“I’ll help you.” Shelly found herself saying. It wasn’t so much that she was itching for chores – she had enough on her plate having to watch after Blake – it was more that she desperately wanted some girl time. Ambrose was the quietest of the group. Perhaps Shelly could get her to open up a bit.
“That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“Maybe, but I think everyone would like clean clothes that fit a bit better – Fletcher’s new pants don’t quite reach his ankles and the shorts Blake found are a bit tight. You can’t expect to wash it all yourself.” Turning to the boys she said, “All right gents, go get us your things! You too, Marek.”
Blake ran off without hesitation but the guys shifted somewhat uncomfortably.
“Oh, don’t be such babies! I’ll go find the clothes myself!”
“Shell… don’t.” Fletcher cringed. "We've been wearing that stuff for weeks."
“Trust me, I know, Fletch. But if we're going to do laundry, we might as well get it all done. That would include your favorite sweater which is icky-sticky-gross dirty!”
“Ahh, fine! C’mon.” He nudged Marek. “Better not to put up a fight where this one’s concerned.”
Marek rubbed the back of his neck. “Fine… but we haul in the water. Chores shouldn’t just fall on you two.”
Shelly beamed in his direction: one point for the new guy. He might be a good fit to their group, after all.
~*~
Blake was sitting in the middle of the king sized bed in the master bedroom, his back to Shelly. His attention was fixated on something before him while the dog snoozed peacefully at his side. Shelly worried about keeping the animal. It was an extra mouth to feed and they couldn’t exactly drive to the grocery store for puppy kibble whenever they pleased. But Blake had taken such a liking to the pup and the affection seemed to go both ways. Knocking on the door, she called, “Hey, Blakey – you didn’t bring me your clothes.”
Blake turned with a smile on his cherub face as he showed her the reason for his distraction. His nails were a messy glob of hot pink nail polish. They were a different shade from what he had before, but Shelly supposed it would have to do. “I found it in the tall dresser. Maybe it belonged to the mommy who lived here.”
Shelly’s breath hitched at his words and the pictures they painted in her mind. She bit her bottom lip as she tried to hold back a few welling tears. Voice weak, she answered, “Yeah, Baby, it probably did.”
Blake’s clothes were discarded to the side of the bed. As her little brother’s concentration returned to his left pinky, Shelly scooped up the dirty pile and turned to head out the room. Marek stood in the doorframe, a quizzical look on his face as he stared at her brother. He took a step back, allowing Shelly through.
Silently, they walked a few steps down the hall, Marek awkwardly tossing his bundle of clothes from one hand to the other. “You really don’t need to do this,” he jerked his chin towards his hands. “I’m sure we’ll find more clothes on the way.”
“On the way? To where?”
“Oh, I just meant… never mind… umm…?”
“Really, I don’t mind,” she motioned to his clothes. “It gives me something to do, you know?”
Marek sheepishly handed her his bundle, nodding his understanding. “Can I ask you something?” At her nod he asked, “The little one is your brother, right?”
“Yup,” she replied, really hoping he wasn’t about to ask where their parents were. She was sure the answer to that was obvious to any who had two brain cells to rub together.
“Well… is he… gay? Or like one of those kids who’s born one way, but thinks he’s supposed to be something else?”
Shelly came to an abrupt stop, one eyebrow lifting. That certainly had not been the question she was expecting to come out of his mouth. “Excuse me?”
“Well, it’s just… I mean he’s in there with… and the princess cards…?”
“My little brother is neither gay nor anything else you might be thinking! Even if he was – what’s it to you? Would that be an issue? Because if it were, you can just leave!”
“What? No! That’s not… wait! Come back! Please don’t get mad, I just—”
“Those cards came from a little girl’s room. He doesn’t exactly get to pick what toys he’s going to find. He has to settle for whatever we come across! And the nail polish… well… that’s personal!”
Twirling on her heels, Shelly marched away from an open mouthed Marek. Good fit, her ass!
