I said, “Haven’t you been listening? It’s the End of Days.”
He said, “It’s the end of us wasting our resources.”
I said, “But Megaphone Man says we should embrace the Lord and go to the light.”
He said, “Embrace this,” and handed me the box of Ziplocs. “If you think of anything else to fill, fill it.” I thought of something, but decided not to say it.
So here I am, sealing little plastic bags. Fortunately the box had only ten left. I’m thinking they’d make excellent ammunition for when the alien storm troopers knock down the door. Actually, they’d probably melt the door—but anyway, we can peg them with these water balloons! Then Dutch will gnaw on their tentacles while Dad finishes them off with his Sphere of Influence speech. Bada-boom, invasion over. End of story.
The box is empty and there’s no more room on the counter. That means there’s no point in thinking of things to fill. I hear the water running upstairs, which means Dad is still occupied. Now is a good time to snag a snack. I go to the pantry. The only choice is an opened box of graham crackers. Not my first choice, but it’ll do. I crash on the slouch couch in front of the unplugged television, pick up the remote, and pretend I’m surfing channels.
CNN: Death and destruction. Click.
ESPN: Balding ex-jocks yakking about steroids. Click.
FOX News: Talking heads arguing about global warming. Click.
C-SPAN: Click.
MTV: Lame reality show. Click.
NBC: A lady singing about an odorless air freshener. Click.
FOX: The Simpsons. It’s the episode where the whole family goes into the witness-protection program. Homer is being grilled by two FBI agents.
I take a bite of a graham cracker and watch. It would be so much better if I had some peanut butter to spread on the crackers, but tragically we ran out yesterday. The jar is full of water now. I yawn. This episode is a classic, but I’ve seen it three hundred times.
Click.
I put down the remote. As usual, there’s nothing on that’s worth my time.
I crunch on another peanut-butterless cracker. It’s a sign of things to come. Seems this was a bad time for an invasion. Dad was waiting for Mom to come home before going to the grocery store to stock up the pantry. So there’s all this stuff we should have that we don’t. Like peanut butter. And dog food. And frozen pizzas. And Cheese Nips. And Dr Pepper. And bottled water. And those amazing granola bars with the chocolate bottom and caramel top and Rice Krispies in between. Alex and I once polished off two boxes of those babies while we watched Die Hard for the third consecutive time. Mom and Dad were at a play or a movie or something. We both agreed it was the best dinner ever.
Alex.
I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve thought of him. He’s only been my best friend since a month after my family moved to this hamlet six years ago. That’s the word that Alex uses to describe our little town. It’s the smallest, most medieval title he could think of. It also works because there’s a diner on Wine Country Road that sells five miniburgers, or hamlets, for a buck fifty. We eat there at least twice a week during lunch hour.
Is he still alive? I think so. He usually takes the bus to school, or gets a ride from us, so chances are he’s stuck in his house like we are in ours. His dad might not be, though. He’s one of those crazy early-morning-jogger types. I’ve always thought jogging at five a.m. was a dumb-ass thing to do. Now I know why.
Alex is lucky. He lives in a duplex next to the apartment building across the street. Which means there’s a POD right over his house. Which means he’s lucky because he can’t see it. I, on the other hand, am not lucky. I see it every time I look out the living room window. That, and a crashed bicycle surrounded by rolled-up newspapers.
Alex is the one who dared me to ask Lynn out. He spent two weeks convincing me that my odds were better than fifty-fifty. He’s also the one who saw me through my dark days, when I knew in my soul that the only way to express my creative self was to tattoo a spider on my neck descending from my left ear, paint my lips black, and pierce both eyebrows. He said some people can do Goth or punk or whatever and make it work. Like Marilyn Manson. And Brittney what’-s-her-name from homeroom. “You,” he said, laughing, “you’d just look stupid.”
