous, I tie the ends off a little too tightly, pinching him. He doesn’t make a sound. “There, that should hold.”
“Thanks.” he mutters, taking a step back.
I do the same. “Um, yeah, my parents died when I was eight. On Christmas Day.”
He winces. “Ouch. Mine went just after Easter.”
“When they were talking about a cure?”
“Yeah. They thought it was gonna happen. Kind of let their guard down. Four days after Easter Sunday they were dead and Kevin and I were on our own.”
I nod, not sure what to say. Sorry is a worthless word.
“The holidays suck.” I finally tell him.
He grins. “Yeah, they do.”
Chapter Two
The night fully arrives, plunging us in total darkness and letting me breathe a little easier. I prefer the night. More places to hide.
I move to the giant floor to ceiling window to look down on the street below. There’s not much to see. Clouds are moving in to cover the moon which is good because it probably means rain but it’s bad because I can’t see a thing. I need to know if the wolves have gone. If the Risen have shown up yet.
“Are they down there?” Ryan asks quietly, his voice close to my ear.
I suppress a jolt of surprise at his sudden proximity. He sneaks better than I gave him credit for.
“I can’t tell yet. You left a lot of blood on the pavement though. It’s only a matter of time.”
“At least the wolves will probably take care of them. They won’t stay down there forever.”
He’s got a point. Once a zombie catches on to human flesh in a location, it’s a dog with a bone. It will not give it up. If it were them down there at the gate where the wolves are, we would have to count that exit as dead to us. They’d never leave. If they show up and the wolves are still around, though, there’s every chance the animals will kill them and eventually lose interest in us. They’ll move on. I have other exits but that’s the easiest, safest one. The others involve the roof or windows that offer a jump down to a lower building. It’s doable but you risk breaking a bone or tweaking an ankle, two conditions you can ill afford out here.
“We’ll have to wait it out.” I mumble.
I hear him step back. When I look over, he’s watching me from a few paces away.
“Are the other rooms here secured?”
I frown, glancing around. “It’s a loft… there are no other rooms.”
“No, I mean in the building. Have you secured any other rooms besides this one? Any other places where I could crash?”
I look him over sharply. “Is that knife all you have?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t thinking. I was—“
“Emotional.”
I say it like it’s a swear. Like a curse or disease because it is. It’s catching and deadly an
d the longer he’s here, the longer I’m in someone else’s company, the more likely I am to catch it. I’ve spent the better part of a decade avoiding that particular plague and I’m not interested in being taken down by it now.
“Yeah, I was. I still am.” he admits quietly.
That couldn’t have been easy, especially for a Lost Boy. In the wild your pride and bravado are as important to staying alive as your ability to hunt and avoid being hunted. He’s gonna die if he goes back out there. Problem solved for me, no one will know where I live, but if I let that happen then why did I step in in the first place? The logical choice is to let him leave and disappear forever. But now I’ve seen his face, I’ve named the puppy and I emotionally don’t like the idea of him dying.
His disease is catching. It’s airborne. It’s in his voice. In his eyes.
“You can stay here.” I tell him firmly. “In this room. With me. It’s fine.”
He looks at me in shock, stunned by my offer.
“I don’t want to intrude on what you’ve got here.” he says slowly, watching me.
It’s a big deal these days to let anyone into your world. I can feel the weight of it in the way my heart is hammering in my chest, my skin prickling with… what? Fear? It must be. It feels like it. This feels like when a Risen is closing in on me, backing me into a corner and threatening to take everything. When Crazy Crenshaw let me stay with him while I was deliriously ill, that was the equivalent of in the old days letting someone wear your underwear or borrow your toothbrush. Inviting someone in your space is incredibly personal and basically just not done. Letting this guy know where I live is huge enough, but letting him crash here? It’s epic. For a recluse like myself, it’s the apocalypse all over again.
“I said it’s fine.” I mean to sound sure, solid, but I think I come off angry.
It’s because it’s not fine. It’s terrifying and it’s going to be awful, but I can do this. Maybe I need to prove to myself that I can. That I can stay unattached and unemotional. Maybe I want to know I’m a decent human being who can help her fellow man when the chips are down. Or maybe I’m a girl, he’s a guy and he’s here, a seemingly simple aligning of the stars that has never happened before in my world, one that is unlikely to ever happen again. He’s a comet shooting across the sky, his course only bringing him along every hundred years, and if I want to experience this once in a lifetime event, I better open my eyes.
“You’re sure?” he asks skeptically.
“Do you want me to change my mind?”
“Are any other rooms in this building safe?”
“Nope. Windows are blown out of just about all of them and all of the doors are kicked in.”
“Then no, I don’t want you to change your mind.”
I nod sharply as I turn away, heading deeper into the loft. Away from the window and the darkness outside. Away from him.
“Hey,” he calls quietly.
I stop but I don’t face him. “What?”
“Thanks. For taking me in tonight and for stepping in with the wolf. I—I made a mistake.”
I nod my head slowly, thinking of the mistakes I’ve seen made. The ones I’ve made in the past. The ones I’m making now.
“We all do.” I say, glancing over my shoulder at him. “Eventually.”