Fletcher stood at the end of the hall throwing a pitying glance at Marek over her shoulder. Pointing a threatening finger in his direction, Shelly growled, “Not a word, Fletcher Robinson!”
She all but ripped the clothes from his hands as she marched away to find Ambrose. Yes, girl time is definitely what she needed.
Chapter Eleven
Gene Pools and Dump-it Buckets
She should have snuck away during the night, but her damn ankle still throbbed. Ambrose looked longingly out the window of the bedroom she had chosen. The second floor gave a decent view of the woods behind the house. They would make for great cover when the time came. The group would not be able to follow her, would not risk it with all the possible danger lurking out there.
Her backpack mocked her where it rested at the edge of her bed. Weak, it whispered, you are so very, very weak.
The cool window was a balm against her forehead. She didn’t do well in groups. Or more accurately: groups didn’t do so well once she joined them. As if to prove her point, the fight around the hall reached her ears. They really needed to shut up if they wanted to stay here. Their bickering would only summon unwanted company.
She would have to leave tonight. Groups were dangerous. Too emotional. Too Loud. Too unpredictable. And worse: too much food in one place. But how the hell was she supposed to get around?
Take the car.
Ambrose struggled to suffocate that thought. It was tempting, oh so tempting. They were an efficient group; they could surely figure something out. But the little boy… and they had all saved her time and again.
No, she would not leave them stranded, but she definitely did not think it smart to stay with them. Tonight; she would leave tonight.
~*~
Maybe washing clothes by hand hadn’t been such a great idea after all. She had come up with the idea thinking it would grant her time away from the group. She hadn’t expected Shelly to sign on and help. Now both she and Ambrose were thoroughly soaked, the floor of the bathroom might as well be a swimming pool.
“I quit!” Shelly groaned, tossing a pair of jeans into the bathtub. “I think we used way too much detergent and my fingers are all raisin-y.”
With water on short supply, it had been a long time since Ambrose’s skin had pruned in such a manner. She rubbed the pads of her fingers against each other, marveling at the odd texture she never thought to feel again.
Shelly was right; they’d used way too much soap. They needed more buckets of water – many more buckets. But who knew how far down the well went? They shouldn’t waste more than they already had. Ambrose dragged the last bucket of clean water over to her in a final attempt to rinse out Fletcher’s sweater.
“He’s a nice guy.” Shelly whispered. Ambrose turned to see the small quirk of the girl’s lips as she eyed the sweater in Ambrose’s hands; the sweater she’d been working on for the better part of the last hour. Hiding her face behind a curtain of hair, Ambrose shrugged her shoulders as if she didn’t understand what the girl was getting at.
“Oh, come on!” Shelly giggled. “It’s the end of the world! Don’t be shy!”
“I’m not… I don’t know—”
“Mhmm. Sure. Whatever.” She teased. “He’s single you know. Not just now, but like, before the apocalypse.”
“Wait, you two aren’t—?”
“Eww! No! Fletch is my cousin. Sorta.”
“Sorta?” Ambrose found herself prying. Damn it; she shouldn’t be asking anything p
ersonal. Second rule of survival: don’t get attached – it made things harder later.
“Our dads were childhood friends. Fletch and I grew up together. He’s a year older than me. He’s nineteen, I’m eighteen. Blakey’s five.” After a pause she added, “He’ll be six next month… hopefully.”
A month. One month before the apocalypse was nothing, but now… one hour was a lot to hope for.
“You think we could stay here for that long?” Shelly asked. “It would be nice, you know? To stay in one place for a while – not have to worry so much. I thought the complex might have been a good place to stay but… Anyway; maybe we could have a little birthday party. I found some cookies downstairs. I kind of… set them aside. They’re not a cake but…”
“Cookies will be nice.” Ambrose tried to smile.
“Sorry.” Shelly forced a laugh. “We were having fun talking about boys, and then I go and get all morbid.”
“Birthday parties aren’t morbid.”