Dutch is sitting in front of me watching graham crackers disappear into my mouth. Drool is forming at the corner of his jowls. A slick string drips to the floor. He’s studying each move as though I’m eating some amazing food. It’s only a stupid cracker. He licks his nose, something he does when he’s begging for treats. It’s one of his two disgusting habits. The other is, at night he spends hours licking his balls like they’re hairy popsicles. The guilt is killing me. I toss him the last graham cracker. His jaws snap and it’s gone.
“I can’t believe you just did that.”
I almost jump out of my skin. “Jesus, Dad! When there’s aliens outside, you don’t freakin’ sneak up on people!”
“And you don’t give our food to the dog.”
“I’m sorry. I only did it once.”
He’s leaning against the wall, surveying the room. His eyes zero in on the empty box of graham crackers on the coffee table. “You ate the whole box?”
“I finished the box. There was like half a cube left.”
“Our food has to last, Josh.”
“I know that.”
“Do you think I enjoy filling baggies with water?”
“I said I’m sorry!”
He looks at me like I’m this hopeless case. He thinks I don’t take the food thing seriously, but I do. It’s just we come at it from different angles. His opinion: We should start rationing. Eat less, make it last longer. My opinion: We’re going to die any second, so why not live it up? Why starve? The way I see it, the more we eat, the less we leave behind for the storm troopers.
He says, “I think the dog should go back to sleeping outside.”
Now Dutch is “the dog.” Unbelievable. “Why? It’s not like I’m sneaking him steaks while you’re asleep.”
“You fed him some of your bacon.”
I blink but say nothing. This is way beyond creepy.
“He needs to get used to fending for himself.”
“Fend for himself? Like he’s going to catch a squirrel or something?”
Dad shakes his head. “Just do it. I’m tired of talking about this.”
He leaves. I pick up the remote and point it to where he had been standing two seconds ago.
Click.
DAY 7: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Bloater
I rip the last piece of bologna into three pieces. Two for me, one for Cassie.
“You better like your breakfast,” I say, “because after this it’s mice for you.”
While she eats, I plan out my day. The first part of the morning was wasted searching for the key to that metal box under the driver’s seat. I’ve been searching all the nooks and crannies for two days and it’s no use. The mother must have the key. Whatever is in there doesn’t matter anymore. Now it’s time to get back to the important stuff.
First, find a new home for Cassie. Second, find more food and water for me. My stomach is growling all the time. Both things mean it’s time to do some exploring.
But that could be a problem. If I leave the car and Mom comes back, she may think I’m dead. She’ll leave without ever seeing me. I could put a note on the windshield, but if Hoodie finds it first, he’ll know I’m here. That could get me punched in the stomach, too.
I ask Cassie, “What do you think I should do? Leave a note or take my chances?”
She looks up at me, then goes back to her piece of bologna.
“What’s that? You think I should leave a note?”
Then I think of another thing. If I leave a note and Mom sees it, she’ll wait for me. But then if Hoodie finds her before I do—I don’t want to think about that.
It’s final. No note.
“I’m going to find you
a new home,” I say. “But you need to be careful. Don’t trust anyone. Even if they’re nice on the outside. You think they’re your friend, then they gobble you up.”
Cassie is done. She licks her face with her small pink tongue and looks around as if there should be more. I make a cup out of my hand and pour in a little water. She laps it up, then licks my hand.
“I know what you need,” I say, scratching behind her ears. “You need milk.” Cassie rolls over. She starts batting at my hand with her tiny claws. Now she’s in the mood to play. I give in for about a minute, but then it’s time to move on to more important things.
I put on my backpack in case I find some food, pick up Cassie, and tuck her under my arm. We head for the ramp leading up to Level 2. Before we round the corner I glance back at the Nova. I get this terrible feeling I’m making a huge mistake.
I should have left a note.
Level 2 is as bad as Level 1. There’s a line of wrecked cars. I count fifteen. Some cars never made it out of their parking spots. All the cars, whether wrecked or not, have smashed windows. I decide this is no place for Cassie. I head up to Level 3.