I run for the bathroom. I need a minute. I need space in this huge room. A place where I can’t see him and I can’t feel his eyes. Having someone else around is stranger than I thought it would be. It’s harder than I imagined but it’s addicting at the same time. I like the sound of his voice as it roams around the room. I like the way he smiles and the fact that despite his idiot move with the wolf, he’s smart. He’s a survivor like me. The problem is my instincts are telling me to get him the hell out of here. Listening for his footsteps, hearing his breathing, sensing his proximity in the room – it’s all too much to handle. I’m used to classifying every sound not made by me as a threat. His very existence has me on edge and it’s not exactly something I can turn off. I can’t tell my brain and body, hey don’t worry about it, he’s friendly and expect them to obey because I trained them for years to worry about everything. To see everyone as a threat. And who knows? Maybe he actually is.
When I get myself pulled together I return to the main area to find him examining the bike again. He’s not touching it this time. Just looking.
“How did you learn to do this?” he asks, glancing up at me from his crouched position.
I shrug. “I know a guy.”
“You know a guy?” he asks with a grin. “What are you, a mobster? You got connections?”
“Maybe. How do you know about mobsters?”
“I read. How do you know about them?”
“Same. Books. Plus my dad and I used to watch old movies together. He liked old black and whites.”
“Do you have any here?”
“No. I don’t watch them anymore. I haven’t since—you know.”
“Yeah, I do. What kind of movies do you have?” he asks, thankfully changing the subject. I don’t feel like playing the How Did You Lose Everything game tonight. Or ever.
“Nothing you’d like.” I deflect, feeling suddenly embarrassed by my meager collection. All I have is a box set of old 80’s movies about kids in high school, something I never got to experience. Breakfast Club, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink.
“I haven’t seen a movie in years. I’ll like anything.” he insists.
“No, I doubt it.”
“What do you have that you’re hiding? Are they dirty?”
I frown. “Dirty?”
“Sex tapes. Porn. Skin flicks.”
“What?! No!” I exclaim, feeling myself blush for what is probably the first time in my entire life. “They’re 80’s romantic comedies.”
“Cool. Let’s watch one. But just for the record, I would have gladly watched a sex tape. No judgment.”
“I don’t have sex tapes.” I grumble.
“No judgment.”
“I don’t—“
“What’s in here now?” he interrupts, kneeling down in front of the small unit.
“Um, Sixteen Candles, I think.”
I don’t think, I know. Images of Jake Ryan dance through my mind as this Ryan invades my home.
“Alright, I’ll drive.” He hops up on the bike and sits perched ready to go. “How fast do I go? What do I do?”
Apparently this is happening. I’m torn. I feel a little (or a lot) suffocated by his presence. He’s so here. So actively in the world, in my world, and it’s a little overwhelming for me.
I take a step back.
“I think I, um,” I begin, looking anywhere but at him.
“Joss, are you okay?”
My name. Hearing him speak my name is the last straw. It’s too much.
“It’s going to rain and I need water. I have to go the roof for a bit. I’ll be back.”
I’m already backing out of the room toward the roof hatch. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
“I’ll help you.”
I hold up my hands to stop him. To ward him off like a dangerous animal. “No, stay. Please stay. I don’t want help. Or company.”
“Oh.” He sits back on the bike slowly, looking surprised.
“Yeah, so stay here. Watch the movie. Just pedal at a regular pace, a steady rhythm you can keep up. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I’m gone for an hour.
I empty the contents of the bucket into a canister I can seal and easily bring downstairs with me, then I position the bucket in the center of the roof just as fat raindrops start to fall. I wish I had more containers here. It rained a couple days ago and I’m sure my rain catchers on the other roofs are doing well, if only I could get to them. I stand outside in the fresh, open air breathing deeply and enjoying the silence but for the rhythm of the rain. It’s calming, something I definitely need right now. I listen to the sound of the drops pinging off the bucket, the buildi
ng, the rest of the world. It fills the gaping, empty spaces left behind by so many dead and if I close my eyes I can pretend they’re all still here. Still out there in the rain with their umbrellas and galoshes, hurrying to and from cars carrying groceries, briefcases and babies, going in and out of buildings that aren’t decaying or wreaking of rot and ruin.
I drink it in until I can’t stand the cold anymore. Until I can’t stand my own lies.
When I get back inside I hear the sound of the bike moving. It’s sort of surreal, almost a little spooky. Like seeing a ghost. I can also hear the movie, the one I love the most and know by heart. He hasn’t noticed me come back in, or else he isn’t letting on that he notices, so I sit in the dark as far away from him as I can and I listen.
“When you don’t have anything, you don’t have anything to lose, right?”
“That’s a cheerful thought.”
I glance around the dark loft asking myself why I’m courting disaster by having anything that’s mine. Anything even vaguely worth defending. Worth fighting for. I also wonder what I’ll do with it all now. Now that he knows where I live and I have to leave. Should I try and move it to another building? Should I leave it all behind and start over? I’m exhausted and sad just thinking about it. And angry. At him.
“I’m sorry, but Jake Ryan? He’s a senior and he’s taken, I mean really taken.”
“I know. He’s supposed to be my ideal.”
“He’s ideal for sure but forget about it.”
“God, I hope whoever got the note doesn’t know it was me who wrote it. I’d shit twice and die.”
Ryan laughs, startling me. The sound fills the large space, drowning out the movie and his pedaling. It reaches me in my far, dark corner, wrapping around me until I feel myself smiling as well. It’s stiff, unused for so long, but it’s there. For the next half hour I sit on the hard floor with a butt going numb, listening to Ryan chuckle, laugh and snort at the dialogue. It’s a great movie, one about a world we’ll never know. Like a fairy tale we’ve heard a million times about kings, knights and dragons, only this one is about parties and driver’s licenses. Things we’ll never know, never see, but want to believe in.