Though Shelly nodded and smiled, her usual light did not reach her eyes. Ambrose wasn’t sure what to do. There had been a time when she’d had friends. They’d laughed and cried together. Hung out, did things – normal stuff. But Ambrose had been alone for what seemed a lifetime.
The last group she had been a part of had not been kind to one another. Each one of them had been foxes in a chicken coop; Ambrose included. Now she could feel as the last dredges of humanity leaked away; as the poison they had baptized her in consumed every crevice of who she once was.
Squeezing out all the water she could, Ambrose stepped carefully along the sodden floor to the octagon window. The pane opened at a tilted angle. Ambrose squeezed the dripping sweater through the slot, hoping the day’s sun would be strong enough to dry the fabric sooner rather than later.
Fall was quickly approaching. The days were growing chillier. It seemed overnight that many leaves had changed color, like a bucket of red paint had been thrown over them. Autumn had once been her favorite season. A season of mischief, a season of thanks. She and her mom would devote an entire weekend to decorating the house, then baking molasses cookies to dunk into cold milk. Those memories seemed so far away.
“I need to go change.” Shelly motioned to her wet dress. “Wanna go shopping?” Without waiting for a reply, Shelly plastered a huge grin on her face as she spun on her heel. Ambrose wasn’t sure how to politely decline, and besides, she was soaking too. But where were they going to go shopping? It didn’t seem a good idea to take such an unnecessary risk.
She needn’t have worried as Shelly quickly scampered into her room. Before Ambrose could knock on the girl’s door, she came back out with two lit candles. “There’s a lot of stuff in the attic.” She said. “I didn’t get to look through everything on our first walk through the house, but I saw a few boxes of clothes. Maybe there are things upstairs that will fit better. C’mon!”
Taking the offered candle, Ambrose followed an excited Shelly down the hall. She pulled a dangling cord that Ambrose had somehow failed to notice and a set of dropdown stairs came to rest at their feet.
They stood side by side as they reached the attic landing, a bit of light spilling in behind them from down below. It was moments like these when Ambrose really wished for the electricity to return. What she could see in the small circumference illuminated by the candles made Ambrose uneasy. Cardboard boxes, newspapers, cobwebs, dust; so many things that could easily go up in flames. Ambrose held the candle closer to her.
Fearless Shelly moved first. Along the dark walls were curtained windows. Shelly tore away the concealing fabric, sending dust motes floating around her as daylight lent her an angelic glow. She motioned for Ambrose to set her candle down on one side of the attic, then moved to place her own at the opposite end.
It certainly felt like shopping – like digging deep into those Clearance Dump-It buckets where women of all ages fought tooth and nail over a piece of fifty percent off fabric. Except there were no other women here; they were all dead, and Ambrose and Shelly had the make-shift store all to themselves.
They were up there for hours. Thankfully the attic’s heat helped dry their clothes rather quickly since most of what they found was too old fashioned, or threadbare, to be of much use. Eventually Ambrose stopped looking for clothes as she sat back with a box of old pictures. Some were recent albums with smiling families. Each generation sported physical features of the past while melding with a new gene pool. Some pictures were old – black and white, and somber.
Ambrose thought of her parents. Mom had blue eyes, clearer than a cloudless sky, and honey colored locks. Dad had brown eyes with kind laugh lines at the corners and thick, dark hair. Those kind laugh lines had very quickly vanished at a time Ambrose had needed them most.
Though she recalled all their features individually, it was becoming rather difficult to remember her mother as a whole being, rather than the kaleidoscope of clipped portions. Her mother always had a distinctive smell… that too, washed away, trampled by the constant rot permeating the new world. Her father was easier to remember – much easier. All Ambrose needed to do was look in a mirror. Needless to say, she avoided her reflection as much as possible.
Ambrose shoved the pictures back in the box and slammed the folds shut. Shelly startled, asking what was wrong. Ambrose couldn’t find a voice to answer. Instead she stood and limped away, leaving Shelly behind in the taunting attic; leaving Shelly behind the way everyone left everything and everyone behind these days.