Not as many cars here. I figure this is about as far as I should go. Cassie starts to mew and I don’t know why, so I walk over to a car and put her on the hood. She sits there blinking at me like I can read her mind. But at least she’s quiet. I look through the broken window to see what’s left. Not much. Pieces of paper, an empty Starbucks cup, glass everywhere. I open the door and look around and under the seats. This person must have liked McDonald’s. I find eight French fries wedged between seats and five small plastic tubes of ketchup in a sandwich baggie. I eat the French fries the second I find them. Cold and stiff, but the salt tastes good. I decide to save the packages of ketchup in case I find something to eat that’s so disgusting I need some flavor to help choke it down. That’s the way it worked at my house whenever Mom cooked liver.
Cassie starts to mew again. It’s actually pretty loud, which is the last thing I need. She’s like a little siren announcing, Here we are! Here we are! I could put her in the car and shut the door, but that feels mean.
“All right,” I say in an almost-whisper. “I get it. You’re hungry. Well, guess what? So am I. But you don’t have to blab it to everyone in the garage.” I look around at all the empty cars. “Okay, so no one’s here now, but that could change.” That just stirs her up even more.
The ketchup gives me an idea. I pick her up, open the door, brush off the glass, and put her on the passenger seat. Then I tear open one of the tubes and squeeze it onto the beige fabric right in front of her. The color reminds me of the blood I saw on the headrest in the SUV.
“What are you waiting for?” I say.
Amazingly, Cassie sniffs it, looks back at me, then starts licking. She must be really hungry. I close the door and back away. Now I can search the cars in peace.
I start working my way through the smashed-up line. Each car has a story to tell. The first one belongs to a woman who likes to cook. There are plastic purple and yellow flowers on the dashboard and at least fifty recipes for cupcakes typed on green three-by-five cards wrapped together with a rubber band. I leave the recipes—all they do is make me hungrier—but I keep the rubber band. She must also have a kid, probably a boy, because there is a small red duffel in the backseat with two pairs of underwear, some rolled-up socks, and a pair of camo pants. The pants are a little big, but who cares? I figure all those pockets might come in handy. I make a trade—the pants for my sweats. Pink—he’ll like that, I’m sure.
Next up is a blue Toyota pickup truck with a smashed front end. I figure it’s owned by a tall, nervous man with a hot girlfriend. The driver’s seat is way back, the ashtray is full of cigarette butts without any lipstick, and there’s a greeting card with a black-and-white picture on the front of a woman with too much makeup and huge boobs. She’s wearing a bikini and standing next to an elephant and talking on a cell phone. The printed message on the inside of the card says: Don’t forget! The handwriting underneath, all slanty and pretty, says: to call me when you get to the hotel—947-0120. Can’t wait, Jen. The card still smells like perfume. I find sixteen kernels of cheesy popcorn and half a stick of peppermint gum in the armrest. They go into the plastic bag.
The next car is a VW Jetta with four passenger windows, three tinted and one smashed. The trunk is crushed like an empty beer can. I figure Nervous Guy did it. The license plate fell on the ground. It reads: 150 IQ. A bumper sticker on the broken rear window says: Obey gravity—it’s the law. I’m guessing a college student, probably a guy.
I’m wrong.
There’s a body inside. It’s an old woman in the back- seat. She’s still wearing the seatbelt. Her hair is silver, short and curly like a poodle’s. At first I think she’s alive because her eyes are open, but it takes all of two seconds to figure out she isn’t. There’s a thick line of dried blood coming from her left ear. Her face is grayish white and puffy. Her mouth is open just a crack, showing the tip of a gray tongue. Her eyes are wide with a glassy stare like a department-store mannequin.
The smell hits me.
Like at the river on a hot summer day when you find a dead fish washed up between the rocks. I don’t know why I didn’t smell it first thing. I’d be throwing up if I had more in my stomach than eight French fries.
I turn to leave, but then I notice something that stops me. She’s wearing one of those old-lady dresses, the long, boxy kind with a flowery print and pockets big enough to hold a football. One of the pockets has a rounded lump in it; I’m guessing it’s a water bottle. I reach in through the window and open the driver’s door. I hold my breath, step into the car, climb back between the seats. Her left arm is blocking the pocket. There’s no choice—I have to move it. I take a quick breath, touch her hand. It’s cold. The nails are red and long, her fingers curled as if she’s holding an invisible glass. The skin doesn’t feel right, almost rubbery like a doll’s. The muscles are stiff, which surprises me. My stomach lurches. I slowly lift her hand and put it on her lap. I take another breath and reach into her pocket. I pull out the bottle of water, nearly full. I reach in again. A Nestlé candy bar, half-eaten. I reach in one more time. A crossword puzzle book about soap operas with a pen clipped to the cover.
I stuff the water, the candy, and the pen into my pockets. Already I’m feeling good about my trade. I leave the book. Then I wonder, how will she finish the puzzles without her pen? It’s stupid, I know, but I put it back.
A voice tells me I should close her eyes. I’ve seen it done on television, so I reach out—but I just can’t do it. My brain won’t let me touch her cold skin one more time. I leave her eyes open to stare at the spot of blood on the back of the beige headrest.
“Thanks for the water,” I say, and crawl out of the car.
I should move on to the next car, but my whole body is shaking. I feel like that smell is clinging to my skin. I need to get away. It’s time to go back to my sleeping bag on Level 1. Maybe Mom is waiting for me.
Or maybe someone else. Someone with a knife.
I check on Cassie. She’s curled up on the seat, sleeping. I know I have to do it, so I might as well do it now. I quietly squeeze another tube of ketchup on the seat and leave the door open a crack so she’s able to get out.
I start walking. It feels good to be moving away from those glassy eyes, that smell. But I only get to Level 2 before I have to stop. My eyes are leaking so bad I can hardly see. I can’t afford to lose this much water. That same voice, the one from the car, is telling me Cassie will wake up and she’ll be alone. She’s too small and scared to take care of herself. And what if Hoodie finds her? I’ll let her go when she gets a little older. So I turn around. There’s enough food and water in this garage for both of us.
I just have to go out and find it.
DAY 8: PROSSER, WASHINGTON
Full Tank of Gas
Dinner is done.
The smell of canned chili, burned as usua
l, hovers in the air. The dishes are clean and stacked. The counter is wiped down with antibacterial soap, not a crumb or germ to be seen. Dad is in the kitchen doing food inventory, checking off each item on his three-page list. It’s something he does twice a day now that he knows his son is a graham-cracker felon. Between this and charting spaceships and folding laundry, I’m amazed he has time to sleep.
I lift the keys to the Camry off the hook in the hall and sneak into the garage. I sit in the car, slide the seat back about six inches, put the keys in the ignition. I turn the ignition to the point where the accessories turn on. The dashboard lights up, red and white. The gauges settle into the appropriate positions. I smile. There’s a full tank of gas. I reach up to press the button for the garage door opener, but then I realize that would make too much noise. Dad would hear it for sure. I slip out of the car, pull a lever that disengages the opener, and slowly lift the door until there’s enough clearance to back out the car. It’s dark outside, so I can’t see the local POD, but I know it’s there. That’s good enough for me.
I get back into the Camry, put on the seatbelt to keep it from beeping, check the rearview mirror, slide the gear- shift into reverse, push in the clutch. This is the point where Dad should come running. He should have heard me by now and be yelling at me to get out of the car. But he’s too busy counting cans of tomato paste and jars of pickled artichoke hearts. I put my hand on the key, ready to twist—and I sit there.
The car smells like Mom. I breathe her in, the unmistakable scent of flowers that trails behind her when she walks past me in the hall. Her yoga mat is rolled up in the backseat. There’s a Starbucks gift card and a Target gift certificate in the storage bin, both gifts I gave her for Mother’s Day. There’s a yellow sticky note she put on the visor reminding herself to make reservations for the pizza party. I close my eyes. It would take all of five seconds for me to disappear. It would take Dad hours, maybe days, to figure out that I’m gone.
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