Chapter Twelve
Puppy Love
Dinner was an awkward affair. Marek tried to keep his appreciative groans to a minimum as he devoured the feast of spaghetti and peas before him. He’d hesitated taking that first bite. Shouldn’t they be rationing? But Fletcher had insisted they spoil themselves this one night: Spoils of the Victor – or something like that. Shelly hadn’t given him another chance to protest as she viciously ladled the food she had, ‘worked so hard to prepare’, onto a plate and shoved it into his hands, all while purposely avoiding eye contact with him. She took greater care when serving the others. Shit – he was in the dog house, exiled by a girl he barely knew.
“There isn’t much food in the house.” Ambrose gave voice his own worry. “Maybe we should leave some of this for breakfast?”
Fletcher turned pink around the ears. “I found something.” He smiled. Fletcher tried to make the smile for everyone, but even Marek could see it was mostly for Ambrose. Jesus save them all. Just what they needed; a guy in Puppy Love. Then again, Marek was one to talk. He was still trying to catch Shelly’s eyes.
“Wait, what?” Marek had to ask, obviously missing something important the way everyone’s face lit up.
“Fletcher found food!” Blake yelled.
Ignoring the cutting glare Shelly sent Marek, he turned to Fletcher. “When? Where?”
“While you were out on patrol.” He replied, reminding Marek of the boring hours he spent shuffling back and forth on the front porch during his turn to keep watch. “The house was pretty empty, but, I mean, c’mon. This is a farm! I walked around a bit and found food stashed in the loft of the barn, as well as a cellar beside the house. Some things have started to rot – we should work on removing them tomorrow. I don’t know how they’ll affect the unspoiled items.”
Everyone cheered – holy shit, they had food! But Ambrose’s face quickly went from beaming to pensive. Marek eyed the girl with more interest. He knew that look, had seen it plenty of times before. Hell, he’d worn it himself a few times, but mostly he remembered it as the last look Pamela had given him.
Though he wasn’t sure where he fit with this group, he was relieved to no longer be alone. More than that, he didn’t think they would turn him away, or Ambrose for that matter – especially not with the way Fletcher kept glancing at her when he thought no one was looking. But it looked to Marek like maybe Ambrose didn’t see things the same way he did.
The nameless dog trotted to each person in turn, wa
iting patiently while looking at their plate with big round eyes. “You only want me for my food.” Marek whispered down to her as she sat her rump beside him. She had ditched him the moment she had laid eyes on Blake. Ever the poster dog for begging, her tail began a small wag while her muzzle split into what could only pass for a grin. He was glad that even when the world went to hell, some things never changed. “Here you go, mutt.”
Blake’s chortle caught his attention. He looked up in time to see Shelly try and hide her smile. She failed, and knew it, and her frown deepened ever more. Marek smiled, knowing he had successfully earned himself a point back into favor whether she wanted to admit it or not.
“Find a name for her yet, bud?” Fletcher asked Blake.
“Not yet.” The boy sighed. “She farted and walked away when I suggested, Muffins.”
Everyone laughed. It was the best damn night Marek had spent in a long while. Dinner was passed by trying to find a name for the dog. The conversation ended when someone suggested, Tinkerbell. Indeed, the dog rose from her place beside Blake, farted as she walked away from them all, and headed to wherever she and the boy would be bedding down for the night.
Marek waited a few hours after everyone had gone to their rooms. He rose from the living room couch – the place he decided to make his bedding in order to protect the house – and quietly ascended the steps to where he knew Ambrose had made her quarters.
He gingerly knocked on her door, trying not to disturb the others from sleep. Most importantly, he was trying to keep this private. It might not be his place to say anything – it’s not like they knew each other – but it felt wrong to stand by and do nothing. The last time he’d seen that expression and done nothing… Pamela might still be here if he’d just spoken up.
By his fourth knock, Marek realized he was too late. Hoping he was mistaken, he slowly turned the knob and nudged the door open to peer inside. The moon shone through the window, spilling light into the bedroom; spilling light onto the so obviously empty bed.
Red Paint: Proceed with Caution Page 5
